Swimming Lessons

Ba…ba…ba, ba…bubble! Chaaaatttttttteeerrrrrr! The roar of bubblers punctuated with the sound of chattering teeth are all around me. I look up from my bubbles to see the blue lips of the boy next me bobbing on his toes in wiggling shivers. It’s Beginners’ swimming lessons at the Mt. Pleasant Pool. Whoever decided that swimming lesson should be held at 9 o’clock in the morning must have wanted little kids to hate swimming.

My earliest recollections of swimming are really just of wading. There was a wading pool down in Saunders Park. It was on the flat ground between the road and the creek. It seemed large to me. It had a big fountain in the middle. Its deepest part was only a few feet. I remember wading around the outside with my mother holding my hand. There was an 8’ X 10’ shed nearby that served as a place to pay and to buy snacks. After the new pool was built on the hillside near Clay Street the wading pool was turned into a lily pond and lasted for many years. The little shed lasted even longer and served as a mower shed until it was finally torn down. All that a now remains there is a slab of cement and that, too, may now be gone.

It was at the new swimming pool that I was finally old enough to take swimming lessons. Lessons usually begin in the last two weeks in June and lasted through July. Obviously, in those first few weeks the water and the morning, for that matter, could be pretty cool. It was almost cruel to make a kid get in the water. The instructors rarely got in themselves.

The kids were usually lined up on the deck of the pool and were given instruction. I remember sitting there listening with my knees pulled up to my chin trying to stay warm under a too small towel. Then the instructor would have us get in the water and hold on to the side with both hands. There we practiced our kick and blowing bubbles. Few of us could touch the bottom in the three feet of water and held on to the side with a death grip. Then we would get out and stand on the deck. Cold and wet we would try to dry off but soon the towel was as cold and wet as we were. The instructor lined us up on the side and practiced moving our arms as you would doing the crawl stroke. So shivering cold, we were waving the cool air like a field full of windmills.

I failed beginners that first year. I just never got warm enough to be in the water that summer. To pass you needed to be able to swim across and back in the deep end of the pool without assistance. I didn’t care to try it.

The next year we had a much warmer summer. I actually passed Beginners a little over half way through the six weeks. Passing beginners meant you could go off the diving boards and swim anywhere in the pool you wanted. The floodgates were open for me! The next year I took Intermediate as soon as I could and begged to be let into the Swimmers class a year early. The instructor relented and let me take it but because of my age couldn’t give me a certificate so I took it again the next year. I had found a place where I could excel.

I joined the AAU swimming team that practiced at the pool every afternoon. We competed with other towns that had their own teams. When it came time for the annual Mt. Pleasant Pool Swimming Meet I signed up for every event I could get in.

When I told someone I had taken all of the courses I could take they said, “What about Advance Swimmer?” I asked Mrs. Carper, head of the local Red Cross Chapter and the swimming coach at Iowa Wesleyan, if I could take that class. She said they really didn’t have anyone qualified to teach it. The course focused on perfection in each stroke. She had me get in the water and show her some of my strokes. After awhile I got out and asked her if I could take it. She said, “Yes” and she would teach it. She said I needed to get a few others to take it just to make it worth it so I did.

I took the course from Mrs. Carper, who had to be at least 60 years old by that time. She did get in the water with us and demonstrated often. Of the four of us who took the course I was the only one who passed.

Later, came Junior and Senior Lifesaving, Water Safety Instructor training, National Aquatic School and Handicapped Swimmer Instructor Training, and Swimming for Iowa Wesleyan College. Those stories are yet to be told.








This ends the official Sardine Chronicles, the stories of the first 12 years of my life. There are many more stories to tell about that period but I am moving on to the next 10 years, the 60s. I may still, from time to time, add stories to this part but there are many to tell about the next 10 years as well.

Vacations

Vacation trips were unusual when I was growing up. They were expensive and we just didn’t have money for that. Usually, when my Dad had his vacation week he would just work around home or go arrowhead hunting. Sometimes he took his vacation time during Old Threshers so he could work in the church food tent or show his arrowheads in the antique building. That wasn’t much of a vacation!

I can remember three significant vacations during those early years. Mom, Dad, Loretta and I went to South Dakota. We went to visit Nancy when she lived in Washington, DC, and I went with the Liechtys to New York City and then to Washington, DC. I really can’t do these trips justice here but will give a brief overview of each.

I remember the trip to South Dakota! I remember the long trip across South Dakota. David had told me about Wall Drug and so I watched for the signs. Wall Drug was famous for its signs. They were spread out all the way across the state. Each one designed to get your attention and convince you to stop when you finally got there. We did! Dad was convinced it was a tourist trap and he was right! From there we crossed the Bad Lands and then into the Black Hills. I remember Mt. Rushmore and the Passion play at Spearfish. This trip was part of Loretta’s preparation for the ministry because she endured my torment all the way there and back. She truly got a glimpse of what hell is like.

We also went by train to Washington, DC to visit Nancy and Bill. I loved the train ride! It was an overnight trip and the click clack of the train put me to sleep that night. Once, in the middle of the night, I woke up. The train had stopped somewhere in Pennsylvania. It was half in a long tunnel and half out on a high bridge. Why it was stopped I don’t know but they let Dad and I get off briefly and look down into the deep gorge. Then we were on our way again.

Nancy lived on MacArthur Boulevard in a nice second floor apartment. She secretly kept a rabbit in the apartment the whole time she was there. She took us on grand adventures to the Capitol, the Washington Monument, Jefferson Memorial, the U.S. Mint, and the Smithsonian Museum. I was awestruck most of the time. We even got a tour of the White House and met our Representative, Fred Schwengal, who gave me a newly minted penny. Then and every time that I met that man after word he treated me like I was his best friend.

Max Liechty was a rural letter carrier and their annual convention was in Washington, DC. He planned a family trip that included a week in New York City and then a week at the convention in Washington. For some reason, his sons, Joe and Jerry, decided that I should go along. My parents reasoned that I could see New York City and then spend a week with my sister and that I might as well go.

We drove straight through to New York in the Liechty’s car. Max and his wife were in front seat and us three boys were in the back. It was not exactly the most comfortable ride I have ever had. Sleeping was pretty much out of the question. I remember seeing the lights of New York long before we got there. I was amazed at how bright they were and how they lit up the sky.

