Joy Neal Kidney's Blog, page 73

Guthrie Center Native Hubert Caloud, Superintendent of the Oise-Aisne American Cemetery in France

Omar B. Shearer was the first casualty of the Great War from Guthrie Center, Iowa.

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From the American Battle Monuments Commission:  A few weeks ago after a significant snowfall in northern France, Hubert Caloud paid his respect to a particular World War I headstone.

Hubert Caloud, Guthrie Center native, pays respects at the grave of Omar Shearer, the first Guthrie man to lose his life in WWI. Caloud, a retired Marine, is now Superintendent of the cemetery where Shearer’s remains lie–Oise-Aisne American Cemetery in France.

All of the more than 6,000 markers at Oise-Aisne American Cemetery are significant, especially for Caloud, who is the site superintendent; but the marker for Pvt. Omar Shearer has personal ties, too.

Pvt. Omar B. Shearer, from History of 168th Infantry

Shearer fought in the area during WWI with Caloud’s great uncle and was killed in July of 1918 when hit by German artillery fire, only a week after his 18th birthday, according to the superintendent.

Caloud’s great uncle, Bill Kucera, survived the war but died later from complications of being heavily gassed, he said.

Caloud also refers to Shearer affectionately as a fellow Hawkeye, or Iowa native.

In fact, in Shearer’s Iowa hometown of Guthrie Center, between Omaha and Des Moines, the American Legion post is named in his honor.

Caloud also had another great uncle fight in the same region of France in World War II, meaning he is the third generation of his family to represent America in the country, a fact that he says isn’t lost on the locals he meets.

“It means something to the people that I can say my family fought for this ground,” he said.

The Oise-Aisne American Cemetery is one of a dozen managed in France by the American Battle Monuments Commission.

Caloud himself served 30 years in the Marine Corps before joining ABMC, a second career of service he relishes.

“We speak for the guys that can’t talk,” said the ABMC cemetery superintendent.

Written by Caloud: Omar B Shearer from Guthrie Center Iowa. He was in the same Machine Gun Company as my maternal grandmother’s brother. My Great Uncle William F Kucera. Uncle Bill survived the war but was gassed several times badly and died of it’s effects after the war in a Veterans Hospital.

MG Company 168th Infantry was Iowa National Guard. The main road going to the airport in the Capitol of Des Moines, Fleur Drive, is named after their Company Commander who was killed. Omar enlisted at age 16 was killed a week after his 18th birthday a couple kilometers [a little over over a mile] from my house.

Hubert Caloud served over 30 years in the military before retiring. In retirement he has been serving with the American Battle Monuments Commission, overseeing American cemeteries throughout the world.

 

 

 

I recognized Omar Shearer’s name right away from researching my Grandma Leora’s early marriage years, which included taking over her Goff brothers’ popcorn farm in 1918 since those brothers had been drafted and were in France. And my own mother was born on that farm that August.

Merl, Wayne, and Jennings Goff, 88th Infantry, 1918.

The Guthrie Center newspapers carried transcriptions of the Goff brothers (and others), and also the awful news of the death of Omar Shearer.

Arachnophobia in the Choir Loft

Spiders make me shudder. A spider is the one critter I will ask someone else to deal with for me.

The first spider I can remember was a colorful, bulgy garden spider with angular, threatening legs. The web was fastened to the marigolds, right where this preschooler wanted to play.

As repulsed as I was at the creature, I was fascinated with the web. It was like an intricate crocheted doily like my grandmother made. And it had a wonderful strip of rickrack right through the center.

I wonder if spiders have the ability to sense which human has a spider phobia–even while this human is singing in a church choir, in front of the congregation, facing them.

Once a spider, lurking in the rafters, decided to descend to the choir loft–above the alto section, on a Sunday morning, while we were singing. It dangled right above my hymnal.

I began to overheat. I blew at the beast. It floated off. But the menace soon swung back, ambushing my hair. Oh oh, not in my hair! I swayed away from it. Swatting it would mean I would have to touch it. I felt faint.

Maybe I could reach up with the hymnal and slam it upon the awful arachnid, and squeeze as hard as I could. But oh, the mess it would leave. And the commotion it would make.

The hymn was finally over. We sat down, farther from the impending peril. But I kept watch for it in the airspace above. A nearby tenor leaned over and asked if I was okay.

Well, no. There’s this spider.

He took charge, thrusting his white robed arm up to the threat and dispatching it in one swift swing. Several astonished singers turned toward the action.

