A Dog Named Rusty

1992-2007



This has nothing to do with growing up in a small town. We live in the 'burbs, now. Have since 1978. But dogs, and the children that love them, are universal, whether or not you live in the smallest city or the biggest village.


So here's the story of Rusty, the Wonderdog. No one knows how Rusty got his nickname. He never pulled Timmy from a well, barked until all the children fled the burning house, or crawled 1600 miles across the tundra to rejoin his family after being left for lost at a truck stop in North Platte.


He did, one Saturday morning, come get me out of bed when Jo, fetching the paper, slipped and fell on the ice and lay flat on her back on the cold driveway in her nightgown and twisted ankle. But that was long after he had the nickname.


Rusty was a found dog, which is the best of breeds. I was away on business one summer's day when the kids coaxed him out from under their cousin's porch over in DeSoto. I called home to tell Jo that I was going to find a motel in Rossville because the project was running a little long. The kids, then 7, 5, and 3, all shouted into the phone, "Can we keep him?"


Now, I had a cat or two when I was growing up. My wife had a dachshund named Cindy all through school. So, as grown-ups, we were at loggerheads over larger pets. (Much like the Methodist-Lutheran thing until that got resolved). But a found dog is a gift to children not to be trifled with.

When I got home from Rossville, the dog was still at our cousin's. I told the kids it was alright by me if they wanted to keep him. "We've named him Rusty, " they said. "That's good," I said, "because I had a dream last night about a dog named Rusty. "So we checked with the local vet in DeSoto and put up a flyer at the Post Office and grocery store. No one was missing a brown and white mutt.

He was just a puppy when we found him, grew up with the kids, and watched them all turn the corner into adulthood. Never much trouble, didn't bark much, didn't run away much, Rusty was not very social with other dogs but loved his family totally. Rusty's chief duty was to put each of the children to bed, staying with them until they were asleep and then moving off to the next staggered bedtime, finally at the end of the day, crawling under our bed and putting us to sleep.

I don't think that Rusty ever caught a squirrel or a rabbit. He certainly thrilled for the chase, up to the very end, when he was too arthritic to leave the porch. He had given up, some years ago, chasing the birds from the backyard when the crows retaliated with a dive-bombing campaign.

We cried at the end, as all good families should. Dogs are part of God's perfect creation. Rusty's loyalty and devotion, his unconditional love, was a revelation of that truth to us.

Honest John, The Coffee Game

The most long-lasting and recurring event of our almost 50 years in Auburn has been the daily (sometimes twice or more) game to see who buys coffee for the shopkeepers and businessmen who gather each morning and afternoon for a cup of Joe.

When first started in late 1959, the game was played mostly by downtown businessmen (many of them retailers) who opened their stores at 8 a.m. and by 9 o’clock were ready to get a cup of coffee on their way to or from the bank with their daily deposits. The merchant class has practically been eliminated in small towns and the retail establishments that remain are owned by women with a social fabric of their own. Moreover, the stores now open at 10 a.m. So the old pattern no longer exists and women have never been a part of Honest John. Consequently, the current participants are mostly morticians, insurance men, and retirees.

The game was introduced by an insurance man, Dick Miller, who has long since departed. It has been refined over the years, much like contract bridge, with strategies designed to improve ones chance of winning, or in this case, to improve ones chance of not losing.

The game is simple enough. One person writes a concealed number on a paper napkin. The number must be between one and five hundred. It cannot be either one or five hundred--the reason being lost over the years. Each player, starting at the writer’s left, guesses a number. The writer then says whether the number guessed is higher or lower than the one he has written. The guessed number then becomes the new outside boundary. The number-guessing proceeds around the table, progressively honing in on the written number. Assuming that no one makes an unlucky guess (and is “stuck”), when the guesser immediately on the writer’s right picks a number, the writer must take the next higher number (or lower, depending on which direction the guess is from the written number). Thus, if the guess on the writer’s right is one off from the written number, the writer himself can be stuck for coffee on his own number.

Over the years it has become a principle to make an effort to stick the writer. Because of this, the coffee drinkers became reluctant to write the number. So another rule was introduced. Now someone selects a letter of the alphabet and conceals it on a paper napkin. Another coffee drinker selects a letter at random and the alphabet is recited around the table until someone says the concealed letter. The one who picks the letter has to write the number.

This all may seem terribly time consuming but in point of fact it goes quite quickly. The narrowing down of numbers, particularly if the guesser halves what is left, speeds up the process and most mornings, the game takes only four or five minutes of the usual half hour allotted for the coffee time.

Many stories have come out of the coffee game--inept players, complicated strategies, intentional “sticking” of a player, and the like.

One of the earliest ruses was using a pre-set number to stick a newcomer to the game. For instance, the regulars knew that 123 would be used if an out-of-towner sat in on the game. They would then maneuver the guessing so that when the newcomer’s time came, either the next logical guess would be 123 or, better yet, that would be the only choice left.

Most of those who had to pay for coffee under these circumstances figured they had been “had” but they all took it gracefully.

During one political season a candidate for congress sat in on coffee and was promptly stuck with the pre-set number. He left thinking he had chosen the wrong number but happy enough to buy coffee for some potential voters. The next day his opponent was treated the same way. However, the opponent knew he had been hoodwinked and volunteered to pay for coffee the next day if he was told how it was done. It was generally agreed the second candidate would get our vote since he at least knew he had been duped.

The set up backfired occasionally and eventually caused the pre-set number to be abandoned. One day a county commissioner came to coffee for the first time. The pre-set number was invoked. Floyd Pohlman, now deceased but mayor at the time, wrote 123 and we proceeded to play the game. We were not able to arrange for the commissioner to get the number the first time around but sufficient room was left to do it on the next. However, Gene Ely, also now deceased, was sitting at Floyd’s immediate right and he guessed 122. That required Floyd to take 123 and he was stuck for the coffee. Obviously he couldn’t complain because that would compromise the set up. Later, Ely swore he was not aware of the pre-set number. He was not a regular regular but had been to coffee a number of times so we thought he knew the fix was in. His reputation as a practical joker did not help to convince us he was not trapping Floyd but he maintained his innocence to the grave.

As the years passed and participants changed, the pre-set number was used less and less. Our group had gotten the reputation for managing to stick a newcomer and so they avoided us. And some wags thought it would be funny to repeat the Floyd Pohlman ruse and intentionally force one of the regulars into paying.

A rule that developed over time was that if the writer forgot his number and the game proceeded past the point where the high or low designation was incorrect, the writer became automatically stuck. Further refinement decreed that the writer was allowed only one peek at his concealed number. Many players become flustered and do indeed forget what they have written. One man, Delbert Otis, also now deceased, was so concerned about forgetting the number he would always write easy-to-remember numbers such as 111, 222, 333, and so on. After a while his pattern became obvious and whenever he had to write, he would be easy to stick. He would play for days without writing and seldom have to buy coffee. But then he would get the letter and when he wrote would promptly be stuck. He would stay away for days at a time after having to buy but then would come back for free coffee until his well-known idiosyncrasy did him in, again. He never did catch on.

Delbert was not the only one to have difficulty in remembering a number. Roy Steinheider had a penchant for nines and sevens--mostly nines. If he wrote, most of the players knew the number would end in nine or seven and avoid them. After getting stuck several times in a row, Roy might rarely change but then he would soon revert to his old habits and we could rely on free coffee when he wrote.

In order to avoid being a victim of habitual tendencies like Roy, Floyd Pohlman used to select numbers from his surroundings. A number just rung up on a cash register, the phone number on a passing truck advertisement or last Saturday’s Nebraska football score would be things he used. His tendency to avoid tendencies hurt him in the long run since the group caught on to it and many times figured out what cue he had used for his number.

Even though there is honor among thieves, self preservation can be a factor in a player’s decision making. Many years ago, Roy Casey, the patriarch of the Casey Funeral Home family, had to write the number and he happened to be sitting next to his nephew, Fred Kiechel (an attorney, but at that time, I believe, manager of Auburn Machine Works) Roy was not too careful in concealing the number and Fred saw it. When the game progressed with no one picking the number and it was Fred’s turn, he chose the one that would require Roy to take the adjacent number and that was that. After Roy fumed a while about getting stuck, Fred admitted he saw the number. Roy indicated he was abashed to think his own nephew would take advantage like that but Fred answered, “I just said to myself, what would Uncle Roy do?” Both these gentlemen have passed on but the story is repeated as each new member is initiated into the unofficial coffee drinkers club.

Rev. Gordon Patterson, as did many ministers through the years, frequented the coffee hour. Dale Stuck, an employee of the funeral home, but now deceased, did not believe in following any guidelines with regard to honor. He maintained the object of the game was to not get stuck--not the time-honored tradition of sticking the writer or the out-of-towner. Consequently he might cut two numbers off in front of someone and stick them. This was considered inappropriate by most of the regulars.