We stayed in a hotel in downtown New York while we were there. We could see the Empire State building from the window of our room. That week we went to the top of the Empire State building and the Statue of Liberty. I bought a disappearing coin trick and a magic shop. I still have it! Mrs. Liechty and Max were on the TV show Queen for a Day and won everything but the final question. They asked Max to say the Boy Scout oath and his mind just went blank. Month’s later crates of the prizes they won were shipped to their house. It included clothing, kitchen appliances, and furniture.

We left New York and the Liechtys dropped me off at Nancy’s apartment in Washington. I was there for about five days. I was very tired from my week in New York and not real excited about doing anything. I think after the first day or so Nancy was ready to send me on my way. She did take me many places including a trip to Chesapeake Bay for a day of swimming and playing in the sand. We also went to an outdoor concert in a park.

At the end of the week the Liechtys loaded me up in their car and we headed for home. I don’t remember much about the trip and only remember being exhausted when we got home. My Mom said I slept for two days after that trip.

Smoking

When I was growing up Madison Street was paved to a spot about two blocks west of our house. There it turned to gravel. That was the edge of town and beyond there were farmhouses and countryside. The gravel road led down a long hill and crossed a bridge over Saunders Branch. Saunders Branch is a small stream that runs from the north edge of town. On it’s way to Saunders Park and then to Big Creek, it fills and overflows Coles Pond. The creek, all along its path, was a big attraction to young boys.

I wandered down to that creek and we played war and cowboys in that area many times. We floated boats down the stream and built dams with the rocks in the creek bed. I probably fell in that stream a hundred times. Under normal conditions it was only a few inches deep. After a big rainstorm it could be a raging disaster. I saw the water raise over the road at the bridge many times. A boy in that water would be dead. I knew it and was terrified by the thought and stayed away when it was like that.

So when some of the boys stole cigarettes from their parents and said they were going to smoke them under the Madison Street bridge I knew exactly where they were talking about. Most of these guys were people I didn’t play with often. My cousin Terry was part of the group and Billy Jackson decided to join in for this adventure. Billy had already stolen a smoke or two from his parents and he thought he could give some advice.

I went along, too, although I was not tremendously interested in it. After school we made our way down Madison, over the hill and down to the bridge. There we left the road and went down on the sand and gravel under the bridge. It was a big concrete bridge with walls about two feet high on the sides. It was dark and damp under the bridge. You couldn’t stand fully upright without hitting your head on the bottom of the bridge. It was usually wet and slimy.

When we got there, one of the boys, Mike, dug down into his pocket and pulled out a half crinkled package of cigarettes. The pack was about half full. He pulled out a cigarette that was bent and smashed. Tom pulled out some big stick matches and looked around for a stone to scratch it on. The stones in the creek bed were too damp but he found one on the bank that looked dry and he tried to strike the match on it. The first match broke before it would light. Matches were not quite as reliable then as they are now. The second match burst into yellow flame and Tom extended his arm toward Mike.

Mike drew the cigarette to his mouth and stuck the other end in the flame. Mike puffed and the air filled with a cloud of smoke. Next the cigarette was passed from boy to boy. Each of us tried to look as natural as possible when our turn came. We didn’t really know what we were doing. It must have dawned on Gary how ridiculous we looked and he started laughing hysterically and pointing at each kid as he tried to smoke. That annoyed the more seasoned among the group.

Mike stopped sharing his cigarette. When it was gone he lit up another and smoked it all by himself. Then he gave one to Tom who didn’t share his either. The rest of us lost interest and wandered off to find something more interesting to do. Only a small group stayed behind. That group was punished about a week later when the principal got wind of what had occurred. Those of us who had wandered off were somehow not implicated.

Sledding

We had two primary hills for sledding when I was growing up. There were others that we used on occasion but none as regularly as these two. One was across the street from my house on the north side of Saunders School. The other was the hill in Saunders Park near the big stone fireplace.

The school hill got heavy use and some of the neighborhood kids even groomed it to make it better. Kids sledded on it during the day at recess times. It was busy after school until about 5:30 and then everyone went home for supper. By 6:30 or 7:00 many kids were back and would sled well into the evening. I can remember my mother calling in a high-pitched voice, “Perrrrreeeeeee!” when it was time for me to come home.

These were the days before we knew about wind chill and would often stay a lot longer than we should and come home frostbit and shivering. I remember someone saying to me, “Are you cold? Your cheeks are bright red!” and I shrugged and said, “Not that cold.” and stayed out until my mother called. I did hate when the snow got packed in the space between the top or my gloves and the sleeve of my coat. It would get packed tight in there and my arm would feel like it was broken it would hurt so badly!

The school hill was long and gentle. It was surprising how far down the hill you could go on the packed snow. The type of sled we used most were the ones with runners. I did have a saucer sled but it didn’t work well on a gentle hill. Runner sleds would cut ruts in the snow and so we would often add snow and pack it down. If it would melt a little and then freeze hard then it would be really good. You could go a long way!

I loved it there at night in the twilight, with the air crisp, and the night still. It was as if time stopped and you could soak in the experience. Somehow you are warm all over and there is a calmness that comes over you.

I had that same experience at the hill in Saunders Park. There, they would sometimes build a roaring fire in the big stone fireplace and kids would hover around and share hot chocolate. The social aspect made it a big draw to the kids of the community.

The hill in the park is longer and steeper than the one at the school. It attracted people from all over town. It was kind of a gathering place on winter evenings when there was snow on the ground. The fragrant smell of burning wood wafted from the fireplace and the park is a beautiful setting.

A trip down the hill could take you all the way to the creek, nearly a hundred yards! Climbing back up was always a challenge because the hill was steep and slippery and you had to avoid other kids walking down. We had two simple rules. One was to always walk up the outside and the other was that when you come to a stop you need to get up and get out of the way. It was next to impossible to get kids to follow either.

It seemed as though you could tell a kid a dozen times to walk up the outside and he would still get up and walk right up the middle. Invariably he would get clobbered and blame the sledder. Some kids would slide down the hill and then just sprawl in the snow. They, too, would get hit and more than one lip got bloodied. So among the squeals of joy and excitement you would hear, “Walk up the outside!” or “Get out of the way!”

