Joy Neal Kidney's Blog, page 85

Mrs. Potts Sadiron

[image error]

Yes, “cold handle.” Genius!

[image error]

Before this invention, by Mary Florence Potts, our great great grandmothers–and the girls in the family–ironed with something like this:

[image error]

It was heated on top of the iron stove, which would also heat the handle, so she’d have to use a padded pot holder wrapped around the handle. (There’d be a second iron heating on the stove while using the hot one.)

In those days, laundry was hung outside on the clothesline with wooden pegs, even in the winter on nice days. Otherwise they were strung around the house or basement.

Clothes and items needing ironing needed to be a little damp, so they’d be rolled up  when not quite dry, or sprinkled with a little water and rolled up so as not to dry too quickly.

I ended up with a Mrs. Potts sadiron, which my great grandmother had used, maybe even my grandmother.

[image error]

Laura and Sherd Goff moved to Dexter in 1926, and lived in the big American Foursquare house across the road south from what is now the Dexter Park. After Laura was widowed and moved to Omaha with her sons, her daughter Leora Wilson and family moved into the big house along the highway.

[image error]

Because both generations lived in that Dexter house, and both may have used that Mrs. Potts sadiron, it now makes its home in the Dexter Museum.

 

The Sum of All Peoples–Guest Post by William R. Ablan

 

I always liked the piece from the movie Footloose (the first one), where the minister says if you want to sit in judgement of something, sit in judgement of yourself.

I think that’s a good idea. Every once in a while, we need to sit back and take a look at ourselves at the only mirror that matters.

I picked that up from a Catholic priest who was very old when I was very young. I’ve talked about Father Peter Verde before, and how he waded though Dachau prison as a guest of the Nazis. Dachau prison was a great place to cast out seeing differences between people. Dachau, unlike the death camps, was where everyone the Nazis didn’t like got sent. There were Gypsies sleeping next to college professors sleeping next to Poles sleeping next to homosexuals sleeping next to Catholic priests. Basically, we’re talking of a cross section of society living, suffering, and dying together.

My old friend taught me that when you looked at people that way, differences in skin color, eye color, etc. were trivial. He learned that God created man in his image, and that made God something so insanely wonderful that he was speechless. His lesson was that if you hate people because of differences, you’re hating God, and at the end of that is hate for yourself.

The other part is I know where my bloodlines come from. I joked once that my ancestors got run out of every decent country around (probably not an exaggeration). And in a new world, funny things began to happen.

Want an example, here’s one. Way back in the 1600s, one of the first Franklins in my family tree was half Cherokee. Her mother was Cherokee and her father was black. Where he came from, I don’t know. All I know is he became part of the tribe. What I do know is I have his DNA in my body.

Some of my ancestors were persecuted Jews, others fled from Ireland and England, and a few came over as indentured servants (fancy name for slaves). Others were already here waiting for them, and not always to welcome the newcomers with open arms. Still more fled the Middle East to get out from under religious and ethnic persecution.

Very early I began to realize I am the sum total of the concept of the Melting Pot. To look at any of my ancestors through the lens of their skin color diminished who they were and what they did. They did incredible things when I stop and think about it.

I’ve traced my lineage to almost every nation on Earth. About the only bloodline I feel safe in saying I don’t have is anything from eastern Asia (and it wouldn’t surprise me to find out I’m wrong about that).

I am the end result of hundred of years of different peoples.

I am awed by who they were and what they did, and I thank them all for who I am.

Getting off my soapbox, folks. Have a great day.

 

Published by William R. Ablan

Will Ablan is the pen name for Richard L. Muniz. Richard is a former police officer with twenty years service. During his tenure, he’s held most every position possible to include Under-Sheriff and Chief of Police. He’s worked undercover narcotics and plain clothes detective. He’s also a combat veteran and served with the US Army as a Military Policeman for eight years. His “Lawman” series is drawn from those years and many of the cases he talks about happened in one form or another, if not to him, then certainly others. View all posts by williamrablan

 

 

 

Leora’s Letters: The Audiobook

Do you listen to books?