Another unwritten rule was that a person with a birthday the day of the game would pay for coffee even though he did not lose. The birthday was not usually announced until the game had been played and the loser would be “taken off the hook.” Dale had cut off two in front of Rev. Pat and stuck him two days in a row and it was all the good Reverend could do to keep his temper. The third day, Dale did it again but this time the number he chose was the one written and he stuck himself. Rev. Pat was avenged, but only briefly, when he had to announce it was his birthday and had to pay. The minister was overheard to say, under his breath but loud enough for most to understand, “There’s no damn justice!”

On some occasions, elaborate plans would be made ahead of time by two players who would conspire to stick a particular individual just to listen to them howl.

With regard to buying on one’s birthday, a pattern began to evolve that added some interest to the game. The one with the birthday would play the game completely without honor, such as cutting two off in front of someone. After listening to the complaints for a while, he would then admit to the birthday and the required buyer would be relieved of the responsibility.

Some of the players were not as regular as others and they had a tendency to distrust the diehards who never missed. They thought they might be the subject of subterfuge so they devised methods of circumvention. One fellow, Dan Favero, who was an intern at the newspaper office, would go outside to write if he had to pick a number. Jim Grant Jr., was so sure he was being conned he wrote a letter and a number and put it in his pocket before he came to the café to insure secrecy.

Ross Speece, superintendent of schools at the time, got stuck so many times in a row he became desperate. He would deliberately try to get stuck by picking an obvious number, such as 250. He figured his luck was so bad there would be no way he could pick the right number. It worked. At least he thought it did because his streak ended.

Alan Casey said he lay awake one night and came up with a method that would make it impossible for the gang to stick him. He volunteered to write the number and he promptly got stuck in one round of guessing.

During one period the coffee group met at Smokey Briar’s cafe. There was a large table in the front with a huge wall calendar right along side. Whoever got stuck would be noted on that square in the calendar and at the end of the month a total would be taken to see who got stuck the most. As it turned out there was little difference in the number of times any one individual had to pay. The odds of being stuck pretty well averaged out evenly for those who played the game regularly. Bob Hemmingsen, a retail clothing store owner now deceased, had a terrible month, however, and at one point refused to come to coffee for a time because his luck was so bad. Even though he was a reasonable man and understood probability, Bob plainly became frustrated at not being able to be in control of this silly game.

At this same coffee shop Bob Blankenship, also deceased, set a record which stands to this day. It was common practice at the time to charge ten cents for the first cup of coffee and a nickel for a refill. Those who had time stayed for the refill and played another game to see who paid. Some, with more time on their hands than others, would even play a third game for a sack of peanuts. One day Bob got stuck for all three games but one wag claimed someone else had accomplished this feat so they agreed to play a fourth game for cigars. Bob got stuck a fourth time and has the distinction of holding the record for the most losses at one sitting.

Tom Adamson, another deceased player, was a regular but his insurance job moved him to Lincoln. He still had clients in Auburn and periodically would be in town and make it to the game. He also found himself on a losing streak and he got stuck four days in a row. He declared very seriously to the assembled group, “Actuarially, that’s not possible!”

As noted earlier, part of the fun was to get someone other than regulars to pay for coffee (known as “out-of-town money”). A newcomer happened to get the letter and was forced to write. Since the pre set number could not be used, a player next to the writer took a peek and signaled what he had written to the players on the opposite side. He did this by flashing the numbers one at a time behind the newcomer’s head. Dean Niemann, another deceased regular, took the number right next to the one flashed so the player next to the writer could force him to take his own figure. The best laid plans don’t always work. Dean either misread the signal or the sneak peek was not a good read. In any event, the number Dean picked was it and he got stuck. Again, no complaint could be made without disclosing the intended ruse. Later, when the stranger was gone, the argument over who as at fault raged for several sessions.

False signals again created embarrassment, this time between a high school principal and his superintendent. As it is customary to buy coffee on one’s birthday, one day Alan Casey announced (before most of the crowd arrived) that it was the birthday of a member of the group who was expected but had not yet arrived. He knew this, he said, because he had been invited to the fellow’s birthday party that night. Marvin Gerdes, principal at Auburn high school, was present for the announcement and later Superintendent Albert Austin (Marv’s boss) came in and sat next to him. The supposed birthday boy, a fund raiser for Peru State College, came in and the game proceeded. When it came Marv’s turn to guess he took two off in front of Albert, figuring to get a rise out of him but confident the Peru man would take the buyer off the hook because of his birthday. As it happened, the number did in fact stick Albert. Everyone in on the knowledge of the birthday let him stew awhile, waiting for the fund raiser to offer to buy. But that didn’t happen. We found out later his birthday wasn’t until later in the week. The birthday party was moved up since some invitees were unable to attend on his real birthday. He was oblivious to some of the strange looks around the table when he didn’t own up as everyone had expected. It is not known whether Marv’s later move out of the education field had anything to do with the incident.

Over almost 50 odd years the game has been played at some eight restaurants. It started out at Smokey Briar’s on the south side of Central Avenue downtown. The hotel coffee shop was used, mainly as an afternoon session but it burned down. After Smokey shut down, the group moved across the street to Marie’s Cafe and were there for a number of years. For a time the gang also met at Wheeler Inn when it opened as a drive-in but before it was converted to a steak house. When Marie’s went out of business, The Corner Kitchen became the meeting place but it also succumbed and Kelly’s Cafe became the site. All these locations, except for Wheeler’s, were within a couple blocks of each other downtown. After Kelly’s burned down in 2000, the game moved to Darling’s Cafe on the north end of town on Highway 75. At this writing the coffee group has returned downtown to a new place called The Avenue Cafe.

As observed earlier, many of the players are now deceased and the current membership is more diverse. At one time most of the coffee drinkers were from downtown businesses. That prompted the late J.R. “Red” Childers, an outspoken auto parts dealer located on the highway, to dub the group, “the Stoplight Gang.” The one and only stoplight in Auburn is at the intersection of two highways downtown. Red felt much of the politics of the city was handled by this group, as is the case in most small towns, because business owners held positions of influence in city government, chamber of commerce, civic clubs, and churches.

Today the remaining players are fewer and come from mostly non-retail establishments. It is easier to write about those players who have passed on since they can no longer object to what is said about them. The current crop is composed of two working and one retired morticians, a retired lumber yard manager who works part time at the funeral home, two insurance men who work in the same office, an owner of an office supply/computer business, and this writer.

These current players have many of the same idiosyncrasies exhibited by the earlier cast of characters. Many of them use a number derived from that day’s discussion to help them remember what number they wrote. For instance, the score of the most recent sports event talked about comes into play quite often. Another more obscure device was used by Rich Vlach. The talk was about construction work being done on Highways 75 and 136 so he added them together an used 211 for his number. Bob Engles, one of the insurance men involved, conforms to a different pattern. He always picks a number from 490 to 499. Everybody at the table knows he does this but even though his odds are one in ten for being stuck, he probably doesn’t lose any more often than others.

A recent incident points up how having to write the number can cause a person to become confused. Ben Hall, co-owner of the funeral home and a relatively recent player, was the writer and chose 112. The game progressed until only three guessers were left and the numbers 111, 112 and 113 remained. Rich Jansen (one of the insurance men) was the first guesser and he took 111. At that point, Ben handed the napkin, on which the number was concealed, to Bob Engles, the other insurance man, who was next in line and said, “One-twelve is the number, thanks Bob”. Bob, of course, pointed out there were two numbers left and he would choose 113, so Ben was stuck on his own number. Making obvious mistakes like that is not uncommon, even for old hands at the game.

Each player has his own method in an attempt to keep from paying. As a former Army artillery man I like to use the over and under style in guessing to “bring fire on the target” quickly and efficiently. I get razzed for it but using that method, which I think increases the odds of narrowing down the number and getting it back to the writer. I also espouse the theory that one should always split on the high side--never change ends if splitting is not feasible. All of these theories are just that--theories--and the real key is consistency. If you play the same way all the time the odds are better, much as a baseball manager uses his team’s tendencies in planning his strategy.

Under One Roof

The Move to Auburn

Ken’s Story
We moved from Stanton to Auburn in the fall of 1959, into a small house on the corner of 15th and M Streets. The house was rented for us by my boss, the publisher of the Auburn Newspapers, for the sum of $65 per month. One of my motivations for moving to Auburn was the better pay. Most of my salary increase went into that rent.

Sam’s Version
It wasn’t a bad little house, a little drafty, but not too bad at all. We had a great big old tractor tire for a sand box. The neighbors were a little odd, but having come from Stanton that was no big deal. I felt a little like Dennis the Menace completely surrounded by Old Mr. Wilsons. The house across the street had an oval window and the old maid teacher up the street drove a 1932 Chrysler.

700 Sixteenth

Ken’s Story
In 1960 we moved into another rental house at 700 16th Street, out on the edge of town. Because the new house had a formal dining room, Mother bought us a used dining suite - table, chairs, and a buffet. She paid $45. Twenty years later our daughter, Kay, and her husband had the whole suite refinished at a cost of more than $1000. Another twenty-five years later and it’s still in use. A comparable suite today would probably run five grand.