Occasionally someone would hit a tree or the fireplace and a trip to the hospital on the other side of the park would be necessary. I can think of two or three people who were seriously injured on that hill. I, fortunately, avoided any serious accidents there.

What draws us to want to slide I don’t know? I did learn as a teacher and a principal that it is all most impossible to stop kids from sliding on ice or down a hill with or without a sled. Something about us doesn’t want to be earth bound.

Arthur Murray Dance Studio

When I was in third grade around our house I began to hear a lot about someone named Arthur Murray and his dance studio. I really didn’t know what it was all about and I certainly wasn’t interested in dancing.

My mother decided that my sister Loretta would benefit from some dance lessons since she would soon be going into junior high. My mother arranged 6 weeks of lessons that winter at the Arthur Murray Dance Studio in Burlington. Kind of as an after thought Mother decided I might was well take them, too, as I would be going along anyway.

On the trips I remember being relegated to the back seat. I had to wear my best church outfit. It was a jacket, shirt, tie, dress pants and some very uncomfortable shoes. I would ride along and listen to my Mother and sister chatter. By then they were talking about things older people talked about and I wondered if that would ever happen to me. Sometimes my mother stayed and watched and sometimes she went and visited my Aunt Lucille who lived in Burlington.

In was on the third trip I finally asked when Arthur Murray would be there? Our teacher was a rather unfriendly woman and I was looking forward to a change. Mother and Loretta just laughed. I didn’t realize there were Arthur Murray studios all over the country.

The studio was on the 3rd floor of a building in downtown Burlington. It was a very large room with a wooden floor. All around the outside of the room was a bench that was fastened to the wall. There were no other chairs in the room. A row of support posts was evenly spaced down the center of the room. Next to one of the posts was a small table with a record player on top.

So, we would all gather on the bench along the wall and the instructor would start talking. She was strictly business and wasted no time. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to do this if it was so serious. She didn’t seem like someone who could ever have fun. She was a tall, thin woman who scowled every time she looked at me. She would tell about some dance step, then cue a record and grab someone to demonstrate it with her. I dreaded the day that she would pick me. It didn’t come until near the end and all she could say as she jerked me around on the floor was ‘loosen up!” I figured if I did I would break my neck!

Once she had demonstrated the step she expected us to pair up and dance all over the floor. Loretta, of course, was mortified at the suggestion of dancing with her little brother and so she always paired up with someone else and left me orphaned in the middle of the floor. My choices were limited!

I usually ended up dancing with a very unattractive girl. She was at least a foot taller than me and had big feet. She was kind of cubby and wore thick glasses. I really hated putting my hand on her waste. She had very bad teeth and breath to go along with it. I must have danced with her twenty times and she never once looked at or spoke to me. I don’t think I ever knew her name or her mine. I imagine her out there today dancing in that stiff legged way and never looking anyone in the eye.

I actually did learn a few steps but with no place to practice them for years after that I soon forgot everything. There are still Arthur Murray Dance Studios out there. Just thinking about it makes me nervous!

Things

Three things happened to me over the summer between my fifth and sixth grade years. It is funny how three minor events could blend together to change my life in ways I would never expect. Coming into that summer I hadn’t been successful about much of anything except swimming. I was pretty much considered to be a momma’s boy that no one took seriously. It was clear I wasn’t very smart and was mostly a follower. That was all to change.

Fankhauser’s Dairy was having a great baseball season. We were pretty much riding on the pitching of Bill Griest. He was “packin’ lightning” as they used to say. Dad said Bill came from a long line of great pitchers. Dad had stories of when Bill’s uncle played for the team in Trenton. I was a mediocre second baseman and I seldom got a hit in games. That summer we won our division and were in a play off with the other division winning team. All of my friends said we would get clobbered.

The game stayed tight down to the last inning. At that point we were tied 8 to 8. We held the other team to one run in the top of the inning. We managed to load the bases and the batter before me drove in one run to tie the game again. The man running to second was our second out of the inning. So with two outs and a runner on first and third I stepped up to the plate not realizing the magnitude of what was about to happen. The coach said, “walk!” A big hitter followed me in the batting order.

The first pitch was ball and I let it go by. The second was a strike and I swung. Nothing but air. I stood for the third pitch and the umpire said strike two. Desperately not wanting to strike out and lose the game and the championship for my team I swung at the fourth pitch. My Dad said it was a hard drive right between first and second base. I didn’t see it, of course, cause I was running to first.

I was mobbed at first base. It was pandemonium! The team was screaming and jumping all over me! The fans were yelling and there were people all over the field. I asked someone what happened and above the din I heard him say we had won the game. I was a hero for driving in the winning run.

We went on to play the All Star team and again my friends were sure we would get beat. Although, I didn’t do anything of note in that game we clobbered the All Stars and I played with a new confidence. That was the first.

In May of that year the second thing happened. I had seen the advertisements in comic books for bodybuilding and told my Dad I wanted some weights for weigh lifting. We had no money for that but he suggested I make my own. He helped me with the first part. We filled a large coffee can with cement and propped a pipe upright in the center. After it hardened in that can I filled a second can and stuck the other end of the pipe in the wet concrete. When it hardened I had my barbell.

I don’t know how heavy it was but would guess it to be between twenty and thirty pounds. I lifted that bar bell almost every day that summer. I didn’t know anything about what I was doing but would usually lift until I couldn’t do it anymore and then do it again in a little while. I got so I could lift that bar bell over my head 50 or 60 times without stopping. So between swimming and the weigh lifting I got plenty of exercise that summer.

In August the boys from my class got together one Saturday morning. We were walking around filling in each other on all we had done that summer. Of the group, only a couple knew about my baseball success. So when I told about it some thought I was just bragging. They hadn’t yet figured out I was the new confident Perry. We wandered up towards town and ended up in Danny Welcher’s back yard. His house was in the alley behind what is now Home Furniture. There in the back yard was Danny’s brother’s weight set. It included a bench and all of the weights for a perfect set up.

There were all kinds of badgering about who was strong and who wasn’t. Danny loaded the bar with a twenty-pound weight on each end. The bar, itself, weighed about 20 pounds so the total was probably around 60 pounds. Each person took a turn at lifting the bar doing a bench press. Everyone expected Danny to do it but he screamed and had us lift it off his chest. No one could budge it. I was last to try and everyone scoffed believing if they couldn’t do it I never could. We were all surprised when I lifted it off my chest with ease once, twice, and then three times. I set the bar on the rack and got up. That was the third thing!