People had asked if there’d be an audiobook of Leora’s Letters. I’ve never listened to one before, and didn’t know there’s a whole audience out there, hearing narrated stories on a trip or commuting to work.

I asked my online writers’ group how to go about creating one. Several authors sent me to Audible, where you can even listen to different voices to see who might be a good match for your story.

But thinking I’d like to keep it local, meaning Iowa, I asked a trusted professional (who’d interviewed me about Leora’s Letters) who he’d recommend. I was thinking a woman would narrate, but he listed four men’s names.

Paul Berge

[image error]

I knew the name at the top. Paul Berge.

He used to be an air traffic controller with my husband here at Des Moines. He’d even written his first book, Bootleg Skies, on mid (midnight) shifts in the control tower.

Paul had also created a radio drama series, “Rejection Slip Theater,” for WHO Radio 1040 AM. I submitted my “Reconciling Dad” story back then, and he edited it to fit in with the style of the program. That was long ago. I’d forgotten. This goes back to B.F. (before fibromyalgia, which began about 2001). He has also been the host of “Side Roads” on Iowa Public TV.

Paul said to send a copy of the Leora’s Letters. I waited. Being patient was hard.

But then had me send a another copy of it to Steve Mathews, who used to own a recording studio, and whose father flew B-25s in the Pacific during WWII.

Steve Mathews

[image error]

Well, they both said yes, they’d record the book, but that it’s “be a big project.” Steve had rigged up a studio in an old sauna in his basement and they got to work, doing a couple of chapters a day.

Steve sent me an mp3 of part of the story. Leora’s Letters brought to life! It about did me in when I heard my grandfather, Clabe, in his own words, as he talked with family members.

Paul uses a folksy diction with Clabe and the boys, which I’d imagined also. I knew I’d asked the right man to narrate this precious story.

Steve has also been so gracious about the whole thing. His part in the production takes twice as much time as Paul’s, plus keeping me in the loop and also uploading all the files.

Paul sent a note, saying that Steve is the “best in the business. Betchya didn’t know he’s been inducted into the Iowa Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame–Twice.” Hmm, modest, too, as that’s not even mentioned on Steve’s Facebook page.

LinkedIn reveals Steve Mathews‘s history, as a drummer in a rock and roll band, and former owner of Radio Garage Productions. He also does audio for corporate communications and voicing for radio and TV commercials.

And recording and editing for Leora’s Letters.

[image error]Recording the prologue and epilogue in a converted sauna.

According to the latest Writer’s Digest (May/June 2020), one in five Americans listen to audiobooks. The article also discussed differentiating between voices. Paul does that, which I wasn’t expecting, even including a creditable FDR toward the beginning.

And sings a little of “Off We Go Into the Wild Blue Yonder,” which was played as the recessional at my parents’ wedding!

I didn’t realize what my request would put the narrator through, how hard it would be to read out loud the words of the difficult telegrams after getting to know the brothers. Or even Steve as he recorded and edited. They have become part of Leora’s story, and have embraced the Wilson family, who lost three of their five sons during WWII.

Paul Berge says he’s honored to lend a voice to the Wilson stories, that it’s time they were heard.

I’m amazed and humbled.

Soon Leora’s Letters: The Story of Love and Loss for an Iowa Family During World War II will be available on Amazon.com as a paperback, an ebook, and even an audiobook. 

Fatherline

[image error] Father Warren Neal

Born in Guthrie County, just west of

Dexter, Iowa, on the farm

where Cousin Vince lives now.

The oldest of five children,

first high school graduate.

 

Farmed until Pearl Harbor.

Enlisted in the Air Corps, became a pilot,

instructed advanced cadets in Texas,

married Doris Wilson, became a dad.

 

After the war, returned to the farm,

bought his own in Madison County, south of Dexter.

Patiently taught young girls how much to

feed the cattle and hogs, how much water to

pump into the tank.

 

How to shift gears, to navigate country roads

and driveways, making sure we mastered the farmer wave,

might be a neighbor, and admonishing always,

“Be awful, awful careful.”

 

Farmer, carpenter, active in church,

teaching Sunday School over twenty years.

Remember him most wearing overalls,

laughing with his head back,

napping after noon dinner, head on folded arms,

on the Formica farm table.