Sam’s Version
What a house! Big rooms with steam heat and lots of closet space to hide in. A huge yard and porch. The empty lot across the street had a real baseball diamond laid out on it and even old benches to sit on. Across the street in the other direction was an old farm house with a grape arbor and lots of interesting places to hide.

Hiding seems to have been a theme of mine in those days. Might have something to do with the infamous swan experiment. Now let’s see, what would happen if you sat in a dark closet with an inflatable pink plastic pool toy and a sharp pin? I was somewhat startled by the results. The answer is this, you make your sister cry.

The best thing about the house on 16th Street was that it was owned by the local mortician. The funeral home was next door. Kay and I would take turns running the rent check over to the office. We had to practice being solemn and quiet in case there were dead people in the parlor.

The Shop

Ken’s Story
Janice worked for about six months as a fill-in linotype operator at the newspaper. Her stint as an operator provided some good humor (not at the time, of course, but funny now).

One incident happened like this. One of the newspaper’s country correspondents wrote out her copy in long hand. It was a tedious portrayal of who-visited-who that week, page after page after page. When Janice finished setting the type, she added a remark at the bottom. “Thank God, the end, Amen.” She expected the proof reader would enjoy the comment and then mark the line for deletion. Either through lax editing, or pure orneriness, the comment did not get deleted. The paper’s entire readership was treated to the barb. The publisher did not appreciate the humor. He was of the old school and thought a woman’s place was in the home - not on a linotype.

Sam’s Version
The Auburn Newspapers gave me my very first paying job. The paper published “Funeral Notices” for the two local mortuaries. These were small black-bordered cards with the name of the deceased, the time and place of the funeral, and a very brief obituary. For 50¢ I delivered Funeral Notices to all the local businesses. The store owner would place them on the counter for customers to read. Since the newspaper was published only on Tuesday and Friday, the Funeral Notice was a far more trustworthy method of drawing mourners than the newspaper’s sometimes tardy obituary.

My sister soon joined me in this little delivery business. We would take turns running to the “shop”, as everyone called the newspaper office, after school to see if anyone had died. It was a good day for undertakers and delivery boys when two stacks of black-bordered cards were setting on the glass counter - a whole dollar for the same amount of walking as fifty cents. That bought a lot of Circus Peanuts.

When I say we delivered funeral notices to all the businesses in town, I meant only the respectable retail stores and cafes. Not the bowling alley, pool hall, or taverns. The newspaper also printed sale bills for the local auction house, primarily advertisements for upcoming estate sales. For a very profitable $1.50 we delivered these also, and got to go into the pool hall, to boot. I guess the theory was that the folks in the tavern probably wouldn’t go to the funeral, but they just might show up at the estate sale to bid on a box of used hand tools.

We delivered funeral notices and sale bills not only in the four-block area of downtown Auburn, but we had to walk all the way up Courthouse Avenue and deliver to the businesses in South Auburn around the courthouse square. It was quite a job for a fourth or fifth grader and we were quite proud of the responsibility. Being a patronage position, we held on to the job well into high school, long after teenage tastes outstripped the revenue stream.

The Bowling Alley

Ken’s Story
My bowling team (the OK Rubber Welders ) won the Midnight League championship in 1962. Janice’s bowling team also won their league championship for the ‘61-’62 season.

Sam’s Version
Ah, yes, the Auburn Bowling Center - six lanes, no waiting. Back in those analogue days, keeping score while your parents bowled was a great exercise in mental math.

I’m pretty sure I saw the Wizard of Oz for the very first time there one Sunday when Mom was bowling.

Magnolia

Ken’s Story
Also in 1962 Janice went to work full time at Magnolia Metal Company as a bookkeeper.

This was the first manufacturer in the state to use the new Nebraska Industrial Development Act (IDA) bonds. Auburn worked hard to land Magnolia. The Chamber of Commerce convinced the governor, Frank Morrison, to board a bus in Auburn with a delegation to meet Pierce Koslosky, president of Magnolia, at the airport in Omaha. They thought the governor’s presence would impress Pierce and help convince him to move from New Jersey to Auburn.

It worked, apparently, but that is not why the event sticks in my mind. The plane was about an hour late. So while we were standing around the airport waiting, the governor came up to me at said, “Ken, I know that World Herald reporter over there but I just can’t say his name.” Naturally, my head grew a hat size larger when the governor called me by name. But the pride was short lived. I happened to know the reporter. I identified him and I heard the governor call him by name, just as he had me. I followed the governor for the next hour and he repeated the process, learning one more name each time. When the plane arrived, he had called nearly everyone in the crowd by their first name. Politicians do have their ways.

Sam’s Version
The net effect of Mom going to work full time is that Kay and I had a long succession of rather colorful baby sitters. The Hedley’s, for example, were into yard art long before it was fashionable and when most of the neighbors thought of it as just junk. Mr. Hedley was the caretaker of a number of rural cemeteries. Now that was a lovely day outing for us, to go play in the cemetery while he mowed around the tombstones.

Our House

Ken’s Story
In August, 1963, we moved into a new home at 607 13th street. The house was started by a man who, with his family, lived in the basement while he continued to build the rest. Unfortunately, he had a stroke and died so was unable to finish the project. The upstairs was finished by a local carpenter known for his excellent work. He was financed, however, by two men. One of them was a local plumber so we figured that part of the work would be top notch. That was not the case. Over the years we found the plumber had used mostly his unwanted overstock from his business and eventually most of the plumbing in the house had to be replaced. Otherwise, the home has held up well and we have enjoyed it for nearly 45 years at this point.

We paid $14,250 for the house, borrowing $13,000 for 30 years at five and a quarter per cent interest. Our monthly payments were between $72 and $73 per month for principal and interest.

Sam’s Version
The Warnicks were the family in the basement. Their son, George, was my age and we went to school and Sunday school together. For a long time in grade school he was my best friend. I guess that was good enough to get my dad named as a pallbearer for George’s dad’s funeral. Other than that, I didn’t even know they were acquainted.

George and his mom moved to a rental house a few blocks away, down by the grain elevator and railroad tracks. The house had an old chicken coop in the backyard that made a wonderful space ship, fort, spy den, what ever. I was not the most out-going kid, and it was kind of nice to have someone call up on a Saturday morning and ask, “Can you come down and play?”

Bad Dream

Ken’s Story
This story has been told much more often than Kay would like. With two small children having to prepare for school, we often split the morning responsibilities of getting them ready. On one morning, it seems Kay got to kindergarten without any underpants on. I thought Janice had seen to it and she swore it was my job. At any rate, the kindergarten teacher called Janice at work and she brought the proper clothing to school. When inquiring about the problem, Kay assured her mother it was okay. “I didn’t tell anybody...but David, and Bobby and maybe Jimmy, and ......”

Sam’s Version
Kay always was more out-going than me.

The Jaycees

Ken’s Story
I served nearly two years as Jaycee president. I came in as a replacement for an elected president who left town before his term was up. After being elected for a regular term, the local chapter changed the term of office from January 1 to July 1 and thus six months was added to my second term. For this, the Jaycee Outstanding Man of the Year plaque now hangs on my wall. The U.S. Jaycees also named me to the list of Outstanding Young Men in America. This honor is a money-making venture since most who are given the award buy the annual book that lists their names. The Jaycees don’t miss any opportunities for fund raising. I declined to take the bait and did not buy a book. Mother, however, was sent a letter announcing the honor and she purchased a copy, which we have to this day.

Janice served as president of Mrs. Jaycees in ‘64 and our lives turned really hectic with both of us committed to heavy outside duties.

Sam’s Version
Cheese sandwiches, pancakes for supper, and more eccentric baby sitters are the natural consequence of having hectic parents. Rita, the next door teenager, would take Kay and I cruising and down to the Green Lantern or Tiny’s for a root beer float. Steve Klinger’s older sister was an avid sock-fight enthusiast. She would also fold us up in an old wool blanket and hurl us around like a hammer throw.

They kicked dad out of the Jaycees at age 35. I thought at the time, how cruel people are to the elderly.

Go Big Red

Ken’s Story
In the fall of 1964 we went to Lawrence to a Kansas-Nebraska football game. Gale Sayers, a graduate of Central High School in Omaha and later a star back for the Chicago Bears, was playing that day. Also playing was a fullback, number 45 for Nebraska. He was Frank Solich, the Cornhusker’s future head coach.

In 1965 we went to the Nebraska-Texas Christian football game in Lincoln. Janice’s nephew, Butch Gilliam, played pulling guard for the Horned Frogs. Butch got six tickets as a player and sold them to his relatives. It surely was a “no-no” in those days as it is now, but was overlooked. In those days players got other perks, also. Butch reportedly drove a new Ford car every year while he was playing. It was leased to him but he never made a payment.