None of this really changed anyone else but it changed me. Confidence can be a good thing and sometimes a not so good thing. I’ll tell you more about that another time.

Expectoration

Gary Warner could spit! My mother viewed spitting as ungentlemanly and unnecessary. She didn’t allow it around our house so I did not see my Dad spit often, either. I guess I didn’t think about it much. The only exception she allowed was my Grandfather Perry who chewed tobacco. He could do that outside but she did not allow it in our house.

I didn’t learn much about spitting until I met Gary. Boy, could he spit! Gary was the shortest kid in our class and was nicknamed “PeeWee” which he much preferred over his given name. His parents owned the Dream Drive In and he lived in a trailer behind the place.

Pee Wee had a different spit for each occasion. There was the general “speeuee” which he used almost constantly when were just walking around. It was almost as if he was marking his territory. As Gary approached he would spit once on the left and then quickly once on the right. When he stopped he would spit one “speeuee” in front almost right between his toes.

He would launch into conversation and to punctuate his sentences he would use a special spit. He would draw his lips back tightly to his teeth, open his mouth only slightly and propel spit between his upper and lower teeth. It was kind of a bullet spit always up into the air and off to his right. It was a “tu”.

Spitting is like yawning. Once somebody started doing it everybody starts doing it. When the guys gathered on the playground and Pee Wee came over it wasn’t long before the ground around us was covered and there was the constant “tu” or “speeuee” or “sperat” or “dut” as the boys cleared their mouths of all moisture. It was no wonder we were so thirsty after recess. If we had thought of it and timed in right we could have made our own kind of music out there.

More than once the teacher on recess duty would walk by looking down at the ground and say, “Is it starting to rain?” We would all giggle and move away as quickly as we could.

Occasionally, a spitter makes a mistake. I have seen it happen more than once. A spitter will be walking down the hall at school. Meeting one of his friends he will instinctively spit on the floor and then realize what he has done. Quick glances up and down the hall assure him that his secret is safe this time. Once in awhile, even today, when I see a wet spot on the floor of the hall in one of the schools I know what has happened.

Another spitting faux pas is spitting on yourself. That is something that you don’t ever want to happen and if it does you don’t want anybody to know about it. That sometimes happens when the spit is sort of strung out. This is really considered to be bad form and to be avoided at all cost.

Strange as it may sound spitting on someone else is also considered inappropriate under any but exceptional circumstance. Even in the heat of battle a self-respecting spitter would not spit on another except as a last resort. Then it would be a “touee” which is intended to sound bad and actually carries little spit.

So there ya have it! Pee Wee inspired our spitting through most of fourth and fifth grade. Most of us gradually moved out of that stage but occasionally I still catch myself offering out a “tu” or “speeuee”.

1824

Thursday, February 9, marks the 1824th day in a row that I have played my harmonica. I bought my first one on February 9, 2001. It was a snow day so I went downtown to get a haircut. On the way back to the parking lot I stopped in a small shop that was closing because it was to move to the new mall that would be opening soon in Coralville. The store was pretty much depleted of all items, but I did spot a single harmonica on a shelf. It had been marked down and then the price halved again.

I bought it! The harmonica was in a small box. It was wrapped in a very thin kind of paper. Also, included in the box, was a brief overview of the harmonica and the music for “When the Saints Go Marching In” in the key of C.

Now, I need to say here loud and clear, that I know nothing about music. It fact, on the scale of 1 to 10, with 1 meaning I know nothing, I would be at about -3. I can’t dance and have no rhythm. I have tried to learn to dance and twice took guitar lessons. I was a failure at both. I read or heard somewhere that a harmonica is the easiest instrument to learn so I decided to try.

On that snowy day I vowed to learn to play the harmonica. I decided to play “When the Saints Go Marching In” over and over, much to Becky’s chagrin. Those who know me know I am nothing if not stubborn. So I played it over and over. When I thought I had it, I moved on to another song with a familiar tune. So, over time I have added to my repertoire of songs.

When I say I have played my harmonica every day for 1824 days I don’t mean I have practiced it everyday. I practice once or twice a week. Playing it is just playing a song or two every day. To insure that I do that I play “Amazing Grace” every morning. I play it once as a prayer for me, once as a prayer for all of our loved ones, and once for the troubled in the rest of the world. So I guess you could say I pray for you everyday whoever you are.

Someday, I would like to take some lessons to learn how to do more of the blues stuff and the riffs that go along with many songs. I have a library of many “how to” books and have many different kinds of harmonicas.
I usually give away mini-harmonicas when I work with students and when I am doing storytelling. While I was principal at Longfellow we had a harmonica club that met once a week and occasionally performed during school assemblies.

I am still not any good at it but don’t plan to stop playing. I know they will probably take my harmonica away if I ever go to the nursing home. I hope you will all see that I always have one.

So, I have played 1824 days in a row. You’d think I could play a lot better by now. Hmmmmmm…

My Harmonica

I have a harmonica
That I have wanted to play

I do practice just a little
Almost every day

It makes a whistle
It screeches and brays

Doesn’t it know?
I have music to play?

I have a harmonica
It needs to be played!

No matter how I try
The notes are not made!

I huff and I puff
I draw and I blow

Breathless, I pause
Still, no music! No! No!

I’ll keep on tryin’
A quitter I’m not

It drove away my friends
So it’s all that I’ve got!

Perry O. Ross February 9, 2006
(I have practiced poetry even longer and I am not any good at that either.)

Miss Ikuta

As I have alluded to in previous pieces, elementary school wasn’t a particularly good time for me. I struggled with reading and learning in general. I didn’t think the teachers were too fond of me and I was sometimes miserable. I knew I was somehow different than the rest of the kids and didn’t know what it was or why. There was one place…a place that I loved…a place where the teacher welcomed me and I felt warm and comfortable. It was art class.

Tomie Ikuta was my art teacher in elementary school. I was in love with her! She was absolutely beautiful and she was so kind to me. She always greeted me with a smile and was very positive about everything I did. I called her “Miss I Cute a” and she would blush.

Miss Ikuta was Japanese. Her family had been sent to an internment center during World War II. During that time Americans of Japanese decent, unfairly, were not trusted because of the war and they were moved to internment centers all over the country. Many were humiliated by the experience. Miss Ikuta was only a child during that time. When she grew up she went to Central College in Pella and graduated in 1954 with a teaching certificate.