 

[image error]

Grandfather Kenneth Neal

Born in west of Dexter, farmed.

Because of a matched team of horses,

often called on to pull the hearse to the cemetery.

 

Married Ruby Blohm, whose parents

were German immigrants. Her father

owned the grocery and meat market.

 

Farmed his entire life, sang with

the Metha-Quaka-Terian quartet.

He was the Presbyterian, like his

father before him.

 

Teased kids, whether grandchild or not.

Fireworks with cake and ice cream

near Independence Day, as he was born

on July 5 (1895).

 

A pipe and cigarette smoker, he came down

with lung cancer. Fifty years ago this May 8,

I took him lilacs in the hospital. It was the awful day

I realized he wasn’t going to get well.

 

He died just short of his 75th birthday,

the age I am now. I remember the forlorn

feeling of being cheated out of my Grandpa.

 

[image error] Great Grandfather Swain Neal

O.S. (Orlando Swain) was born

near Redfield, Dallas County, Iowa,

the sixth and last child of John and Rhoda,

the only son.

 

Married Nellie Edith Keith, had four children,

including a set of twins. Farmer,

bottled and delivered milk, drayman in Dexter.

 

On the committee to plan and build the 1916

Community Building, now on the National Register

of Historic Places and, although elliptical in shape,

is affectionately known as the Roundhouse.

 

[image error]

Great Great Grandfather John Neal

Born in Jefferson County, Tennessee,

married Rhoda Marshall

in Wayne County, Indiana,

but when the War of the Rebellion

broke out, being a southerner at heart,

became a private in 3rd Forrest’s Tennessee Cavalry.

Deserted.

 

Perhaps Rhoda’s Quaker father and brothers

were part of that decision. John later shows up

on the roster of the 9th Regiment, Indiana Cavalry.

 

After the war, they moved to Dallas County, Iowa,

the place Rhoda’s relatives had crowed about,

with four children–two born in Tennessee,

two in Indiana. Two more were born in Iowa.

Five daughters, one son.

 

A farmer and fiddler, however you interpret that,

he is buried at Dexter, along with his elderly parents.

In fact, all of my fatherline and one more (Thomas Neal)

are buried in the Dexter Cemetery.

Warren Neal: Pilot Pool at Lincoln, Nebraska

Warren had just logged 143 hours in training in B-17 Flying Fortresses at Yuma, Arizona.

As enough B-29 Superfortresses rolled off the assembly lines in Wichita KS, Renton WA, and Omaha NE, pilots with four engine training were pooled in Lincoln, Nebraska, for their next assignments–75 years ago this week, June of 1945.

Families could go with them, so Doris and year-old Joy spent three weeks with Warren in Lincoln.

[image error]

Warren got orders for Biggs Field, Texas, to train in the B-29. The pilots herded onto a train, “like a bunch of cattle,” headed to El Paso.

His folks at Dexter hired a taxi to take them to Lincoln so they could drive Doris and Joy back to Dexter in the “C-39,” their 1939 Chevy.

At Biggs Field, Warren didn’t yet have a desk so he “scribbled a letter” to Doris on his knee. Training had speeded up, he reported, and they were scheduled to leave for staging for combat on September 18.

By the next day, he’d been assigned a copilot (F/O William Noack, seemed like a pretty good kid), bombardier (2nd Lt. Tommy Owen, also seemed like a good kid, had been ready to go over in B-17s when VE-Day came), and an engineer–whom he hadn’t seen yet.

Their navigator was still in school in Florida, and would join them later along with their radar man. He’d met his three gunners, seemed like good eager kids, he said. But they still lacked a radio man. He would eventually end up with a crew of ten. 

Warren wished the war would end, and all the boys, including Dale and Danny would get back home again. He told Doris to let him know about their “prospects for another bundle from Heaven.” 

He said he hoped Doris would start Joy’s shots, and would “drive the wheels off the Chev.”

A few days later, he’d been to a banquet where the Colonel “and all the big cogs on the base” gave them talks and let them ask questions. The Colonel gave them the “hot poop” that they were in a new outfit with a little differently equipped B-29s. They would push them to the limit to try to get in as much training as quickly as possible. Their schedules were made up right until they were to leave there. 

