Lawler, Iowa

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

(Note: I am using this donor note with permission from Ed McGreevey, DDS who lives in Keokuk IA. He included it with check mailed to John Cuvelier to help restore this Lawler treasure):

“Back in the early 1940s the McGreevey family stopped in Lawler at the fountain and had a drink of water while on their way to Fort Atkinson. My dad was to interview for the superintendent postion available in that community. While we were all getting a drink, Harry Kane (president of Lawler High school board) came along and began visiting with Dad. Harry suggested that after he interviewed in Fort, he should apply for a similar postion in Lawler. My father did that and the rest is history. We moved into the schoolhouse that fall just before classes began. I guess there was no other place available at the time. So that iconic two-sided fountain was kind of special to the McGreevey family! I’ve even been lucky enough to be taking a drink from one side of the fountain while a horse was taking a drink from the other side. Ha!”

(Note: This article was published in the New Hampton Tribune a year or so ago and will soon  be printed in a regional magazine)

Our 42-year-old son Tommie was excited as he called us on his cell phone from the streets of Boston. He had caught one of the first planes into the city after Hurricane Irene devastated parts of the Northeast after he finished up a gig in Knoxville, TN as as an employee of the E-Com Tour for the PGA.

“I can’t wait for tomorrow night’s game with the Yankees,” he said. “I scored these tickets a couple of months ago so my buddies and I are going to have great seats.”

The game between two of baseball’s most heated rivals took on extra importance as they were in a virtual tie for first place with only a couple dozen games left in the season. As expected, there was standing room only with over 37,000 wild fans screaming for victory over the hated New Yorkers. Tom witnessed a terrific game which eventually ended up in a Yankee victory.

I got to thinking about his experience a couple nights later as I attended an Orioles-Pirates baseball game on a beautiful evening, wondering how his game compared to mine.

Oh, did I mention that mine was at the little league field in Urbandale, Iowa? And the teams were the adult baseball Des Moines-based Orioles vs. the Des Moines based Pirates? The players all had day jobs at The Principal, Wells Fargo, Wellmark Blue Cross-Blue Shield, Joe’s Plumbing Supply, The Irish Pub, Greene’s Appliance, or wherever. My guess is that not one of them had a multi-million dollar/multi-year contract. They most likely had to pay out of their own pockets to rent the field, bought their own uniforms, and had to sneak out of work a tad bit early to make it on time for the 7:30 p.m. first pitch.

Unlike Tommie in Bean Town, I didn’t have to fight traffic getting to the game. I rode my bike 1/2 mile to the field. There were 36,986 fewer fans in attendance if my count of 14 (mostly wives, girlfriends, and parents, I presume)was accurate. In addition, there was a double-header of sorts going on. Another game of over-35ers was playing on an adjoining field if I got bored with the Orioles and Pirates. (For the record, I didn’t.)

Since I didn’t want to ride my bike in the dark, I pedaled home between innings and drove back over in my car. It would have been an easy walk, but I wasn’t sure about some rain clouds that never did cause any problems. Parking was a non-issue since there were only about 75 cars on the lot, driven by players and the 28 fans (taking a wild guess that the other game going on simultaneously had the same number of attendees).

The brand of baseball was surprisingly good. The players were having a blast. The umpires joked with the batter and catcher between pitches. And not one of the other 13 fans at my game nor I shouted an obscenity at or questioned the parentage of the Men in Blue.

For a couple of hours I was taken back to the town-team games of my youth in the northeast Iowa town of Lawler at Junko Park. I could hear the opposing players kid one another, while wanting to win at the same time. I saw baseball in its purest form. Every crack of the bat, error, great play, and extra base hit was fun to watch. Even though I didn’t know one player or coach on either team, I enjoyed every second of the game.

Well, in truth, every second that I watched. Sometime around the 5th inning, I decided to head on home after a perfect night watching an absolutely perfect game. After all, unlike my son Tommie, I didn’t have to pay over 100 bucks to get in, and I found out that there a still a few weeks of baseball in Urbandale remaining to watch for free.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll be able to catch the Des Moines Dodgers meeting the Des Moines Cubs. And with luck get that same seat on the bench dedicated to Frank Zimmerman about 15-feet from home plate.

Perhaps tonight I’ll dream about those town-team games of my Lawler boyhood days at Junko Park. That would be nice.

I’m glad that our son got to see a terrific game between the Yanks and BoSox. But truth be told, I wouldn’t  trade places with him for a moment.