She was hired and came to Mt. Pleasant after graduation to teach art in the elementary schools. While she was there she taught at Saunders, Lincoln, Harlan, and a few sections at the junior high. She didn’t own a car so she walked to work at one building or another every day. There were a few days a week that she served two building so she would walk from one to the other over her lunch hour. Amazing when you think about it now!

It’s amazing, too, what affect the kindness and gentleness of one person can have on someone’s life. Miss Ikuta awed and inspired me. She made me feel like I had worth and I cherished the time I had with her in art class. It was an island of comfort in a stormy sea. After I left elementary school and on to junior high I had a different teacher. Art was never the same for me. Miss Ikuta left Mt. Pleasant and I lost track of what happened to her.

While I was an elementary principle a few years ago I was urging students to write former teachers and tell them how much they appreciated them. I had received a kind letter from a former student and realized what a powerful impact it could have. I decided to take my own advice and thought I would write Miss Ikuta.

I did some detective work and determined that Miss Ikuta had married and was now Mrs. Conaroy. She had lived in the Quad Cities for a while and now was living in the Minneapolis area. More work led to her last known address. I wrote a letter to her in March of 1996. In late April I received a hand written letter from Italy. Mrs. Conaroy and her husband were traveling in Europe (with some friends originally from Mt. Pleasant) and had finally found the time to write back to me.

It said, in part …”You can’t realize how much I appreciated your letter. You could not have known that I opened your letter at the end of one of the most frustrating and depressing days (related to my job). Your letter was the perfect tonic to my mood…It also inspired me to resolve to write one of my high school English teachers from who I learned all that I know of grammar…”

By this time Heather was living in Minneapolis so arranging a meeting was in order. Becky, Heather and I had dinner with Tomie that summer in Minneapolis. We had a very nice time and she said she remembered me. I am not sure she really did but she is so kind that I don’t think she would tell me even if she didn’t. Oh, if the world was just full of more people like Miss I Cute a.

My Electric Train

I wanted an electric train a long time before I got one. Once Dad took me to a friend’s house. I don’t remember his name. The man lived in a nice house in Schaffer Addition. The houses there were new and expensive. This man’s house had a finished basement. I had never been in a house like that before. In his basement he had huge pencil collection. It covered one whole wall of one of the rooms. There were hundreds of them attached to a pegboard on the wall. He also had a large button collection. It was all very impressive! But the most impressive thing was in another room of the basement. It was an electric train.

The train was on a table high platform that took up the whole room. There was a two-foot walkway all the way around the outside. There were a couple places where you could duck under and come up in an open spot in the middle. The platform had the train track, switch yard, a miniature village on opposite ends of the room and, in between, mountains, tunnels and realistic county side. The detail was amazing! It looked just like real life shrunk down to fit on that platform.

The man ducked under the platform and came up at a control panel. There he could start and stop three different trains. He could control switches and send trains down different track. He could even control lighting in the houses and buildings in the villages. I was hooked. It was amazing!

One Christmas, not too long after that visit, I got an electric train. It was fabulous! It was an HO scale train. For awhile I would set it up on the dining room floor and run the track under the table and back out in a big circle. That wasn’t good enough, though, because I had seen nirvana in that basement.

Dad cut large sheet of plywood to a four foot by seven-foot piece. He placed it, using the posts on each end over the spare bed in my bedroom. The board was about eight inches above the mattress. It was perfect! I could set up my train and leave it up for long periods of time. The board could easily be removed if we had company and needed the bed.

I painted the board with the help of my mother, laid out the track and slowly started adding houses and buildings. For a long time I had a Styrofoam mountain with a tunnel through it. I didn’t like it much because it was flimsy and I didn’t think it looked real. The Explorer Scouts had a big electric train set up at the fair grounds and after visiting it and seeing what they had done I decided I would build my own mountain.

I shaped the mountain using chicken wire. Once I had the mountain and the tunnel the way I wanted it, I soaked strips of newspaper in a plaster paste. I laid the strips over the chicken wire until it was completely covered. When it dried it looked like a big white mountain. I painted the mountain brown and the peak white like it was covered with snow. I thought all mountains were that color. Several visitors commented that the mountain should be green but I didn’t care. My Dad didn’t either. He loved it and was amazed at my construction.
(Somewhere there is a picture of the train on the bed but I haven’t located it. If anyone has it please send me a copy.)

Over time I added cars, track, and another engine. I was very proud of the layout. I played with it and rearranged it often. I took the engines apart completely many times and put them back together. In the process I learned about what made them work. I learned that you had to use a transformer to change the electricity from alternating to direct current and that the circuit had to be complete before it would work.

Every kid ought to have an electric train!

Cub Scouts

There are saints out there in the world. I know many and my parents would be in that group. Sunday school teachers and teachers, in general, are in that category, too, as well as many others. One unsung group has to be Cub Scout Den Mothers. What would possess someone to take on supervision of 10-12 young boys, I don’t know? They meet one evening during the week and attend a pack meeting of all dens once a month. That is a big commitment no matter how you look at it.

I was in Pack 28. It included the area south of the railroad tracks and north of highway 34. We had a Pack meeting the last Thursday of every month. It was held at the National Guard Armory. Big events of the year included the Blue and Gold Banquet and the Pine Wood Derby. I got second place in the derby in 1958. I still have the car Dad and I made and the award they gave me for second place. I actually had it won until a kid showed up late. They let him race me even though he hadn’t participated up to that point. He beat me and I guess that is the bottom line.

I was in Den 2. We were the only Den that met year around. We met on Monday evenings at the Liechty’s. Mrs. Max Liechty was the Den Mother. She was the senior Den Mother of Pack 28 because she had actually survived it for more that three years. The life expectancy of a Den Mother in those days was somewhere between three and seven months. It has increased over the years with the introduction of drugs like Prozac and other calming medications.

Mrs. Rabedeaux assisted Mrs. Liechty when she could. Other members of our Den were Roger Milks, Tom Weir, Allen Barnes, Jerry Liechty, Robert Ross, Garry LeMaster, and David Rabedeaux. Joe Liechty was the Den Chief. He was 3 years older than us and a Webelo.