Though embarrassed, I wanted to laugh and cheer.

But I feigned nonchalance.

(1995)

Young Doris Helps With the Horses–1920s (poem)

Young Doris Helps With the Horses–1920sDad drives the horses in from the fieldto the water tank, where they guzzleand snort. Smarter than tractors,they head to the barn on their own.I follow Dad to the barn.Leather slaps as he unstraps harnessesfrom the big creatures,takes metal bits from muzzles.He adds halters, flings flynets over,their strings with knots at the ends.Aroma of dust, leather,and horse sweat.Dad gives me a three-pound coffee canto measure corn for the manger,room for six to eight horses,teams double-stalled down the center.I help with double handfuls of oats,counting from the bushel basket, whileDad pitches hay, with its sweet dusty smell,down from the mow and into the manger.The munching is comforting.I feel safe with my dad,helping him with the big horsesat Mr. Hemphill’s farm.After they eat, Dad lets them out of the barn,into the pasture, where they lie down,feet flailing, rolling to scratch their backswhile Dad and I head to the house for supper.

1950s Date by Gary Knox

I “met” Gary Knox through something I’d written. That led to his reading Leora’s Letters, which lit a fire under this retired math teacher, widower and wood-carving hobbyist.

He pretty much disappeared from Facebook the entire month of January. When he surfaced again, he’d written, edited, read aloud, and had printed up more than 70 pages of memoirs!

Noticing the dialogue in Leora’s Letters, he also included some in his stories. Last week he messaged a poem, asking my opinion. Well, lump in throat, it’s just dear. February 15 is the anniversary of his first date with Verdeen in 1958, so today is the perfect day to publish his first poem.

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Gary and Verdeen Knox

50th Wedding Anniversary, 2011

Grandma Leora’s Home in Guthrie Center

Leora Wilson and her mother Laura Goff in November 1947, right before they both moved back to their roots in Guthrie County, Iowa.

From Leora Wilson’s memoirs: “My mother, Laura Jordan Goff, and I moved here to Guthrie Center, Iowa, February 10, 1948. Mother moved from Omaha where she had lived and kept house for my brother, Clarence Goff, for several years. I moved from near Perry.”

Laura left four grandchildren in Omaha, while Leora’s six (at the time) lived in Iowa. The two women had come home to their roots and were about the same distance for children and grandchildren to come for a visit.

The house had only two bedrooms, but they had a fold-out couch, where I remember sleeping with cousins. Eventually a bed was added to the unfinished basement.

Cousins visiting Grandma Leora and Great Grandmother Goff: Gloria Neal, Leora Darlene Wilson, Joy Neal, Donna Wilson. 515 North 4th Street, Guthrie Center, Iowa. About 1949.

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“Mother and I lived here [in Guthrie Center] together almost 15 years,” Leora wrote. “Mother passed away December 6, 1962. She enjoyed life–crocheting, going places, and was hospitalized twelve days before her death. She was a wonderful mother, so good to look on the bright side of every problem. She was with Dad and me for all the births of our children.”

Grandma Leora could be described the same way: a wonderful mother, so good to look on the bright side.

The family who bought Grandma Leora’s house, also bought the small house to the north on the corner and tore it down. The picture window is how the window to the left behind the tree, so they expanded it to the north.

Journey Homeward (poem)

Journey Homeward

Are we all born homesick?With an innate achefor heaven?Life is bittersweet,a longing along withcelebrations.Small agings and deteriorationsat each milestone,each turning of life.Why this tug towardsomething sacred,something more than we can grasp?It shimmers just yonder,farther than our ken,somehow elusive, camouflaged,we grope toward somethingfundamental, a treasureglowing beyond.(2020)

Homesick – 1921 (poem)

Doris, Donald, and Delbert Wilson in neighbor Mrs. Knox’s ferns, Stuart, Iowa. About 1921.

Homesick – 1921

I want my boys, I wailed to Grandmotheras she held my shuddering three-year-old self.I’d been gone long enoughwhile my mother had baby twins,and I missed my older brothers.Grandpa said he’d buy me a doll,so my aunts took me downtown.Choose the biggest one, Grandpa can afford it.But the biggest one wore yellow. I wanted pink.Look at the big one again, they urged,but I picked the one in pink.I held the beautiful doll on the Liza Jane trainwhen Grandpa took me home. He held herto help me down the steps at the station,where he found someone to talk and talkand talk to, as he always did.My pink doll dropped. Her head broke.My aunts thought Grandpa should buy me another.He never did, but I didn’t care.I was back home with my boys.