Bill Sheridan

William_sheridan1@msn.com

www.sheridanwrites.com

(Note: With another school year about to begin, I thought it would be fun to insert an excerpt from ‘Depot Street Memories…The Lawler Stories’ about the most important building in town for little Catholic boys and girls in the 1950s. Perhaps no other chapter elicited so many reader responses and recollections. If you have some of your own…please feel free to add a comment at the end. It will not show up the minute you post it…but will as soon as one of the site editors takes a glance and give it the okay. We’d love to hear ‘your’ school memories and stories!)

Where to begin? What stories to tell? Where to end?

Everything, and I do mean everything, centered around that little Catholic grade school. It was located on the south end of Lawler, north of Highway 24 and Mt. Carmel Catholic Church, and next door to the convent on the east, which housed the Presentation Sisters from Dubuque. North of the school and convent was an adjoining block-long playground, surrounded by a wire fence and with swing sets on the east side of the lot.

My formal education was to have started with kindergarten in the public school system at age five. But that plan was thwarted by the fact that we did not have enough students to justify the class. So my first real schooling began with Sister Mary Helen at the Catholic school on the hill. Due to low enrollment, classes were combined with first and second graders, third and fourth graders, and so on sharing classrooms. When the nuns worked with one grade, the other was to study in silence awaiting their turn for the instructor.

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The school was not a place to be bashful when nature called. Not only were students in need of a bathroom required to raise a hand to indicate to Sister that it was time to go, but additionally had to indicate with one finger or two fingers what needed to be done once they got there. I assume that this system was set up to estimate how long the process would take, but it seemed rather degrading at the time. I am guessing that this hand-raising requirement was the reason one of my shy first grade classmates did not raise her hand in time to prevent a stream from trickling down her desk, in between the rails that held those old time desks in line. Everyone behind her in the row got dampened shoes, and Sheila (not her real name) acquired the nickname Piddle Paddle. Sometimes life really isn’t fair.

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Every nun I ever knew hated to be called S’tir. As in, “S’tir! S’tir! S’tir! I know the answer to that question! Please call on me.”

Invariably the response from the front of the room was, “It is Sister! It is not S’tir. Do you hear me? Sister. Sister. Sister. It is not S’tir.”

And then we remembered for about five minutes until another question was asked. Then we’d swing our hands in the air yelling, “S’tir. S’tir. S’tir. I know the answer!”

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Anyone of my friends who went to Mt. Carmel can tell you every nun they had as teacher throughout their eight-year stint in the school, plus any idiosyncrasy they may have displayed. For example, our third-fourth grade teacher was Sister Mary Elise, who had the reputation of being a strict disciplinarian. We called her Sister Mary Attention-Rise-Pass thanks to her method of releasing us from custody for lunch, recess, or at the end of the day.

When she said, “Attention,” we were to sit sideways and with good posture, facing the aisle. Then came, “Rise,” which meant standing at full attention and facing the front of the room. Finally, at “Pass,” we were allowed to leave the room quietly in single file, without talking. I’m not sure how many of classmates eventually joined the armed forces in later years, but those that did had a leg up on other recruits thanks to the grade school commands from Sister Mary Elise.

If Sister Mary Attention-Rise-Pass pulled you aside when others were told to keep moving, it was going to be either really good or really bad. I was prepared for accolades one morning when she tapped me on the shoulder and instructed me to wait for a moment as we headed out to recess. I had never been a troublemaker, so anxiously awaited an ‘atta boy’ when those other poor losers were out of sight.

Instead, I endured one of the most confusing conversations, more accurately monologues, of my young life. We left the main hallway as she led me into the cloak room adjacent to our classroom that overlooked the playground. She began to fiddle with the rosary around her waist with one hand as she held a missalette (sort of a Catholic Bible-Lite) in the other.

“William,” she began (which was never a good sign since at the time I was known only as Bill or Billy), “I’m sorry to make you miss recess. But don’t feel too bad. You have a double-recess today since you’ve learned your multiplication tables. You can go out as soon as were finished.”

I’m here to tell you that the next fifteen minutes seemed more like fifteen years as I looked up at the black-clad nun with the large plastic habit. She was frowning down at me and talking in circles. Sister kept alluding to the importance of guarding our tongues and not disappointing God or our Guardian Angels by what we said. Then she interspersed these comments with a reminder that it’s too bad that I have to miss recess but, after all, I would be out there soon since I knew my tables.

All I could think now was, “Thank the Lord that I know that 3 x 7 = 21 and 5 x 7 = 35. Otherwise ‘William’ would be suffering through a morning with no recess!”

Finally and mercifully, the bell rang. The first recess was over. Those lazy lout classmates of mine who had not paid attention during math class were heading back in. And I was finally soon to be heading out.

