Loose Ends

The Early Years

I remember, I remember the day that I was born....

but then I was born at a very early age.

I don’t know where these two phrases came from. They have stayed in my head all these years, probably part of the remembrances of my father, who died at age 50 before I really got to know him.

Actually, I was born December 30, 1929. (I always had trouble remembering whether it was December 30, 1929 or December 29, 1930. But that didn’t matter because I could always remember my age. Except for the last two days of the year, the last digit of my age coincided with the last digit of the current year.)

My birth date is significant since two months earlier, on October 30, 1929, the stock market crashed and the Great Depression began.

My family had not been long in my birthplace, Clark, South Dakota, and we stayed only a little while after my birth...13 days to be exact. My father was an early victim of “downsizing” because of the depression. He worked for the local newspaper and the owner’s son had come back, since college was no longer affordable, and he took my dad’s place. We had to move to Wynot, Nebraska, and the newspaper owned by my grandfather.

Daddy took my two older sisters back to Wynot and Mother stayed long enough to get her strength back after my birth. When I was 13 days old, Mother began the 200 mile trip in a January snowstorm. She got a ride to nearby Redfield, S.D., where she got a hotel room overnight in order to board a train the next morning.

As she told the story, she didn’t dare leave me alone in the room but was too weak to take me downstairs so she went without supper. My dad and his brother, Roy, met Mother in Yankton, South Dakota and they began the short car trip to Wynot. On the way, however, the car broke down and the snow forced them to find shelter in a nearby farm home. The car was eventually repaired and the trip resumed, but the short version of the story is that Mother brought me to Wynot at age 13 days through a 200 mile snowstorm.

When the depression hit and my dad lost his job, there was nothing to do but go back to Wynot. Subsequently the railroad through Wynot was abandoned, retail stores left, and the newspaper proved inadequate to support more than one family. Grandpa decided it was time to move on and he picked Schuyler, Nebraska, as a larger town where a newspaper could support two families. It was there he founded the Colfax County Call.

My first memory in Schuyler was going to kindergarten at age four, where we had to bring our own rug to lay on and take a nap in the afternoon. Another thing I remember is the lack of attention paid to my birthday. Since it came just a few days after Christmas, there was never enough money or desire to make a big thing of it.

One year I was invited to a girl’s party the same day as my birthday. I brought a piece of her birthday cake home and saved it so long it got rock hard.

We lived on a corner lot with a big yard and I remember the neighbor boy, who was much older and bigger than me, would come out to play football. He roughed me up, bullied me, and made fun of me; but I loved it -- and him -- for paying attention. When he moved away he gave me that tattered old black leather football and I thought it was the most wonderful thing anybody could do for me.

My next older sister, Rose Marie, was always late to school in Schuyler because her route took her through downtown and store windows attracted her attention. The same tardiness arose in the family many years later when my son pretended as if he was blind and tried to walk to school without opening his eyes.

My dad was a volunteer fireman. I can remember him coming home with his clothes frozen from water sprayed on him at a winter fire. Another story I remember was the storage building fire that wouldn’t succumb to water. As it happened, a lot of paraffin was stored inside and it caught fire and floated on the water. Today, foam would be used.

By this time it was 1935, Grandpa was 72 and the Call apparently was not doing that well against the long-established Schuyler Sun (which is still in existence). It was time for Harry Sr., to retire. He and Grandma Delina moved in with their daughter Ruth, who by now was married and head of the pharmacy department at Lutheran Hospital in Omaha.

Latch-key Kids

Harry Jr., with very little money but a lot of his father’s wanderlust and courage, bought the Murray (Iowa) Journal on a contract from a broker. We lived there for seven years accepting chickens, et cetera for subscription money and complimentary tickets to the movie house for payment of its advertising bill.

Murray was (and still is for all I know) a town of about 800. At that time it had the newspaper, a movie theater, a furniture store, two groceries, a cafe, lumber yard, and other miscellaneous businesses.

With Mother selling the advertising and doing most of the driving of our 1934 Chevrolet, we survived and didn’t know we were poor, because almost everybody was poor during the depression. We never went hungry or took welfare as many did, but I don’t recall it being a big thing. We were getting by and I don’t think we even considered applying for aid. We had many friends who did need it and we didn’t condemn them for it.

Our best friends in Murray were the Farrs. They had three children -- June, Jean, and Bud -- who were the same relative age as the three in our family. Except for the age similarities, that was the end of the likeness.

The Farrs farmed. We were town folk. Orville was the type that didn’t believe in government regulations (such as buying a fishing license) except when it came to welfare payments. My dad would not consider violating any rule and to fish without a license was like denying God.

Hazel was practically prostrate in excitement when Bud and I were confirmed in the Methodist church. My mother was a regular church attendee, but it was not her disposition to display any kind of emotion.

Mother was the disciplinarian. I don’t recall ever being spanked but the presence of a hickory switch resting behind a picture on the wall was sufficient incentive to stay in line. That switch across the back of your legs spoke volumes that the modern-day psychologists would be hard put to match.