Parrish Cafe, Guthrie Center, Iowa, 1937

Grandmother Goff’s younger sister, Cora Parrish, and her husband John ran a cafe in Guthrie Center. In December of 1937, they drove to Dexter to see if Doris, the oldest daughter of niece Leora Wilson and who was out of high school by then, would waitress for them.

While Doris packed, Cora said to her niece, “Leorie, I don’t know how you got such a shy daughter.” Doris earned $1 per day, meals, a uniform, and free rent in the apartment above the cafe. 

John and Cora Parrish and Doris Wilson

Great Aunt Cora asked Doris to help cut up chickens to fry, but Doris didn’t know where to start. “Well, I can’t believe that a daughter of Leorie’s doesn’t know how to cut up a chicken!”

Doris didn’t reveal that in those Depression years her family had rarely had chicken to eat. Squirrel and rabbit mostly, but occasionally a raccoon or once even a ‘possum. Once in awhile canned government meat.

Virginia Baked Ham was a favorite meal at the Parrish Cafe. It came in an oblong block, like a loaf of bread, and was sliced into ½ inch slabs and heated in water.

Teachers often ate at Parrish’s, some regularly. They’d push tables together and always asked for substitutes for what was listed on the menu with their dinners. Doris could pick out which one would choose a baked potato, which one didn’t like corn, etc. Teachers were the worst tippers, many times leaving no tip at all. 

Once Doris was about to get off work when two businessmen in suits came in and chose a booth in the back, by the kitchen. They asked how big the T-bones were. They both ordered the steak, which were even larger than Doris had described. Someone came in for coffee and mentioned a big black car in front with New York license plates.

Before long, the strangers motioned Doris over. Oh dear, what’s wrong? “Could we each have another steak just like the first ones?”

“Are you sure?” Doris knew the first ones, which had been served with potatoes, had filled them up.

“Yes.”

“Do you want more potatoes, too?”

“No, just steak.”

When Doris put in the order, the cook rolled her eyes. 

The men in suits left Doris a tip of $1.65, which was a big deal in 1937.

Parrish Cafe: John and Cora Parrish at left, then Doris Wilson, with two more employees

From Leora’s Dexter Stories: The Scarcity Years of the Great Depression, due out later this spring.

Doris also worked with Marie Carmichael at the cafe. Through the Historic Guthrie County Facebook page and Brick Imerman, I learned that Marie was on the 1937 State Championship Guthrie Center basketball team.

Great basketball players Marie Carmichael and Doris Wilson

They were awarded a trip to Wichita, Kansas to watch the AAU Women’s National Championship Basketball Tournament. Doris Wilson played in the tournament there that year with the team from AIB in Des Moines.

Two Nights in Grand Island

We had no children yet in 1973, so Guy still enjoyed driving his second hand 1966 Corvette to work at Stapleton Tower in Denver. Our other car was a 1969 VW bug, which someone was borrowing while we brought the Vette back to Iowa for a vacation.

We were to arrive late on Guy’s mother’s birthday, but Nebraska is a very wide state. The clutch went out near Grand Island so we were towed to there, but they needed to order parts which wouldn’t be there until the next day.

A motel was within walking distance, a place to eat, and also a movie theater. We watched “Paper Moon.”

Late the next afternoon we learned that the new parts were defective. The mechanics loaned us a ’63 Chevy with a fur dashboard. There were also fuzzy dice hanging from the rear-view mirror, and we got several gawkers. Probably friends of the guy who owned the car and hadn’t paid for repairs on it.

Since Guy was an air traffic controller, we drove to the Grand Island airport, toured the national weather service and flight service station. We were thankful that the theater changed to a new movie, so we killed time by watching “Badge 373.”

Finally the third day we were able to leave Grand Island early in the afternoon. Guy decided to make up a little time getting to his mother’s, but got pulled over in Iowa by a cop standing next to the highway and flagging over speeder after speeder. We had to sit in line for another trooper to come give us the ticket.

When we finally got to the Glidden farm, two days late for Guy’s mother’s birthday, we figured it would have been quicker and cost us less to just fly home.

But now we have a story to tell.