We got to go down on the field and visit with Butch before the game and he frightened us with his appearance. His front teeth had been knocked out earlier in the season so he had a partial plate put in. For the game, however, he removed the plate. When he faced his opponent across the line of scrimmage his menacing, no-teeth grimace was intended to intimidate.

TCU returned to Nebraska the next year we got to see Butch play again.

Sam’s Version
Nebraska just pasted TCU both years. This was at the start of Devaney Era at Nebraska. Dad says that college football schedules are worked out so many years in advance, that when these games were scheduled TCU was the power and Nebraska was the patsy.

The second TCU/Nebraska match was my first Nebraska football game. There is nothing in America quite like game day in Lincoln. The Sea of Red. It is so communal.

Summertime

Ken’s Story
Sam and Kay were part of the Nebraska Centennial pageant production at the fairgrounds in Auburn in August 1967.

In 1969 we took a vacation trip to the Black Hills in South Dakota. On the way out, we watched the Apollo 11 moon landing and television shots of the first walk on the moon from our motel room in Valentine, Nebraska.

Sam’s Version
Acting in the centennial pageant was a great honor. It was probably another one of those patronage deals, since neither Kay nor I are great talents. I played the part of the mischievous frontier school kid, slingshot in my back pocket. On cue, I whipped it out and plunked the school teacher in the back of the head. Caught, of course, the hickory stick was administered. But I had the last laugh, pulling a protective reading book out of my britches. I ran off stage unscathed, waving the reader over my head. Now that I consider it, I may just have been type cast.

The moon landing made a big impression on me. The motel in the Black Hills had a swimming pool. Kay and I would jump in the deep end and use the underwater “weightlessness” to bound across the bottom of the pool as if it were the lunar surface.

Ball Games

Ken’s Story
Sam took up football in middle school, which reminds me of the time I covered an afternoon game for the newspaper. Auburn was whipping the visitors by a large margin. In those days the middle school had fifty or more kids out for football and only one coach. I had the news camera and was standing by Coach Jim Kleine when late in the game he was clearing the bench. Coach Kleine said “Is there anyone who hasn’t played yet?” One kid, whose helmet nearly obscured his head, jumped up and said he hadn’t. “What position do you play?” the harried coach asked.

This was also the year Sam was operated on to relieve a testicular abnormality

Sam’s Version
Thanks, dad.

It’s hard to keep a secret in a small town, especially a medical secret. Everyone’s concerned, of course, for an otherwise hardy thirteen-year old that spends a week in the hospital. Since I had to shower after gym in front of my mates, it didn’t seem practical to hide from them the surgical result of having had testicular torsion and an inflammation of the epididymis.

“Ol’ One Nut” and “Uno” were the inevitable nicknames.

More Ball Games

Ken’s Story
A news clipping from 1970 says Sam scored a defensive touchdown in Auburn’s 36-0 win over the Syracuse freshmen.

Sam’s Version
It was a fumble recovery in the second quarter, when the game was still rather close. Syracuse ran a sweep left. I met the running back near the thirty-five yard line, wrestled the football from him, grabbed the loose ball, and ran down the far side line to the east end-zone.

I also intercepted a pass that year against Falls City. I read the quarterback, dropped back a little and caught the ball over my head at the line of scrimmage. I thought I had a clear shot to the end zone, but before I could get up a head of steam, I was embarrassingly tackled from behind by a lineman.

Gee, dad, don’t you remember anything?

Cedar Creek

Ken’s Story
My step-father, Arthur Logsden, died in October 1970 at age 72 in Omaha. He was a retired Union Pacific demurrage clerk.

Grandpa Art had worked for the UP for 40 years and lived in Omaha all his life. He loved flowers and the out-of-doors but had little chance to enjoy them in the metropolitan surroundings. Consequently when he retired, he and Mother bought a cabin at Cedar Creek on the Platte River south of Omaha. Mother said she had worked forty years to get out of a place like that (the cabin was rustic, to say the least) but went along with it and just returned to their Omaha residence when she got bored. Art would stay and try to get flowers to grow in the sandy soil and putter around.

We went into Omaha one time during the week when Art was working and on the way to see Mother we stopped at the rail yards. We wanted to show Sam and Kay where their grandpa worked. In his last year before retirement he had volunteered to go out into the yards as a utility worker tagging cars just to get outdoors. We drove around the yards not knowing for sure where he worked but we saw a variety of small shacks, apparently to shelter workers in cold weather. It was the fall of the year and leaves had already fallen from the scraggly trees growing randomly in the area. As we drove by, one of the shelters had artificial flowers attached to all the limbs of a tree nearby and we knew immediately that had to be Grandpa Art’s shack.

Art loved to play pinochle and was very competitive. If he was winning, the evening usually wasn’t too late but if his luck was running bad we had to stay up until he won.

He also liked to think of himself as handyman around the house but his skills left something to be desired. For example, during a visit to Auburn, he noticed a lamp cord with a broken electrical connection and volunteered to fix it. I tried to talk him out of it but finally agreed to bring home the parts after work that night. As he began to work, I showed him that it was a new-style plug; he simply had to insert the new plug, press down, and contact would be made. Instead Art started to bare the wires with a pen knife. I told him that was not necessary and explained the new style to him again. He insisted he do it his way and completed the job. When he plugged it into the outlet, there was a big flash and the wall was covered with black soot.

Sam’s Version
Cedar Creek’s business district consisted of one general store and two taverns. The general store was for real, with a pot-belly stove and ancient proprietors as old and dusty as the fixtures. We always assumed that the couple had opened the store to trade with the Indians and were still trying to get rid of the original merchandise. The store’s great glory was a large, old-fashioned candy counter with every kind of licorice, hard stick candy and box of brand name treats.

It was the most fantastic retail experience I have ever encountered.

Hot August Naught

Ken’s Story
For Kay’s 13th birthday party, which happened to be on Friday the 13th in August, we booked the municipal pool after they closed for the night. Refreshments included watermelon so the only cleaning up was to hose down the area next to the pool after the event.

Sam’s Version
A soon-to-be eighth-grader and her friends are, most naturally, beneath the recognition of her soon-to-be sophomore brother. But, Kay (the gracious person she is) allowed her brother to invite some high school friends. Mom and Dad, at no extra cost, were happy to save me from the boredom - the giggling gaggle - we high-schoolers derisively called “little buggers”.

And little did Mom know that she set me up for a grand humiliation of adolescent proportions. We are not called “wise-fools” without reason.

The Auburn pool is large for a small town. It was built during the Great Depression by the WPA. My grandpa was on the crew that built the pool and the other structures in Legion Park. Mom always claimed that WPA stood for We Piddle Around. I never quite saw it that way. The stone sidewalk bridges, the public restroom, the band shell, and the pool bath house were well constructed but lumpy, in a nostalgic folk-art way, formed from rounded reddish-brown glacial erratic boulders (Sioux quartzite drug down from Minnesota during the last Ice Age) cemented into pillars and walls. Massive, yet tactile.

Although Dutch elm disease had run through town a decade earlier, there were still enough mature black walnut trees, hackberries, and red oaks to give the park and the pool a cool, secluded atmosphere. At twilight, the pool could be refreshing and mysteriously romantic.

In the mind of a fifteen year old dweeb, a kid whose self-confidence inhabited only academic and minor sporting realms, Kay’s party on a fine summer Friday presented a perfect opportunity for a helpless romantic. I had lots of friends who were girls, but zero girlfriends. It’s true that, while delivering May baskets in fourth grade, Janet Ely had caught me and kissed me. Some say I let her catch me on purpose, but I say that I am still embarrassed at having been run down by a girl.

Back in the day, the May basket was a much better indicator of who you liked than the traditional Valentine’s Day celebration, which by law required you to give a Valentine to everyone in the class. But expressing an innocent fondness for a few girls in grade school, in my case Janet, Anne, or Mary Lee, gets lost in translation on the other side of puberty. Especially after Joy and Cathy, so confusingly feminine, arrive on the scene, causing my vocal cords to crack and pimples to rise, turning my words into gibberish, and jellifying my intestines. So in high school, I stuck mainly to the weather and one’s health.

An after hours pool party was a real treat in a town with no movie theater, one stop light, and six lanes of bowling. Properly chaperoned, it was also an innocuous enough occasion that even the tongue-tied could invite a girl. Although I still admired Janet and Mary Lee for their talent and intelligence, it was not love. Joy was out of the question. She was my Daisy, as unattainable as a green light on the end of a dock. I asked, anyway, and she demurred. She and Cathy sat for a time in the bleachers outside the fence on the west side of the pool, chatted with the swimmers, and left. It was often hard to tell if I was mad at or mad about Cathy. At the time I was trying to get her to notice me by ignoring her. Never a winning strategy, especially for fifteen year old dweebs.