The Webelos were older Cub Scouts who met on a different night. Everybody wanted to be a Webelo because they got to make neat things with leather. Somewhere I think I still have the belt I made when I finally became a Webelo. Webelos made things with wood, too. Webelos were cool! Of course, the ultimate goal for everyone was to be a Boy Scout.

I think I learned a lot as a Scout. I learned about how to get along with others, about dignity, and about respect. Without Scouting I would have probably learned those things some other way but Scouting worked for me. We also learned about ritual through uniforms, practices, salutes, oaths, and rules. Many of them seem silly now but they were really important then. Silly or not, learning about ritual is important. It is not the ritual by itself but the process that is important, as it has been across time. Ritual is in everything whether you believe it or not.

There are other things I learned from scouting, too. Things I am not so proud of. Things like swearing. We actually practiced our swearing in Scouts. Not when the adults were around, of course, but we did practice. The whole idea of swearing is to make it sound like you mean it. Not so easy for an eight year old who doesn’t even know what most of the words mean. But we tried! Then we would critique each other. Kids who grew up in a home with swearing had the edge. My home wasn’t like that. I don’t think I ever heard my mother swear and my father only a few times when I was much older. Consequently, I could never do it very well and usually laughed when I tried. A definite “no no” in swearing. If you’re going to swear effectively not even a smile is permitted.

So, thanks to Scouting, I guess I grew up ritual enhanced, but profanity impaired.

Madison Street Construction Company

We loved boxes…cardboard boxes. Cranes Furniture store was just across the street from the Harlan Hotel. The back door faced the alley and then the lumberyard. They had a place outside the back door where they put the large boxes that the refrigerators and other large appliances came in. We made it a habit to check on that spot regularly. We were soon on to the appliance delivery schedule from the factory and we knew when a new supply of boxes would be available.

We could go up to Cranes and select our boxes and drag them home right down the middle of the street. The cardboard rubbing the concrete made a loud roar as we drug it along. We would sometimes drag two or three boxes home in one day. My Dad didn’t like it because they cluttered up the yard and were hard to get rid of. Besides that, if you left them in one spot too long it killed the grass.

We constructed all sorts of things using those boxes. We made houses and battleships, forts and towers, and much more. We would play with them for days before we grew tired and went on to something else.

We built a tower in the far southeast corner of the yard using wood stored in the shed and cardboard from boxes. We went as far as putting the posts in the ground to make it sturdy. When Dad saw he was both angry that we had used his wood and tools, and amazed that we could build such a structure. He asked a lot of questions about how we had done it. I think he was kind of proud of me this time.

He let us keep it for a couple weeks and then with his supervision we burned it to the ground. It was a spectacular fire. The flames leaped at the electrical and phone wires that were high up above it. For a brief moment we thought we might have to put it out but the flames settled down some and we let it burn.

We used boxes to construct elaborate castles, complete with a drawbridge and other amenities. They would last two or three days and then we would grow tired of it, or it would rain and the boxes would get soft and collapse. When they were of no use to us anymore we would pull them to the trash barrel and they would become history.

We used a series of boxes to create a maze once. I guess we were way ahead of our time since they are so popular now. At Halloween we made a spook house and charged kids a dime to go through. That didn’t work to well because we scared ourselves so much that we didn’t want to do it.

Even today, I find myself admiring a good piece of cardboard or a nice box. I keep a few pieces around just in case I might need one. You never know when one might be useful. I kept one large box from our siding and window project all summer long. I finally put it in the dog kennel in November to protect Abby from the wind.

Our Dogs

41. Coco, Velvet, and Skipper

There were three family dogs during my childhood: Coco, Velvet, and Skipper. Coco was around when I was born and Skipper was there when I left and lived for sometime after that. I often wonder what the dogs think. You know, what do they think of us? I think you could say that we didn’t own any dogs. They owned us.

Coco was Nancy’s dog. I can only very vaguely remember him. I don’t think he liked me very much. He was around during my toddler years and I suspect I was too aggressive for him. Most of the time he steered clear of me. I don’t know if Coco died of old age or some kind of calamity. Whatever it was it was kept from me.

Our next dog was Velvet. Velvet, part cocker spaniel, was Loretta’s dog. Velvet had a great temperament and was a welcome visitor in spots all over town. In those days dogs had free roam of the community…a practice that might reduce the rodent and deer population in urban areas now. My mother would say that, “Velvet is making his rounds.” It did, indeed, seem that there was a pattern to the way he circulated threw the neighborhood. He knew where he might find something to eat or a handout from a friendly neighbor.

Velvet loved children and so the school playground was a regular stop on those “rounds.” Velvet would move from one group of children to the next soaking up all of the petting and ear scratching he could get. He loved to be rubbed on the belly. He seemed to know when the recesses were and would wait for the kids to come out.

Velvet loved to go with Dad and I when we went arrowhead hunting and was really good at showing up wet and muddy when it was time to get in the car and go home. My Dad would keep a towel in the trunk just for that reason. If Velvet was really muddy, which happened often, he had to ride in the trunk all the way home. He knew the routine and would hop right in when he got to the car.

Velvet had a bad habit of following me about everywhere I would go. If I walked downtown to see my Dad at Hoaglin’s, Velvet had to wander along, too. I often would try walking back home and telling Velvet to stay but it didn’t usually work. It was a good thing that people in cars were careful because Velvet seemed oblivious to traffic and would wander across busy streets and sometimes stop in the middle to sniff some flattened road kill.

Stan Light, a local entrepreneur and junk dealer, lived in a house just up the hill from the swimming pool in Saunders Park. Velvet was drawn to the pool because of all the children there and followed me there often. Stan Light had two big Weimaraners, vicious territorial dogs. One fateful day Velvet followed me to the pool. I didn’t see Velvet again until I got home that day. Velvet was lying on the floor in the nook by the bathroom door. My father explained that Velvet had been badly mauled by the Weimaraners. They had been to Dr. Hunt, the vet, and he had done all he could. For hours we tried to comfort Velvet and finally mother sent us to bed.
It only seemed like it had been a few minutes and Mother called us back downstairs. Velvet had died. That night we buried Velvet in a spot under a red bud tree in the back yard.