A Survivor’s Story of Four Chaplains Day–the Torpedo Attack on the Troop Ship Dorchester

Over a year ago I reviewed a book about the USAT Dorchester disaster. I discovered that February 3 is a day of remembrance for the four chaplains who lost their lives serving the men on that ship, so I’d already made a meme for today.

Then Monday, this showed up on Instagram: “Happy 100th Birthday in heaven to my Grandfather Michael Calandriello. He served in the Army Air Force during WW2 and was one of few survivors of the torpedo attack on the USAT Dorchester on February 3, 1943.”

I recognized the name of the ship, then noticed the hashtags:

#family #lineage #history #ww2 #grandfather  #usatdorchester #angelbirthday #life #love #brooklyn #newjersey #4chaplains #europe #neverforgotten

From the book: “In the early morning hours of February 3, 1943, a German submarine torpedoes the American troop ship Dorchester en route to a top secret radar installation in Greenland. The four Army chaplains on board could scarcely be more different from each other: Methodist pastor and war veteran George Fox; intellectual and athletic Rabbi Alex Goode; scholar, poet, and Dutch Reformed minister Clark Poling; baseball fan and “regular guy” Father John Washington. Yet in the terror and confusion following the attack by a deadly U-boat wolfpack, the chaplains unite in a final triumphant sacrifice that transforms the life of every survivor who lives to tell of it.”

I sent a note to glenn_against_the_machine, acknowledging what he’d posted. He sent photos and more information and gave me permission to share this story of his maternal grandfather, who was one of only 230 survivors out of over 900 on the ship.

“Never remove your left jackets! Eat, sleep and work in them but never ever take them off.” Obeying that order saved the life of Glenn Simmons’ grandfather Michael Calandriello who served in the Army Air Force during WWII.

SSgt. Michael Calandriello’s Story

“The torpedo struck like a giant hand reaching out of the sea and puncturing a hold in the side of the ship. Forward motion stopped, we began a hard sideward skid stirring the dark waters beneath the hull. Moving automatically, I joined my shipmates in making my way across the sloping deck to my assigned station.

“Just like in drills, the lifeboat was loaded and we were lowered over the side. Nothing in our training, however, had prepared us for the shock of the lifeboat tipping and dumping us over, to be engulfed by the frigid water. . . .

“Treading water, I saw a G.I. grab an axe and cut the ropes allowing the lifeboat to right itself. But my hopes were dashed as a desperate man jumped from the deck above, landed in the lifeboat, and crashed through the bottom.

“Yet I was one of the lucky ones.

“Soon another lifeboat came by and picked me up. A Black crewman, Charley Wright, who had already survived previous torpedoings, took charge. With only three oars and all of us bailing furiously, we managed to stay afloat until we were rescued by the Coast Guard Cutter Escanaba.

“. . . Along the rails of all three decks [of the Dorchester] was an unbroken line of men. All were to paralyzed by fear to jump. I shouted ‘Get off! Get off!’ but the turmoil drowned my voice. . .

“I was among the first picked up. The courageous men of the Escanaba stripped off my clothes, wrapped me in blankets and began rubbing my frozen legs. For hours men were carried in, oil-slicked, unconscious, some dying and some who would be dead by morning’s first light.

The Four Chaplains

“It was from those picked up last that I first heard the story of the Four Chaplains. I had known Father Washington from Mass and confession. I remember his soft-spoken caring. There was an underlying strength to the man that reassured us he would always do God’s work and take care of his men no matter what happened. That’s exactly what he and his fellow chaplains did that fateful night.

We spoke not a word

“Almost fifty years have passed, yet the visions of that night remain vivid in my mind. One man in particular stands out. He was a Jewish buddy who pulled me into the lifeboat and rubbed life back into my limbs on board the Escanaba. As he held his prayer book and I held my rosary beads, we spoke not word. But in our hearts we knew our faith in our common God had spared us.

“This was akin to the example set by the Four Chaplains. Though their lives were not spared, they had helped to spare others and bring comfort to those doomed to perish. Four men, three faiths, one God–this is their legacy. What better monument than t have etched into our minds and hearts the sight of these four men of God staying with their flock, giving them strength and faith as they entered eternal rest.”

 

Michael Calandriello (left) and his friend John Fisher. Believed to have been taken in Greenland shortly after the sinking of the Dorchester.

 

Thanks to Glenn A. Simmons (on the right), who served as marine infantryman during the Global War on Terror. His father, Glenn D. Simmons (left) served with 10th special forces in Vietnam.