So the focus of my attention was Anne. Anne of the golden hair, the dangly ear-rings, the soft piano of a silver voice. We had been together in practically every classroom since kindergarten. One winter break, after Mom had gone back to work, Kay and I stayed during the day at the Oestmann’s house. It was the year that the Strawberry Alarm Clock had their fifteen minutes of fame. When the movie of my life plays in my head, Anne’s theme music is “Incense and Peppermints”. That and Burt Bacharach’s “Close to You.”

I invited other high school kids to the party, of course - older sisters of Kay’s friends, marching band chums, and most of the sophomores on the football team (this being almost the last weekend before “two-a-day” practices started). I did not invite Rick Kennel. He and Anne had been a handsome pair, but had broken up earlier in the summer. My secret desire, my purpose, my plan, was to watch for the right moment, to talk quietly to Anne, alone in the moonlight, and, if my heart didn’t first explode in my throat, ask her out.

Alas, with the duties of a host, the dynamics of that many teenagers floating around the shallows, and Joy and Cathy watching from the end zone, the right moment, or, more to the point, the right amount of nerve, never quite materialized. It came time to wish Kay a “happy birthday”.

I climbed the ladder to the life guard’s chair, away above the high diving board. Only the privileged few, the Red Cross trained, can occupy this chair. Or in this case, the master of ceremonies at an after hours pool party.

As I settled into the chair and picked up the microphone for the PA system I glanced out over the pool. In the far northwest corner, in the dark, shaded from the lights by the tall black walnut trees, one of the football players, Bill Fitzgerald, and Anne sat in three feet of water, alone and talking comfortably.

With the radio station disconnected from the loud speaker, we sang “Happy Birthday” to Kay. It was then eerily quiet as the crowd looked up at the crow’s nest, expecting some remarks from her older brother. What ever speech I had prepared to toast Kay was lost in annoyance over this unexpected turn of events with Anne. So, instead, I told some lame jokes, real groaners, in a vain effort to distract Anne from her chat with Bill, you know, to impress her with my wit. Failing miserably, as a comedian and as a helpless romantic, I launched into a long ghost story (this being Friday the 13th). As I rambled on, I noticed that Bill and Anne had resumed their mutual admiration society, and at very close quarters.

My insides were now too upset to pay much attention to my brain. I lost the thread of the ghost story, stumbled over a couple of the plot twists, and completely flubbed the punch line. By this time the party guests were mostly ignoring me, resuming their splashing and laughing in the night.

So I did the only decent thing I could think of to put a miserable performance to an end. I put down the microphone, stood up on the life guard stand, and did a pratfall into the deep end. A belly-flop from eighteen feet. Closing my eyes to the glimmering dance of lamplight on the playing water, closing my ears to the smooching in the far corner, I smacked into the pool and accepted the sting of humiliation.

By the time I surfaced, someone had plugged the radio back into the loudspeaker. Gilbert O’Sullivan’s “Alone Again.” Naturally.

We're Number One

Ken's Story
The 1971 Auburn High School Bulldog football squad was 5-0 and rated number one in the state by both big city dailies. The team finished the season second after loosing to Fairbury in the eighth game of the season.

Sam’s Version
As a sophomore, I certainly didn’t get to play with the varsity during that spectacular season. I was suited up and stood on the sidelines as the Fairbury Jeff’s broke a long run for a touchdown in the third quarter and broke our hearts. Highs (being rated and recognized as Number One by the Omaha World-Herald) and lows (beaten by one bad play) were rather novel emotions in my sporting experience. Heartbreak, however, was just another day in the life.

The next week, the last game of the season, was an away game at Tecumseh. We typically ended the pre-game warm-up with that old fashioned callisthenic, the jumping jack. From time untold the football team has spelled out “A-U-B-U-R-N” while jumping. That night the seniors threw decorum aside. Arms and legs flying in unison, we shouted out “Who the Hell is Fairbury. We’re Number One!” Although it didn’t make much logical sense, that bit of defiance (the administration was not pleased) awoke us from a week of lethargic self-pity. We went home a winner.

Jeff Whisler was one of the few sophomores that got to play that year. Jeff would stand just behind the Head Coach, at his elbow, and follow him up and down the sideline. When a lineman screwed up a play, as linemen are want to do, the Coach would swivel, grab the first lineman he saw, and shout, “Get in there and fix that!”, as coaches are want to do. Jeff got a lot of playing time that way.

Round the Horn

Ken’s Story
The next year the Auburn Midgets Legion baseball team won the state championship at St. Paul. Sam was nicknamed “Round the Horn” by Neal Thomas, the PA announcer, because he was so insistent on enforcing that age-old routine, even during practice. He still has the batting helmet with that nickname inscribed on it.

Sam’s Version
Dad should mention that I was the team scorekeeper and statistician. I still have in my wallet the pass from the 1972 State Tournament. It says “Scorekeeper”. I was even named to the All-State team, as scorekeeper.

I loved to play baseball. But the new season came too soon after my surgery in eighth grade, so I took up scorekeeping, telling everyone that I had lost my glove and outgrown my cleats.

The nickname “’Round the Horn” actually came from Dale Thomas, the youngest and cockiest of Neal’s four sons. He was our batboy. It was during my first game in uniform as a scorekeeper, the first game of the season, at Hamburg, Iowa. The coaches were teaching me how to keep the scorebook. I dutifully marked the balls and strikes, a big BB in the box for “base on balls”. The next pitch was a ground ball to the second baseman and a double play. The coach instructed, “that’s 4-6-3 DP”, second to short to first for two outs. When I looked up from writing this in the scorebook, the team was tossing the ball around the horn while the next batter stepped into the box. Dale came up to me and said, “So write that down.”

“Write what down?”

“When they throw the ball ‘round the horn.”

“Uh.”

“Don’t you know anything?” He said this sarcastically, as if a fifth-grader new sarcasm. “RTH with a circle around it.”

I started to do this, paused, and looked at the coach. He nodded, “If they go first to short to second to third draw the circle counterclockwise with an arrow. If they go third to second to short to first, draw the arrow clockwise.”

I didn’t take me too long to figure out this was a big tease, but for the rest of the game, from the end of the bench or while running out to get a bat, Dale would shout, “Hey, ‘Round the Horn, how do you score that?”

The Arizona Vacation

Ken’s Story
The highlight of the year 1972 was an automobile trip to Arizona. We traded for a Pontiac station wagon with the idea it would be suitable for sleeping. We had determined to drive straight through to my sister’s house and on the return trip we would camp out when the weather was good and use the car if it was raining - thus saving motel bills. Since the station wagon was considerably above our budget for transportation we also planned to use the car for the trip and then trade down when we got home.

Neither plan worked out.

When we found a suitable camp site, Janice always found a reason not to stop (snakes, etc.). Consequently, we stayed in motels every night out. And the year 1972 was the year gas prices began to soar and by the time we got home every car buyer was looking for compact units that didn’t guzzle gas. The trade-in value of the Pontiac was reduced measurably. It did turn out to be one of the best vehicles we ever owned.

Sam was a fanatic on map reading and routed the entire trip. This was before the advent of computer generated trip plans. Since he would turn 16 on the trip he was allowed to be one of the drivers with his student permit as long as an adult was in the front seat. I remember going through Albuquerque, New Mexico at 2:30 a.m. with me in the front passenger seat fast asleep. I woke up long enough to see traffic on both sides of us on the interstate. I asked Sam if everything was all right and he said it was no problem. I have difficulty finding my way in broad daylight on interstates. Not Sam. He had us so regimented we didn’t dare need to go to the bathroom at the wrong time. He scheduled himself, Janice, and I for about 200 miles of driving at a time with gas stops to coincide with a change of driver.

We made the 1,300 mile trip down to Sierra Vista in less than 30 hours, despite one major slow down. We had never driven in the mountains and the route took us a short distance through the White Mountains. The last 120 miles of narrow mountain roads took us four hours. When we got to Sierra Vista and told my sister, Marqueta, which way we came, she laughed and said, “Oh, no. You didn’t come over the White Mountains?”

There was one other problem with Sam’s schedule. He had us booked for a gas stop on the Zuni Indian reservation. The map showed a town of 2,500 so he figured it would be all right. He had overlooked, however, the fact of a time zone change and that Arizona was the one state in the union not to observe daylight savings time. We thought we would hit the gas station at 8 a.m. It was actually 6 a.m. Not only was nothing open, there was, in fact, no gas station, and not much of a town, either. Luckily, the gas tank held enough to get us to the next town off the reservation.

A stop at the Grand Canyon featured our return trip home.

Sam’s Version
I turned 16 the day we stopped at the Four Corners monument. Dad, being the law abiding citizen that he is, noted that my Learner’s Permit had expired. I sat in the back seat for the rest of trip, complaining about not getting to drive across the Great Divide.

More Tombstone Tales
Here are some things Dad left out of his vacation story.

Dad’s really a pretty good guy. What other family would hop in the car and drive to Bisbee just to see a copper mine. Malachite and azurite, all right! Mom, of course, thought it was just a big hole in the ground. Then she saw the Grand Canyon.