Warren expected to be “across” before the first of October.

Saipan.

Where the Grass Never Grows by Guest Blogger Rick Friday

We all have a favorite place where we played as a child. Mine was in and around a huge tree near our house on the farm. I filled the old tree with lumber left over from projects or what was discarded for their flaws. These boards were nailed to limbs hidden deep within its canopy. The intertwined construction from my hands and my thoughts allowed me to navigate freely throughout the branches. I saw the world from this tree and although much of what I saw may have been my imagination, it seemed so very real.

The tree was so vast with leaves it would shade the summer sun and the roots were deeply entangled in the ground to support its size and never ending thirst. This is where I conquered empires and fought my foes. Where I garnered scars and broken bones. Where I would dream and sometimes cry. All under this tree where the grass never grows.

Later on in my teenage years when returning home late at night, the headlights of my car would shine light on the tree and for a few seconds the old tree would find new life in hopes the little boy would once again shake its limbs with his spirit. The young man could see the shadows of his youth hidden far within the tree and he knew the little boy would never return. Now the tree is gone forever and the grass beneath where it once stood is thick and lush. Concealed below this cover of green turf are a child’s treasures destined to be lost, yet my mind will always return to the place where the grass never grows.

Rick Friday is a farmer (from Union County, Iowa), cartoonist, and writer published worldwide with a weekly and monthly print circulation of 193,000. He’s also a Union County Supervisor.

 

We Facebook followers regularly enjoy his pithy cartoons and poignant stories.

 

Where the Grass Never Grows

by Rick Friday

We all have a favorite place where we played as a child. Mine was in and around a huge tree near our house on the farm. I filled the old tree with lumber left over from projects or what was discarded for their flaws. These boards were nailed to limbs hidden deep within its canopy. The intertwined construction from my hands and my thoughts allowed me to navigate freely throughout the branches. I saw the world from this tree and although much of what I saw may have been my imagination, it seemed so very real.

The tree was so vast with leaves it would shade the summer sun and the roots were deeply entangled in the ground to support its size and never ending thirst. This is where I conquered empires and fought my foes. Where I garnered scars and broken bones. Where I would dream and sometimes cry. All under this tree where the grass never grows.

Later on in my teenage years when returning home late at night, the headlights of my car would shine light on the tree and for a few seconds the old tree would find new life in hopes the little boy would once again shake its limbs with his spirit. The young man could see the shadows of his youth hidden far within the tree and he knew the little boy would never return. Now the tree is gone forever and the grass beneath where it once stood is thick and lush. Concealed below this cover of green turf are a child’s treasures destined to be lost, yet my mind will always return to the place where the grass never grows.

Rick Friday is a farmer (from Union County, Iowa), cartoonist, and writer published worldwide with a weekly and monthly print circulation of 193,000. He’s also a Union County Supervisor.

 

We Facebook followers regularly enjoy his pithy cartoons and poignant stories.

 

Flag Day

Since 1916 we Americans have officially celebrated the Stars and Stripes each June 14.

The American flag was precious to my grandmother. One of my favorite pictures of her is under a flag at my parents’ farm near Dexter.

[image error]

Back in 1890 when Leora Goff was born in Guthrie County, Iowa, the new states of Idaho and Wyoming had just been added to the Union, making 44 stars in the flag. Utah became a State when she was 5, the same year her father went bankrupt in Nebraska’s drought, adding the 45th star.

Leora was nearly 17, living in rural Audubon County, riding a horse into Audubon to take piano lessons, and helping her dad with his popcorn crop, when Oklahoma was admitted to the Union–46 stars.

The 48-star flag came about when New Mexico and Arizona became states right before the Titanic sank in 1912. Leora was 21 then, living at Wichita, Iowa, not yet married.

It was that familiar 48-star flag for the next 33 years–through Leora’s marriage to Clabe Wilson, the Great War, the births of their 10 children, the loss of three as infants, and through WW II, when they lost three sons.

Flag Day was so important to Leora Wilson. She’d display the American flag outside her little house in Guthrie Center, where she lived out her last decades.