And the one time I do remember the switch being administered, I was totally blameless -- well not totally. One of my sisters was provoked into throwing an overshoe at me. I ducked (and from that standpoint I must shoulder some blame) and the footwear broke a window after it sailed past my head.

Mother was particularly irate because she had trusted us to be home alone. We were early-day latch-key kids since Mom helped get the paper out and we were expected to share family responsibilities -- like getting along with each other.

While Mother was the dispenser of physical punishment (or the threat thereof) my dad was the man they nicknamed Happy as a youngster. He loved to sing and Bing Crosby was his favorite. What little spare cash we had went into records of the Crooner.

The California Job Case

My sisters were both named for popular songs of the day. On the other hand, Grandmother wanted me to be named Harry Anthony III but Mother wouldn’t stand for that so I got the mundane moniker of Kenneth Allen.

But in spite of Daddy’s gentle nature, serious malfeasance by the children sometimes called for a talk with the man of the house. These sessions, I think, were much more feared than the hickory switch.

One of those talks was needed following one of my misanthropic activities. My job at the paper on Saturdays was to throw in the type that had been set for the previous week’s paper. We printed only the front and back pages (the inside was boiler plate -- pre-printed articles from Western Paper company) but considering all the type was set by hand, letter by letter, it took considerable time to put it all back in the proper compartments of the case -- known as a California job case.

The California job case was designed for speed so the letters of the alphabet were not simply placed in order. The most-used letters -- the e, n, s, etc. -- were closest and had larger compartments. A typesetter, or anyone throwing in the type, was supposed to be able to do their job without looking at the location of the letters.

An average typesetter could set a stick an hour. That would probably be four inches or less in regular column width. By comparison, a Linotype operator in later years was expected to set at least a galley (one full 20 to 2l inch column) of type an hour and most were faster. Today’s computer operators are maybe twice that fast.

One Saturday my dad had gone out for his regular afternoon cup of coffee, leaving me to throw in type. I could have been out playing with my friends as most ten-year-olds would have been so I resented having to stay cooped up in the print shop. Consequently, I began idly tossing each letter wherever it happened to land -- in retaliation for my ignominy in being left to work.

Father came back and went to work setting type for the upcoming paper and, being an accomplished typesetter, it was not necessary for him to look at the letters as he set them. After finishing a stick, however, he glanced at his handiwork and of course saw just a jumble of letters. It wasn’t hard to figure out what had happened and you know who spent several minutes with Daddy and a talk. I then consumed several hours going through the type case putting the misplaced letters in their proper compartments.

Maytag

Our family lived in Murray longer than any other place -- seven years -- and even though I was only 12 when we left, I still remember many events. One was particularly rewarding for Mother. One evening a traveling salesman knocked on the door and wanted to leave a Maytag washing machine with us for demonstration. Mother told the man there was no way we could afford a washing machine. (Not an automatic washer as we know them today -- one with just an agitator and wringer, but something few households had).

The salesman, in a ploy I later learned to use myself, said it didn’t matter. He got paid for the demonstration whether he sold the unit or not. Mother couldn’t see what it would hurt so she agreed to use the washer for a week. So instead of bending over a washboard in a tub, Mother used this wonderful gadget to wash our clothes and wring them out like magic.

At the end of the prescribed week, I really think Mother was trying to find some way to buy the machine but in the 1930s, even a dollar-a-week payment was out of the question. But the salesman didn’t come back. Several weeks passed and still no salesman or company representative came to retrieve the washer.

Mother wrote Maytag headquarters in Newton, Iowa, but got no response. Although we did have a telephone, calling long distance for anything but an emergency was out of the question.

So we continued to wait. Mother did not use the washing machine. She felt that would not be fair since we did not intend to buy it. Another letter was dispatched and no answer came for a long time.

Then one day the mail brought a form letter from Maytag that said it would not be cost effective for the company to send a man out to reclaim what amounted to a used washing machine. Apparently the salesman quit the territory and the company was just cutting their losses. At any rate, Mother used that Maytag for probably 20 years and would have been very happy to offer a testimonial to its reliability. There was only one trouble. People visiting our home who did not know the story of the free washing machine thought we were extravagant or must somehow be rich.

Other things I remember: Daddy singing Fire, Fire, Fire, London’s Burning in a deep bass voice; out fishing when a tornado struck and we had to hit the nearest ditch to prevent being blown away; fishing for bullheads and swimming in Finn’s pond; going with the theater owner in his Austin-Healy (smaller than the latter day Volkswagen Bug) to deliver show bills to area towns; walking home on a Sunday morning and finding out Pearl Harbor had been bombed and not having the least idea what that meant.

Mother always encouraged her children to give to charity. Although we didn’t have much, we were not on welfare and did have a few things many families did not. One Christmas Mother encouraged me to give one of my toys to a group providing gifts to needy families. Mother emphasized that giving meant parting with something that really mattered or it wasn’t real charity. I had a toy fire truck that was my pride and joy. I had kept it in mint condition. Although it hurt, I decided this would be a true charitable act if I gave it away.

The day after Christmas, we were out sledding in a neighborhood I knew as one in which one of the needy families lived. As we went by, I saw my prized fire truck smashed to pieces on top of a trash pile. I know it shouldn’t have, but my attitude toward giving to the needy has been prejudiced ever since.