Our next dog was a mostly Beagle, but part something else dog, we called Skipper. We brought Skipper home on May 5, 1960. Skipper was my dog, or rather, I was his. Skipper was like Velvet in many ways. He roamed freely all over the community but seemed to be a little more car savvy. Skipper appeared to look both ways before he crossed a street. I know you will think that is crazy but that dog would look both ways, wait on traffic if necessary, and then cross the street.

Skipper also had a sense of humor and had a visible smile on his face when he was happy. He loved to be outside and go arrowhead hunting with Dad and me. Dad often got upset with him because of his unique ability to get muddy no matter how dry it was or how far we were from any water source. Consequently, Skipper road home in the trunk many times. Then he had to have a bath before coming in the house.

Sometimes Skipper would nap and dream he was chasing rabbits. He would bark and wake himself up and we would all laugh. He would act a little embarrassed but laugh at himself, too. Skipper was a good dog. I miss him.

Timeless

Oh, gentle heart
I hear you sing
of life and tears
and precious things.
To live a life
Where most don't care
of hearts and hopes,
of dreams,
of birth.
How little is the future worth?
To hoard the hope of fellow man.
To rob the poor,
to rape the land
with grinding power
and untold wealth
we've twisted in
upon ourselves.

Perry O. Ross, October 2, 1981

Silver Dollars

On Christmas morning I couldn’t wait to get up! It was the only day of the year I would wake up early and not be able to go back to sleep. Since my parents were always early risers they would be up and dressed by the time I got downstairs. It would take about three minutes for me to open my gifts and then the excitement was over for a couple of hours. It would build again as we packed food and presents in the car and headed for Grandpa’s house.

We always went to Grandpa’s for Christmas. There we would have Christmas with Grandpa, my great- uncle Lew, my uncle Everett and aunt Neva, their sons Bobby and Harold and their families. The meal was always huge and the food delicious. My favorite part was the pumpkin pie we had for dessert with fresh whipped cream on top.

We didn’t exchange gifts with all of the folks at this event but usually had something for Grandpa and Uncle Lew. The only gift I got and it was the same every year…silver dollars. The amount varied from year to year depending on Grandpa’s mood, I guess. It would usually range between three and eight. They were the big silver dollars and in those days actually had quite a bit of silver in them. They were thick and heavy and sunk deeply in my pocket. My mother usually took charge of them after I handled them for a while. I know she was sure I would lose them.

Often the dollars ended up being deposited in my account at the Savings and Loan. A few times Mom kept them for me in a hidden spot at home. She showed me once where they were and said, “Now these are yours!” That was a mistake because telling me where they were and that they were mine was a risky thing to tell a nine or ten year old boy.

One day, about a week after Christmas, I went to the stash and withdrew the entire amount. In this case, it was about twelve dollars. I remember the day well! It was cold and snowy. I remember walking up to Hoaglin’s Dime Store with those twelve silver dollars creating a bumpy bulge deep in my pocket. Why I didn’t distribute them to other pockets I don’t know? I did take them out and count them several times. Twelve.

Hoaglin’s had models in two locations. One was at the end of an isle at a sale table and the others were in the regular location at the back of the store. I looked at all of the models at the sale table. There were battleships, planes, and cars. Then I went to the regular spot where there were more. I moved back and forth between the two locations pondering my choices and calculating the cost. Several times I had three or four boxes in my arms only to change my mind again.

Finally, after selecting two from the sale table and four from the regular spot I went the register. I thought the price would be right at twelve dollars but it turned out to be less. I ended up with one silver dollar and some change left. Delighted I headed home with two bulging shopping bags.

Of course, you know what happened. My Mom found out! I reminded her that she had said they were mine. It did no good. She let me choose one, a model airplane, and the rest were back in the bags. We went back to Hoaglin’s. I was horribly embarrassed while my mother chastised the store clerk for taking silver dollars from a young boy. Whew! While they were talking the clerk had me return the models to the table where I got them. We went home with eight of the silver dollars and the one I didn’t spend made nine.

That model airplane, assembled, hung from the ceiling in my room the rest of the time I lived at home. Where it is now, I’m not sure?

Christmas

It seems like Christmas was much simpler when I was growing up. I am not sure my Mom would agree since she probably had to do all of the work in preparation for it. It was also simpler in that you would usually get no more that one or two gifts. Sometimes we got a few treats in our stocking and that was it. One gift was always something very practical.

I could be sure I would get a pair of socks or gloves from my Dad. I didn’t like it much but that’s what I always got. To my Dad, socks were everything! When he grew up in a family of five boys and one girl it wasn’t unusual for the boys to own only one pair of socks. In the summer it wasn’t so bad because they could go without socks and often even shoes. But in the winter it was an all-together different matter. When Dad gave me a pair of socks or gloves he was giving me something he cherished very much as a child. Thinking back on it I feel guilty that I was often unappreciative.

I wanted a present for Christmas.
Something that couldn’t be beat.
Something I really like.
Something really neat.
It wasn’t to be for Christmas.

You guessed it!
When I opened the box
It was a pair of dumb old socks.

On Christmas eve Dad would pull Loretta and I up the street on our sled to the Presbyterian Church for the evening service. The kids usually sat in the choir loft and sang Christmas songs while the older kids acted out the Christmas program on the platform below. At the very end Santa would come with ribbon candy. I loved the red ribbon candy but often didn’t get any because everyone else loved it, too.

I remember once when Santa came. I think it was Ralph Taylor or Sam Ewert or somebody like that. He had the ribbon candy in big flat boxes without a cover on top. There was row after row of ribbon candy in two boxes. Santa left one on the platform and lifted the other up into the choir loft. That was when the place went crazy. I was at the other end of the loft and could only witness the chaos of grabbing hands. Ribbon candy flew everywhere! So much for charity at Christmas! When the candy dust settled, Santa was holding the now empty box. His hat was askew and his glasses were barely hanging on below his nose. Most of the kids at my end of the loft were empty handed.

Not to worry said Santa, there is another box. He said he would take it to the back room where the choir robes were hung and we would all get some. The trouble was that I was sitting as far as possible from the door that led down to that room so by the time I got to the other box it was empty except for one piece of green ribbon candy. I hate green ribbon candy!

Our First TV

I remember our first television in the fifties. My grandfather bought it for us from a store in Salem, Iowa. I remember seeing one in the window and Howdy Doody was on. I think that was the first time I watched TV. I was about four years old and not too interested in sitting still long enough to watch it.