Her family had sacrificed so much for that flag.

In September 1945, when Japan officially surrendered at the end of WWII, Wilson’s son Danny was still Missing in Action in Austria, although the war in Europe had ended months before. In fact two sons were still Missing in Action–Dale and Danny.

Their youngest brother, Junior, was killed in training at the end of the war. An American flag had been presented to Clabe and Leora by Junior’s Army Air Force friend, Ralph Woods, at the funeral.

War was over. The Wilsons’ two surviving sons had served in the Navy. Delbert and his family moved home to be with his folks. Donald stayed in the Navy. 

On September 26, 1945, a carton of Danny Wilson’s things arrived at the Wilson acreage south of Perry–sent from the Army Effects Bureau of the Kansas City Quartermaster Depot.

Clabe signed for the carton. I suppose they opened it, but did they sort through their son’s eighteen pairs of socks, five cotton undershirts, three khaki trousers, and other clothing?  If they had, they would have found Danny’s wrist watch, souvenirs of his R and R to Rome over Christmas, a fountain pen, other items including a small New Testament.

Yes, the war was over, but life just kept on and on, with daily chores to keep them busy. According to Leora’s diary, she churned butter every week. Two cows had calves. Clabe helped a neighbor with field work.

At some point, they would have thumbed through the Danny’s small New Testament.

They would have found the page with the American flag pictured in color.

Under that flag is an arrow, drawn in ink, and the words in his bold printing, “I give everything for the country it stands for. D. S. Wilson.”

Daniel Sheridan Wilson. . . . Danny.

[image error]

If this brings tears to my eyes, these many decades later, how did my grandparents deal with it then?

No wonder the American flag was precious to my grandmother.

In the picture of Grandma under the flag at my parents’ place, she’s wearing a watch with a small silver bell fastened to it.

The Capri bell arrived in the same box as Danny’s small Bible. . . . with his personal pledge to the American flag.

A good reminder of why we celebrate Flag Day every June 14. 

Published in The Des Moines Sunday Register, June 14, 2020.

Leora Wilson’s World War II story is told in Leora’s Letters: The Story of Love and Loss for an Iowa Family During World War II by Joy Neal Kidney with Robin Grunder.

 

Because of You Old Glory Flies: Poems of Gratitude for Our U.S. Military and Veterans

The Book

Because of You Old Glory Flies is a collection of heartfelt poems and illustrations to say thank you to all who have served, or currently serve, in the United States military. In creating this book, Julie Dueker and Ray “Bubba” Sorensen II, a.k.a. The Freedom Rock Painter, have combined their unique talents and passions for God and country to show America’s heroes we are forever in their debt. They pray this book touches the hearts and lives of those who open it and share it.

[image error]

“I’m impressed with Julie’s work to capture the essence of hero. There are heroes all around us and some we would never know served in our nation’s military to defend the rights and privileges that we hold dear. We can never repay them enough for all that they and their families have given to the rest of us. Many are in cemeteries across our land and overseas. Some didn’t return at all. Others live quietly in our communities continuing to give of themselves for the good of others. America’s greatness lies on the backs of our veterans and those who serve today. They have fought and died for us. I believe Julie’s works depict that very well.” — Colonel Robert C. King (Ret)

The Author

Julie (Schmidt) Dueker is a Christian educator who loves sharing her passion for God, music, and patriotism with children of all ages. In 2017, Julie was honored as Iowa’s VFW Elementary Teacher of the Year. Julie is the founder and director of Young Patriots Club, a Christian ministry of freedom-loving youth whose mission is to honor God and uplift American heroes. She and her young patriots perform at various events honoring heroes by reciting historical documents, singing patriotic songs, and sharing poetry, including the poems in this book.

Julie and her husband, Craig, live in West Des Moines, Iowa, where they have been blessed with the honor of raising three amazing young men, Ryan, Josh, and Zach. Julie is grateful for the support of her family, friends, school family, and Young Patriots Club who share gratitude for God’s blessings upon our country, and those whose sacrifices secure our freedoms. For more information about this book, accompanying music, and to learn about Julie’s ministries, visit http://www.juliedueker.com.