It took us awhile, though, to get from Bisbee to the Grand Canyon. Arizona is a big state. We wandered from Tombstone up through Winslow, across the Painted Desert, over to Meteor Crater, and then to Flagstaff and the South Rim.

Tombstone was about the best tourist trap around. It’s pretty authentic, at least compared to Wall Drug and Reptile Gardens. It does seem a little odd how small and ordinary something big and famous like the O.K. Corral can be.

I’m pretty sure Dad never figured out why I routed the drive to the Grand Canyon through Winslow, Arizona. (He’s not much of a connoisseur of Top 40 music). Joy, at least, laughed at the joke when, after returning to Auburn, she asked where I had been and I replied, “Standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona.”

Joy worked at the Dairy Chef during the summer. This conversation took place through the screen window for the outside counter. They were busy that night, so I didn’t get a chance to explain to her that, although there were a lot of flatbed Fords in Winslow, they were all driven by guys. Fortunately none of them were slowing down to take a look at me.

Where are the Minutemen when you really need them?
OK, one more Arizona vacation story. When you’re that close to Mexico, of course you have to see what’s on the other side.

Dad had traveled quite a bit when he was in the Army during the Korean War. He’s been to both Alaska and Hawaii (before either one of them was a state). Mom, not so much. In fact, she may not even have made it outside of Nebraska until they went to the Black Hills on their honeymoon. And so we celebrated each visit to a new state with some fanfare.

Back in the day that gasoline cost fifteen cents a gallon, air conditioners were a fortune. So the accepted summer pastime was to roll the windows down and take a drive into the country. This often took us in the vicinity of that old river city, Brownville, and across the Brownville Bridge, across the wide Missouri, into the State of Missouri, just far enough to turn around before we got to the toll booth. Speaking of Geographic Thrills, during one short trip to Kansas City we drove down State Line, our left tire in Missouri and our right tire in Kansas.

So it was pretty much a no-brainer to add Mexico to our belt notch. Nogales was the chosen tourist trap.

Mom soon discovered that being South of the Border was uncomfortably like being in another country. And I discovered that Mexico is nothing like a good Speedy Gonzales cartoon. So after an hour or two of poking around the shops, we headed back to the car and back to the border crossing.

As we walked along, I must have dawdled, probably at a rock shop, and the family disappeared around a corner heading to the parking lot. I hurried after them, turned the corner, and ran into an older boy. He took a black handle from his pants pocket and flicked open a switch-blade knife.

I had borrowed a camera for our trip from the Newspaper office. It was hanging around my neck. He raised the metal blade to eye level. It glinted in the sun. I seriously wondered, if he robs me, how many Funeral Notices would I have to deliver to pay back my dad’s boss for losing his camera in Nogales, Mexico.

He pushed the switch-blade towards me and said, “You like? Ten dollars.”

“I only have three fifty,” I blurted, still scared. For sure he was going to slash me, take the camera and my three dollars and fifty cents, all for want of enough change to cover his wholesale costs. I hoped that it was true that he would not be able to cash my Traveler’s Cheques.

“Okay,” he said. I gave him everything in my wallet and pants pocket, and he gave me the knife. He disappeared. I stood there holding a switch-blade. I soon realized, the mechanical genius I am not, that I hadn’t a clue as to how the knife worked. I could not get the blade retracted back into the handle.

As I walked to the car, the thought occurred to me that it was probably illegal to purchase weapons in Mexico and smuggle them into the US. Never-the-less, all I could manage was to stuff the knife handle into my sock and stick the blade up my pants leg. Fortunately all the border agent appeared interested in was fresh fruit and Mexican meat products.

The knife has made a nice letter opener all these years.

Touchdown

Ken’s Story
Sam lettered in football as a junior and a senior. He even scored one touchdown his senior year. The Bulldogs were whipping Syracuse quite handily but the Rockets scored a TD and tried an onside kick. The kicker took a swipe at the ball in the style needed for an onside recovery, but he missed the mark and barely grazed the leather. Sam picked up the ball after it fell off the tee and began streaking for the end zone, two referees, and no one else, following alongside. One referee was heard to say, “Can he do that?” The other replied, “He’s doing it, isn’t he?” It was a free ball, of course, and the touchdown counted.

Sam’s Version
True story. The next morning I got up early, drove to Nebraska City and took the SAT. Did pretty well and earned a four-year Regent’s Scholarship (full tuition) to the University of Nebraska.

Best two consecutive days of my first seventeen years.

End of an Era

Ken’s Story
As a junior, Sam had a part in the spring high school play. He was Mr. DePinna in “You Can’t Take It With You.” The next year he played Mr. Lung in the musical “Flower Drum Song”.

In other activities Sam received a Superior Rating on a tuba solo at the district music contest, was a member of Quill and Scroll (the journalism honorary), copy editor for the Bulldog yearbook, and earned a Superior Rating in extemporaneous speaking at the district speech contest.

Sam’s Version
I have endeavored, as did the fictional Sycamore’s, to enjoy life and be peacefully amused by the world at our door, although I have yet to invite to dinner a refugee Russian ballet instructor. As for portraying a Chinese tailor in a musical, Mr. Falter had the good sense to not actually ask me to sing anything.

The tuba solo was an experience. Auburn had a very good reputation for music education. Every entry in the district music contest that spring, from the concert band to the jazz band on down to the smallest piccolo solo received a Superior Rating. I was the weak link in that chain. But much to the thanks of my accompanist, Ms. Anne Oestmann, my musical powers peaked on the morning of the district music contest. I had never before, nor ever since, played all of those notes on tone and in order.

The Girls Can Sweat

Ken’s Story
Kay was a freshman and the only one of her classmates to letter in volleyball. She continues to play the sport even to this day.

Kay was a member of the first girl’s basketball team to play in Nebraska since the 1920s. It seems the Nebraska legislature for all those years thought the sport was too vigorous for the distaff side. She also played softball in Auburn’s summer rec program.


Sam’s Version
Hurrah for Title IX. It eventually got Kay a scholarship to Northwest Missouri State. I am all for providing the opportunity for women to play sports and supplying equal resources and facilities. But, forgive me, it shouldn't actually be called basketball until the girls start setting picks and blocking out on rebounds. Have you ever tried encouraging an eleven year old girl to take a charge? Call me old fashioned, but I never had any trouble asking my boys to collide into each other.

I was a Junior when we discovered that Kay was a southpaw amateur athlete. Unable to resist being out done by her, I expressed an interest in trying out for the Legion baseball team.

So, the summer before I was a senior David Wininger gave me an old six-fingered ball glove. I borrowed a pair of cleats and handed the scorebook off to one of the youngsters. One of those youngsters, our batboy, was Jamie Daffer. Through a long series of unintended consequences, Jim is now my brother-in-law.

I spent most of that season on the bench of course. Baseball is an intensely personal team sport. They throw the ball at you and hit the ball at you. My offense consisted solely of nervously hitting the ball into the hole and trying to beat the shortstop’s throw to first. I was well into adulthood before I caught a ball in the outfield.

Liquid Sunshine

Ken’s Story
Kay and Sam were both involved in fund raising $20,000 to send the Auburn band to Miami and the 1973 Orange Bowl. Nebraska played Notre Dame and Auburn represented the great State of Nebraska. We gave the kids spending money for the trip. Kay’s was nearly gone by the time they got to Florida as she bought souvenirs for everyone at home. Sam still had much of his left when he got back. He picked up sea shells and rocks for souvenirs.

Sam’s Version
Somehow, somewhere, someone has purloined the original manuscript of The Diary of a Mad Bandsman. If you run across it, leave me a note. I would love to post it on Midland Passages.

All I can say is “Look at all the pretty lights!” And that was just Chattanooga.

We marched in the Orange Bowl Parade. We passed the reviewing stand a few minutes before 8:00 pm and just missed being on national TV. We were feeling so good the four of us did the “tuba twirl”, at least when marching through underpasses, where no one would see us if we got out of step and Mr. Damke wouldn’t get mad at us.

They re-ran the whole parade on local TV the next morning. As we came by the camera, they cut to an instant replay of the Sunkist float and Anita Bryant. At least you could hear us playing the Tito Puente’s song, Para Los Romberos, in the background.

We marched with the University of Nebraska band at half time of the Orange Bowl. The Nebraska band formed the outline of the United States and we ran across the field, from coast to coast unfurling a huge American flag made out of bunting. The drill team got to hold the stars. We did not miss out on being on national TV that time. Everyone watches the Orange Bowl half time show, don’t they?

Nebraska crushed Notre Dame 40-6. It was Johnny Rogers’ last game as a Husker and Bob Devaney’s last game as a coach.

I also discovered what athletes do during TV time outs. Johnny Rogers took his helmet off, sat on it, and waved at the Nebraska fans in the end zone.