The TV was in the corner of our living room and over time I grew more interested in it. My father liked to watch the Monday Night Fights. They came on after the late evening news. Given that my father had a Mennonite background and my mother was raised a Quaker I really ended up with a double shot of pacifism. My father knew it was a violent sport but was drawn to it anyway and so was I. My mother, of course, wouldn’t let me watch it and besides it came on long after my bedtime. I occasionally caught a little bit of it but not much more. Of course I begged and begged to get to watch it.

Finally, the opportunity came. I think I was seven years old and it was summertime. No worries about getting up early the next morning. My mother reluctantly agreed to allow it just one time. I remember the anticipation was great! The evening trailed on for an eternity and, at last, the program was to begin.

My father, dressed in his undershirt and pants, went to the kitchen and came back with a plate. It had an opened can of sardines on it and a packet of saltine crackers. So there I was sitting with Dad in the living room watching the Monday Night Fights. I didn’t particularity like the sardines because you ate the whole thing, head and all. I tried not to look when he put one on a cracker for me.

That night I think I fell asleep before the fights were over. It didn’t matter. And today when I have a sardine it takes me immediately to that night in the living room.

Madison Street Lemonade Ltd.

38. Madison Street Lemonade LTD.

I was involved in a number of entrepreneurial endeavors during my youth. I sold my services as a lawn mower and shoveled snow when I could. I earned a small allowance for jobs around the house and I worked in a hatchery once in awhile when they had a chicken hatch. I didn’t like working there very much because the owner never wanted to pay me when the work was done. I always had to go and ask for it a couple of times and I hated that.

One summer, after the county fair, the Madison Street Gang decided to have its own carnival. We didn’t have rides or shows. We just had the carnival games like the penny toss and the bottle knock over. We had other games of skill that we charged other kids in the neighborhood to play. We gave out cheap prizes. I don’t remember what they were but I am sure they weren’t much. We made a fortune!

We divided up the booty at the end of the day and had over two dollars a piece to take home. By five or six o’clock that evening when the parents had figured out why home piggy banks had been broken open our phone began to ring. Most of the parents were pretty upset and I know we had to give some of the money back. I really didn’t think we had done anything wrong but the other kid’s parents did.

Another time we opened up Madison Street Lemonade LTD. The business operated for about a week quite successfully. We specialized in lemonade, of course, and once we had accumulated some capitol, we added gum and candy bars that we would buy from the store. We raised the price a nickel and sold out all we had, mostly to ourselves. We thought we were ingenious.

Cement trucks would sometimes stop twice in one day. Many passersby would stop and buy something just because they thought the whole idea was cute. My poor mother had to make and pay for all of the lemonade. She soon grew tired of that and the business closed after a week. That was my first experience with a supplier cutting off a business for lack of payment. Since we ate most of our profits along the way we didn’t have much to show for our week’s work. I suppose it did keep us out of other mischief for a while.

Full of Songs

I went shopping for a new harmonica in an out of the way music store. It was down a narrow alley in Iowa City. The small shop was empty except for the shopkeeper. I looked at all of the harmonicas in the display case. Finally, the old man pulled out one in a red box.

The shopkeeper’s long gray hair was wildly eschew on his head. He was a small man with a slight bend in his back. “This one is full of songs.” He softly said.

“Many?” I said.

“Very many!” he replied.

“How many?” I asked.

“Well...lots!” he said, “I can’t be sure about how many, but lots. Probably more than you will ever play. You’ll run out of you before you run out of songs.”

“Full of songs, I said, “ I see…and how do I get them out?”

“You don’t play do you?”

“No, no, I do! I have several harmonicas already. I guess I just don’t know how to get the songs out. Oh, I can play some, but not many.”

“Then you need this harmonica!”

“Well, you’re a good salesman!”

He smiled just slightly and he had a twinkle in his eye. “Maybe so, “ he said.

“So how does it work?”

"Blow and draw! I thought you said you played?”

“I do, I do, but I’m not very good.”

“Well son, the songs are in there. All you have to do is let them out.”

“Hmmmm…Ok then, I’ll take it.”

I paid for it and left. When I got home I carefully took it out of the box. It looked like all the rest. I was afraid to try it…afraid it wouldn’t work. At last, I put it back in the box. I tried to take it back but the store was closed when I got there so the harmonica sits on the shelf at home.

All the songs are in there. You just have to let them out. I think about that a lot and play my other harmonicas. I like the thought of having a full harmonica. Maybe I’ll play it someday. Maybe not. If I run out of me before I do, you can play it.

37. Box Car Racing

There is a hill on the west side of the schoolyard on Van Buren Street between Madison and Henry streets. I remember spending many Saturday mornings racing anything that had wheels down that hill. I don’t remember how it started. It just seemed like it happened every summer. The longer it went on the more sophisticated the racers became. My first was a wagon. Not the fastest thing to race! Later, my Dad fastened some old wheel chair wheels to the back of a board and put some old wagon wheels on the front. I steered with my feet and a rope attached to the front axel.

For a while I was the downhill champion. That didn’t last long because someone’s Dad was always helping him or her build a better, faster one. Tommy Guinn’s Dad was a welder and built him a realistic looking car. He attached sheet metal to the frame and then painted it up like a real racecar. It even had a real steering wheel. It looked just like a miniature version of the racecars we saw on TV. We all were very jealous until we saw how slow it was.

This was such a well-known event that kids from all parts of town starting showing up with their cars. We had so many that we had to have heats. The city police department came and blocked off the street for us. That ended when the Ready Mix plant was built on West Henry Street and the Saturday morning traffic made it too dangerous for us to be racing on that hill. The city officially moved us to the south hill in Saunders Park. It was a longer hill that turned gently to the right and end up near the playground at the bottom of the hill. (I have a much longer story about the Fire Bug Five and racing at Saunders Park.)

The Van Buren hill was great for me because it was just a half a block from my house. I didn’t have to drag or push my car for several blocks like some of the kids. I could go home and get Dad’s oilcan if I thought my wheels needed some lubrication. Sometimes I would have to run home and get a pliers and another cotter pin to replace a broken one.

When I think of the hours we spent in preparation for the Saturday morning races and then the time we spent there I’m amazed. Building, creating our own cars and our own entertainment occupied our time in those glorious days.