The Illustrator

Ray “Bubba” Sorensen II is the founder and artist of Iowa’s Freedom Rocks.

My Thoughts

There are only eight poems in this collection of remembrance and gratitude for our volunteers in the American military, but they are powerful reminders of those who’ve served the rest of us. “Think of Me” emphasizes a reliance on God in whatever circumstances a warrior has found himself in.

I enjoyed recognizing the illustrator’s children in one poignant drawing. The illustrator is Ray “Bubba” Sorensen II, known across Iowa as the artist for the Freedom Rock north of Greenfield, but also of Iowa’s Freedom Rocks, with the goal of one in each of Iowa’s 99 counties to promote tourism in the state.

As the wife and daughter of military veterans, and the niece of of several more, including three young airmen who lost their lives in WWII, I’m especially captivated by this collection of original poems by Julie Dueker.

Donald Wilson, USS Yorktown Survivor–Saw the Torpedo Spread Coming

Donald Wilson, in his later years, sent this memory to the “Yorktown Crier” newsletter:

My experience, recollections on the Salvage crew, CV5

June 6, 1942

“In A.M. went on board CV-5, via Bos’n chair.

[image error]

“The repair work progressed. I retrieved my tools from steering-motor room. Assisted in connection submersible pumps (Electrical power from Hammann).

“The footing was treacherous. Made for slow going. The air state and foul. I know I sweat my tail off. Lunch was sent over from the Hammann. I was up for lunch and air. Sitting on the starboard side, hangar deck opening (curtain I believe), forward of the Officer of the Deck location. I was watching the Hammann alongside. Suddenly the GQ alarm took off on the Hammann and I looked out, on a mirror flat ocean, and could see the torpedo spread coming. Clear water, those torpedoes big, long, colorful and running slow. I, looking down, could see those damn props turning. A machine gunner on the Hammann was firing at them.

“Being my first experience for something like this I jumped up, moved a few paces aft, and was right where I started from when they hit. The way I saw it, one torpedo hit the Hammann, two of the other 3 that went astern of the Hammann hit the CV-5 and one missed. That[‘s] what I think I saw.

“The Hammann dropped to about 1 foot above the main deck. On an even keel fore and aft. Torpedo must of blew up inside. I noticed no breaking in two at this point. I’ve got a vivid picture of a crew member, on the Hammann setting depth bombs on safe, as the deck on the Hammann was awash, going down.

“There was a lot of loose items on the CV-5 banging around I headed for the fantail, where I made my first abandonment [June 4]. I recall having to jump down in[to the] after airplane elevator pit and climb up again, as the elevator dropped below the hangar deck level.

“Others were arriving on stern also.  delayed entering water, warned others there to hold it a bit. Good thing, a tremendous underwater explosion. God, I know my blood-pressure was high. Evidently either some of the depth charges went at 50’, or boilers or both I don’t know. I do know those in the water suffered.

“I caught the tug Vireo, which had moved astern the carrier to pick us up. From the Vireo (sea going tug) I transferred, I think to the Gwinn. . . . Slept on deck blanket near engine room exhaust. Kicked away on morning of the 7th. Watched the gallant CV-5 take the plunge.”

The USS Yorktown (CV-5) carried 90 aircraft and 2919 officers and crew. The ship lost 141 men during the Battle of Midway.

[image error]Notice the dates and return address on these two envelopes. The Yorktown had been sunk June 7. The survivors were at Pearl Harbor, but he couldn’t breathe a word of it in his letters.

EM 1/c Donald W. Wilson was awarded a citation from Admiral Nimitz for volunteering for the salvage attempt, and a Naval Commendation Medal.

[image error]

Two wounded crewmen hadn’t been located so were left aboard the ship after it was abandoned the first time. The daughter of one of the men, Seaman First Class George K. Weise, left a message at the end of this story about the the carrier being found in 1988, which I replied to.

Don Wilson is one of the five Wilson brothers remembered on the Dallas County Freedom Rock at Minburn, Iowa.

All five brothers served. Only two came home.

Their story is told in Leora’s Letters: The Story of Love and Loss for an Iowa Family During World War II by Joy Neal Kidney with Robin Grunder.