Details

Ken’s Story
Sam graduated from high school in 1974 with a 4-year Regents Scholarship to the University of Nebraska. It was one of 113 such scholarships awarded in the state that year. It was the first 4-year award ever for Auburn, although some one-year, renewable, scholarships had been given in previous years.

Kay had a busy year as a junior after Sam graduated. She scored 22 points in one basketball game, a school record, albeit it was only the second year for the girl’s sport. She was inducted into the National Honor Society and was selected as alternate to Cornhusker Girls’ State. The news story announcing the selection listed her achievements: All A’s for four years; class officer sophomore, junior, and senior years; Math-Science Club two years; Girls Athletic Letter Club three years and officer; band two years; annual staff two years and co-editor for 1975; Spanish club one year; volleyball letter three years; basketball letter two years; reserve cheerleader one year; county government day; secretary of United Methodist Youth Fellowship.

Kay received several scholarships. One was for $200 as top winner in the Nebraska City Elks Club contest and another $200 special award for scholarship to Northwest Missouri State University. NWMSU also gave her a full ride (room, board, and tuition) to play volleyball for them. She played every minute of every game (except for one because of injury) her freshman year. She dropped out of the sport when she got married.

Kay graduated from Auburn High School in 1976, tied for valedictorian honors with Vicki Bergmann. Both had 4.0 GPA’s for their four high school years. She gave one of the two senior addresses. Kay’s commencement address was entitled “Failures”.

Sam’s Version
I was a cheerleader, too. Yes, indeed. Take a look in the ’72 Bulldog if you don’t believe me. It is not a joke.

As for the National Honor Society, my dad, my sister, my wife, and two of my children are inductees. That honor passed by me (as it did for my younger son, probably for similar reasons). Since I never learned the secret handshake or anything, I don’t know all the rules, but I think it had something to do with deportment. Or it might have had something to do with the Great Sock Survey and the Ability to Predict the Colour of a Person’s Socks According to the Day of the Week, which Mrs. Rarick did not think had anything to do with British Literature. Or that school lunch editorial. Or the time I planted the family station wagon in the side lawn of the school delivering tables for the Math and Science Club soup supper.

Anyway, I was far more annoyed at not winning the Bausch and Lomb Science Award, a prize I had been shooting for since eighth grade, when I attended my first commencement, the eight-grade band members filling in for the seniors to play Pomp and Circumstance. I was so annoyed that I even asked Mr. Wettenkamp why Janet Ely got the award instead of me. After all, I was the only kid in the class who was actually planning on being a scientist. Mr. Wettenkamp pointed out that the Bausch and Lomb award, public as it is, was only a name on a plaque. He had two awards to give, and I had won the other one, which he considered more prestigious. Earlier that spring I had been named American Chemical Society student of the year, gone to a chapter meeting in Omaha, had dinner with real chemists and the other Nebraska high school awardees, and was given an engraved pen and pencil set. He was right.

Now David Wininger, he took the National Honor Society seriously. (He wanted to go to the Air Force Academy. He grew up to be a colonel). You have two shots at the NHS. During an all-school assembly, the senior members roam through the seated crowd and tap the new inductees. Then the moms and dads of the inductees are brought out from behind a hidden panel, looking proud. It’s all so warm and fuzzy.

Our junior year, Dave was all set to be named. On the day of the all-school assembly he wore a nice shirt and tie and his (highly fashionable at the time) white sport coat. But, alas, his mom and dad were not hidden behind the partition. He was flattened, even more so than the day I beat him in the 50-yard dash during a break in play practice for You Can’t Take It With You. The next year he threatened to boycott the assembly, claiming that the selection process was rigged in favor of the populars and brown nosers. I wasn’t sure why Dave didn’t qualify, but, having no real chance at induction myself, I agreed to skip the assembly. The inevitable happened, of course. That morning, before the assembly, I saw Doc Wininger, bow-tie and all, sneaking into the gym. The only honorable thing to do was to tell Dave he still had a chance and that we’d better go to the assembly. He was inducted wearing a ratty T-shirt. His parents proudly smiled.

It is traditional for the assembly to conclude with a speaker, who addresses the members of the National Honor Society. The rest of us sit on our hands in the bleachers and listen politely. The speaker is usually a successful alumnus or local figure. It has always been my dream to be invited back to the National Honor Society assembly as a speaker. I intend to not address the honorees. I want to speak to the bleachers. “Success is measured not by what others think of you, but by what you think of yourself. Now get off your hands and go do something you can be proud of.”

I Think I’ve Read That Somewhere Else Before


Ken’s Story
Sam was recognized for high scholarship as a freshman at the University of Nebraska. He was selected to go to the Antarctic as part of a National Science Foundation project. Drilling below the Ross Ice Shelf for geological information was the principal work. He stayed there approximately three months.

Sam brought back lots of stories from his trip to Antarctica but one stands out. Another came after he returned. The Navy supported the civilian activities at McMurdo Station where the National Science Foundation group was housed. True to military tradition, the unit was required to stand inspection outside every Saturday morning, despite the temperature being as much as 65 degrees below zero. On one such day, the formation was streaked (remember the streaking craze of the 70s on college campuses?) by someone wearing nothing but a ski mask. The commanding officer immediately notified the unit that the streaker would have to come forward or the entire unit would be punished. Subsequently the entire unit, including nurses, signed their name on the bulletin board admitting to the deed. The commander, realizing the futility of his order, called off punishment, saying, “I know it wasn’t one of the nurses!”

When Sam returned it was Christmas break and he was asked to speak at several places in Auburn about his trip. He talked to Rotary, for instance, and a group of third graders at school. “Dad,” he said, “those third graders asked a lot more intelligent questions than the Rotarians.”

Sam’s Version
The Ross Ice Shelf drilling was a later project. The year I participated in the US Antarctic Research Program, we used the annual sea ice off Ross Island as a platform to drill through sediments deposited by glaciers in the, now, underwater extension of the Dry Valleys.

You can read all about it if you choose the link in the next column for The Antarctic Journal of a Young Man.

The First Day of the Rest of Our Lives

Ken’s Story
On May 20, 1977, Kay and Rich Gerdes, son of Ruth and Orville Gerdes, were married at the United Methodist Church in Auburn.

In 1978 Sam graduated from the University of Nebraska “With High Distinction” (3.86 GPA) in geology. Sam and Jo Ellen Groothuis, daughter of Will and Ruth Groothuis, were married at the Christ Lutheran church in Falls City, Nebraska, on May 19, 1978. Sam and Jo moved to New Orleans where Sam was employed by Texaco as a petroleum geologist and Jo finished her degree in chemical engineering at Tulane University.

Sam and Jo got acquainted at Nebraska, both living in the same coed dorm. Their penchant for studying (she was a straight 4.0 student) probably brought them together. Sam called one day and told his mom he was bringing a friend home for the weekend. We didn’t think much about it until he walked in with a girl and he introduced her as Jo Ellen Groothuis. I commented on the name and asked her if she knew a man named Will Groothuis. She did, of course, since it was her father. Will had been employed as a linotype operator at our newspaper in Stanton. He and Ruth, later his wife, were dating at that time. Some 20 years later their daughter and our son met at school and eventually got married.

Sam’s Version
And that’s the start of a whole ‘nother story.

OVERWHELMED BY FLOOD

Management regrets that recent flooding in southeast Kansas has left this blogger with precious little opportunity to update Midland Passages. Our next memoir is a continuation of K.A. McCormick's Loose Ends, but with a twist. Look for it in mid-August.

Excerpts from:

The Wynot Tribune
H.A. McCormick, Publisher
An Independent Newspaper
Published Every Thursday
Subscription Rate $2.00
Payable in Advance.

January 10, 1918

Observations
There is a need for cooperation between town and farm folks to help the war effort. “Team work will win the war” because of better food production. Waste can be eliminated from business methods. The credit system costs more than any other business transaction. Credit extended without limit forces merchants to borrow large sums to carry the accounts, some of which never pay (a large percentage). The consumers who do pay must pay higher prices to cover interest on loans to carry the non-payers. This is not good for business or consumer. The cash system must be used by business “before the government steps in and uses force.”

January 17, 1918

Our Cash System as it Will Be Handled
It will be cash over the counter. A discount of 5 per cent will apply on all sales over $1, except flour and sugar. Patrons may receive a thirty day credit with no discount. There will be no more free delivery. A 10 cent charge will apply.

Observations
Americans should help the government win the war by buying “baby bonds”. This keeps the government from getting oppressive about money for the war, and provides security at 4 per cent interest.

The Hartington News was given the contract for printing county proceedings. Congratulating itself over this wonderful achievement, the News blandly pats itself on the back and delivers itself of this wise observation: “The selection of the News was made as a tribute to its sturdy and aggressive Americanism.” Now the Tribune is happy to know that the News is “aggressive American” but, the News was the only paper in the county to bid on the County Board’s contract.

Talking about “aggressive Americanism” the News has yet to name the anonymous individual near Wynot it lambasted because he couldn’t speak English or even pure German, being a Dutchman. The News charged him with unamericanism, but wouldn’t reveal the name.