Sister Mary Elise seemed a bit embarrassed about the fact that she had used up the entire first recess lecturing me about my language. I finally screwed up the courage to ask her what had been on my mind the entire time, “Sister, excuse me. But I have no idea what you have been talking about? What did I say and when did I say it?”

“Patty Scally told me that she heard you say, ‘Jeepers Creepers,’ William. That is almost the same as taking the name of Jesus Christ in vain. We cannot tolerate that type of language in a Catholic school.”

As I trudged out for the final fifteen of my hard-earned thirty-minute recess, all I could think was, ‘Jeepers Creepers!’ If I get my hands on Patty Scally, I’m gonna’ wring her neck.”

(A chapter from Depot Street Memories-The Lawler Stories)

Everyone needs a Josine McGreevey in his or her life. A person who helps draw out the best that you can be and helps you realize that you have a responsibility to share your gifts and talents with others. A mentor. An encourager. A conscience. A motivator. A friend.

 Mrs. McGreevey taught English at Lawler High (and then in the consolidated Turkey Valley High School) beginning in the 1950s for more years than I can remember. To this day I am not sure whether I adored her because I had a natural leaning toward writing and speaking—or if she is the reason that both skills have had such an integral  part of both my personal and professional lives.

We just knew her as Mrs. Mac. At one time or another you were destined to be one of her students. The best word that I could use to describe her is dignified. She carried herself in an elegant manner that commanded respect and had high expectations of each person who walked into one of her classes.

The McGreeveys for many years lived in a home a few houses south of the now dismantled school building. Her husband Edward was principal of Lawler High and their sons and daughter were all exceptional athletes through the years. Their youngest son Tom was my classmate and the best all around player on our baseball, basketball and football teams.

Taking an honest look back at my life, I have to face the reality that those high school years were filled with insecurity and doubt. It seemed to me that my peers were more gifted and had a chance of enjoying a prosperous life than would ever be within my grasp. And I was a worrier. In my mind—if something could go wrong it would go wrong. I had no real expectation of attending college and had no idea what would happen when high school graduation occurred.

But Mrs. Mac—Josine Martin McGreevey—helped change all of that. I had her first in my freshman year and from that day on never missed an opportunity to be in one of her classes or class plays. She recognized my interest in and love of writing. She encouraged me to speak publicly at every opportunity despite the fear and trembling that occurred when I did so. She created a safe place that gave me the courage for the first time to write about the pain and shame of my dad’s suicide. I knew that she would be kind—and she was. What I did not expect is that it would be the beginning of my ability to express myself from the deepest part of my soul with words on paper. I could write what I could not say, and Mrs. McGreevey continued to foster this skill that I had kept hidden prior to meeting her.

I recall a conversation with her one day after becoming editor of the school newspaper in my senior year.

“What are your plans after graduation, Bill?”

“Well, I’m not sure. College is not in the cards,” I replied. “There is no money for me to go. But if there was—I’d like to become an English teacher just like you.”

“Oh dear. Don’t do that. There is no money in it and you spend half your life correcting papers.”

That’s all there was to that brief talk but I didn’t believe a word that she said. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say what we’ve heard in a cliché, “Her actions spoke so loudly that I couldn’t hear a word she said.”

It’s another long story about how I eventually DID make it through college. But I did become the English teacher in 1968 at St. Edmond High in Fort Dodge, Iowa that she cautioned me not to become. Those turned out to be the most rewarding ten years of my working career and I have her to thank for it. And one thing happened for which I have been eternally grateful—many times through the years I took the time to drop her a note or stopped in to say hello when back in the area and tell her what an important effect she had on my life.

Mrs. Mac is always on my mind when writing or public speaking. I ask myself, what would she think of it if she was in the audience or reading what I had written? In my mind—she set the standard that I sought to reach. Would the reader or listener be better off for having been in contact with me?

So it was like getting kicked in the stomach one day when my brother Pat was sitting on my deck in Fort Dodge and asked me casually, “Oh, did I tell you that Josine McGreevey died?”

All I could say was, “When?”

“Oh, a couple of months ago, I guess.”

I knew that she had been ill and had been retired for many years, but at the moment all of what she had meant to me flooded over me and the sense of loss was palpable. I had to excuse myself for a bit to regain my composure.

And later that night I did exactly what Mrs. Mac would have expected of me. I sat down and wrote a letter to her son Tom expressing my sorrow at her death. I wonder what type of grade she would have given me on my note.

Bill Sheridan

8106 Brookview Drive

Urbandale, IA 50322

William_sheridan1@msn.com

www.sheridanwrites.com