January 24, 1918

Observations
A change from the credit to a cash system is a good thing, and should have been done long ago. The credit system is a relic of pioneer days, but with an increased money supply, prices increase as the shop owners cover their credit accounts.

The Tribune is proud to donate advertising space to the War Bond’s drive.

The pencil pushers of Northeast Nebraska will meet at Norfolk Friday and Saturday. If the Tribune man comes up missing he simply ran away to get rid of the office grind for a few hours.

January 31, 1918

Observations
Securing a County Agent is a forward step.

If there was a market for waste paper, the Tribune could make a nice sum with all the publicity sent out by all departments connected with the war. They should take some savings advice and reorganize the public information machine. There is a limit to donating space free of charge for all this government publicity.

The people have implicit faith in President Wilson and the little game of politics being played in Congress is considered by a majority as simply political rot. The shake ups and reorganizations over a few mistakes won’t guarantee that a new War Board would be any better. Our senior Senator from Nebraska at Washington is playing a very precarious game which is not likely to improve his standing among a constituency that already has occasion to doubt his sincerity.

Even if Teddy Roosevelt has three sons in the army, this does not give him license to go about the country in carping criticism of the conduct of the war.

February 7, 1918

Observations
The government should regulate hens. From the price of eggs, they appear to have gone on strike.

The National Non-partisan Leagues smell pretty strongly of Kaiserism.

Food regulations are not just government orders to keep Uncle Sammy’s administrators busy. The food rules that are reasonable should be followed.

February 14, 1918

Observations
Senator Hitchcock is being classed with LaFollette for his un-american attack on President Wilson and his management of the war.

The Hartington News makes a tardy apology for their unjust accusations about German-Americans.


February 28, 1918

Observations
The war will not be won immediately but will be won with OUR help. Food supplies are the biggest problem right now.

It is reported that the little old Fords have gone up to $500. A few more boosts like that will put them in the class of real automobiles.

March 7, 1918

Observations
The big packers have been under investigation lately, and if the people are to be robbed to help win the war, the government should do it, not the big packers.


March 14, 1918

War Bonds
A mayor’s proclamation to the citizen’s of Wynot to support War Savings Day is signed by H.A. McCormick, Mayor.


March 28, 1918

Observations
This Legislative Session, the State Legislature shouldn’t pass a lot of foolish laws that have to be lived with after the war.

The Socialist Labor ticket won the mayor’s office in Sioux City. Not all the Bolshevists are in Russia.

Liberty Loans should be supported. Farmers should invest while prices are high to survive when prices drop.

April 18, 1918

Observations
Bond buying prevents tax increases.

We may be a little thick headed, but we can’t see why the government spends so much money printing publicity plates, expecting the printers to publish them for free.


April 25, 1918

Observations
The Tribune supports Lieutenant Governor Edgar Howard for United States Senator (a personal friend) who is campaigning on “unswerving allegiance to the commander-in-chief.” Howard is a democrat among real democrats. He doesn’t belong to Senator Hitchcock’s brand of democrats.

The Tribune supports Prohibition and the state senators in Lincoln who opposed passage of a national amendment should be defeated.

There is a need for more stringent automobile laws and for better enforcement of the current laws. Speed limits should be enforced in the manufacturing of engines so they can’t exceed a speed of Twenty miles an hour.

June 16, 1918

Observations
Governor Neville has made good on his promises and should be renominated in the primary. His opponent is Brother Charley Bryan. There is a strong sentiment among the voters to let the Bryans rest for a spell. S.R. McKelvie has a clear field for the Republican nomination.

No foreign languages should be spoken in America.

Dan Stephens should be re-elected to congress.


July 4, 1918

Red Cross
Mrs. H.A. McCormick was re-elected secretary for the Wynot Red Cross.

Observations
Howard over Hitchcock in the primary will be welcomed.

It is inconsistent for anti-German language businessmen in Hartington to advertise in the German language Cedar County Wachter.


July 11, 1918

Observations
Hell itself is occupied by better people than war profiteers. The Tribune agrees that packers are getting enormous profits just as the Federal Trade Commission contends they are.


July 18, 1918

Committee on Resolutions
H.A. McCormick is on the Committee on Resolutions for the Cedar County Democratic Convention.

Observations
Be a booster of the Wynot chautauquas.


July 25, 1918

A Candidate for the Legislature
At the request of a few friends I have filed for the democratic nomination for representative in the Nebraska legislature from the Fifteenth district (Cedar County)…H.A. McCormick

I campaign to represent a rural population; a one hundred percent pure American.

August 8, 1918

Observations
Sioux City, with its renegade preacher mayor is on the road to a “come back” on the wrong route. Boodle and booze are the watchwords in the prohibitionist state of Iowa.

Personal and Political Comment
Not this year (Dakota City Herald)
Editor H.A. McCormick of the Wynot Tribune has entered the race for representative from the Fifteenth district (Cedar County). Mr. McCormick is a sure-fire democrat and deserves some recognition from his party. But things are going republican this year, Mac.

Has the “Makings” (Dakota City Eagle)
H.A. McCormick, a former Dakota County citizen and newspaperman, now editor of the Wynot Tribune, has filed as the democratic nominee for representative from the Fifteenth district, comprising Cedar County. He has no opposition in the primary election and his many Dakota County acquaintances wish him ‘good-a-luck’ in the general election. Editor McCormick has the makings of a good representative for the people in the legislative halls.

Two True-Blue Americans (Coleridge Blade)
In Bro. McCormick of the Wynot Tribune and W.H. Burney of near Hartington the voters have a choice for representative of two true-blue Americans and the county can’t go wrong.

Would Make a Good Legislator (Hartington Herald)
Editor McCormick of the Wynot Tribune is a candidate for state representative on the democratic ticket. Mr. McCormick is an able man, and if elected, would make a good legislator.


August 15, 1918

Observations
We will not presume to tell you who to vote for in the August 20 primary. Pick the best man if they are 100 per cent pure American.

A ruling by the State Council of Defense to use the English language in church services is not the law, but is a good idea.

The Tribune supports Will S. Jay for republican nominee for secretary of state.


August 22, 1918

Primary Election Returns
All unopposed Legislative Candidates won nominations.


August 29, 1918

Observations
The fact that less than half the qualified voters exercised their right in the face of the struggle for democracy in Europe is startling.

The democratic “machine” (Senator Hitchcock) won the primary vote because the reformers (Howard, etc.) split their supporter’s votes.


Blogger’s Note: Editor McCormick did not win the November general election. It was a republican year.

Life Sketch

This scribe first saw the light of day on the Wopsipinicon River, in Linn County, near Cedar Rapids, Iowa, May 27, 1863. He was the youngest son of Joseph S. and Ann McCormick. There were nine children in the family - five girls and four boys - all of whom except the writer, have crossed the Silent River.

My parents came to Iowa from Allegheny, Pennsylvania in 1845. Railroads were practically unknown at that time, so they came by boat down the Ohio to the Mississippi River, thence up that stream to Clinton, Iowa. They first settled at De Witt, Iowa, and my father, being a printer by trade, worked some with his brother in Chicago, on some of the early dailies of that city. Later, he became the editor of the De Witt Observer, which is still published in that little city. He was later engaged in mercantile lines, and finally purchased a farm on the “Wopsy” River, where he died in 1864.

Following the death of my father, of whom this writer, who was only a little more than one year old, has no recollection, my mother, with nine children, none of whom were equipped to operate the farm, shortly afterward rented the farm and moved to Benton County, near Norway, Iowa, where a number of relatives already resided. It was here that the writer has some slight recollection, in a way, of some of the things that were taking place around him.

There was the struggle of maintaining a large family, so, as seemed to be a custom of those pioneer days, our older two boys, Charles and Dewit Clinton, were “bound out” to farmers of the vicinity. This “binding” process was to continue from one to five years. At the end of the contract period they were supposed to get a certain sum of money and a new pair of boots, etc. The older brother became tired of his condition, broke his contract and went out on his “own”. The younger brother served out his five-year contract - and at the end received a coarse pair of heavy boots (which he was unable to wear without badly blistering his feet), but his cash remuneration for five years of tough farm work was mostly “balanced” by his board and keep. He received barely enough change to keep him until he could find other employment, and nothing to assist in helping the mother and younger members of the family.

My mother, leaving some of the older children in charge, did considerable outside nursing to add to the family larder. Three of the girls finally succeeded in getting sufficient schooling in the then scarce grade schools, worked their way through the “Academy” (small colleges), and then found employment in the small grade schools and small colleges.

My mother finally sold her farm in Linn County and purchased a quarter section of unimproved land in Hamilton County. It was in a sparsely settled country, about 18 miles north of (Boonsboro) Boone. It was here that she contracted an unfortunate second marriage, which was terminated by divorce in little more than a year. The principal difficulty was that both husband and wife brought children by prior marriage into the household - generally an impossible combination.