Pinky Thin Skin

Most rural areas in the Midwest have county fairs but Murray was not the county seat so we had our own celebration -- the Murray Jamboree. It was a two day affair usually, and one of the highlights was a public wedding. I don’t know how they picked the couple, but the young pair would be chosen and all of the costs of the wedding would be paid -- gown, flowers, reception, honeymoon. It was a real honor to be chosen and provide the entertainment for the Jamboree.

For the promoters, it was probably cheaper than hiring professional entertainment. The money was raised by selling lottery tickets -- a chance on a team of horses. Yes, even as late as the early 40s, horses were still being used in farming and a valuable prize to win.

The one other vivid memory of the Jamboree was the year I was riding the Ferris wheel when I realized it was past my curfew. I bolted from the ride and ran lickity-split for home. The Jamboree was held on one square block of city park and a single strand of wire enclosed it. In my haste to get home I hit the edge of the park at full speed and the wire was just the right height to catch me in the Adam’s apple. Needless to say, the blow decked me and I was unable to speak for several minutes and my excuse for being late fell on deaf ears at home. Perhaps, my nickname, Alibi Ike, had something to do with it. That nickname was coined because I always had an excuse when I was late.

And I was late lots because I loved to play croquet on the town’s public course. I have never seen one like it since living in Murray and in visiting there several years ago, I noticed the area was grown up in weeds. The area was surrounded by a wood barrier and the ground covered by sand, which was rolled out daily to insure a smooth surface. The standard wooden mallets and balls used on a lawn croquet court were not employed. Instead, hard rubber balls and short mallets with a fiber striking surface were used. The town’s retirees all played but when school let out, they would let us take over and then bet on the outcome of a particular match. Consequently, I would lose track of time and be late for supper. Thus, the Alibi Ike nickname.

I did pick up another nickname which remained with me the entire time we lived in Murray. I was very light skinned and blond and therefore highly susceptible to getting sunburned. One of my friends called me Pinky Thin Skin, later shortened to just Pinky. I think if I walked in to Murray today and anyone was still alive who knew me, they would say “Hi, Pinky.”

Our school did not have a band but we did have a town band that played each Saturday night in the town square. It was directed by Doc Fuller, a veterinarian. My family couldn’t afford an instrument, so I chose percussion to learn, since they were provided. Marcheta played the French horn for the same reason. Doc Fuller led the band from a motorized wheel chair -- simply an easy chair with batteries mounted in the rear and wheels under each arm. A wheel with a curved bar for guiding was in the front so what you had was the forerunner of today’s three-wheel golf cart. He was paralyzed in the early 1930s when he was shot as a member of a posse chasing a criminal -- but that is another story.

We played at outdoor concerts during the summers but sometimes performances would be in the school gym. Doc Fuller would have to be carried in to direct and that left his motorized wheel chair outside. That was too tempting for youngsters (myself included because I was not a part of the indoor concerts) and we got a thrill from riding that chair around the parking lot. I’m sure Doc Fuller knew why his batteries ran down sooner than usual during those periods.

The school did have both boys’ and girls’ basketball teams. I was too young but both my sisters were starters on the half court, six-girl style of Iowa ball at that time. Marcheta was 5’ 10” and played post. Rose Marie was about 5’ 4” and played on the guard end of the court. Her claim to fame was her scrappiness. She fouled out (four was the maximum in those days) before the end of the first quarter in one game. Some of my fondest memories were waiting for the girls to come home after a game and sitting around the kitchen table talking about it with our parents.

Guilt by Association

We had several means of raising spending money during the summers. One was legitimate, one questionable, and the other outright illegal. The honest labor was to strip blue grass. Farmers planted and harvested blue grass seed to sell commercially. They stripped it with machines, but we walked the roads and found volunteer blue grass in the ditches. We all had hand strippers (provided by seed buyers).

The tool was a device about 12 inches wide with teeth and a handle. We could walk along, swing the stripper to get the seed and pour it in a sack, which we would then sell to a local broker.

Another money-raiser was to go out to the countryside, find scrap metal, and sell it to a junk dealer. That was perfectly legal but some of our pals would sneak around back of the junk yard, pull some scrap through a hole in the fence, and eventually sell it back to the unsuspecting dealer. We also pulled a pump from an abandoned farm and took it in to sell. Come to find out, the pump was in use, the farmer found out who took it and our parents were informed. It was a long trip back lugging that heavy pipe.

As long as I am baring my soul, I remember another escapade that remains troublesome for me to this day. It was a matter of a theft I participated in and did nothing to correct. I’ve been told most youngsters, at one time or another, take something from a store without paying for it. Some, perhaps, develop into adult shoplifters, but most -- as did I -- have such a guilty conscience it makes them even more honest as the years go by.

This incident happened one summer when a bunch of us were just hanging out and we went into the local grocery store even though none of us had any money. One of our group told us to occupy the clerk, which we did, and he stuck a pound of Velveeta cheese in his shirt and walked out. We knew the intent of the shop lifter -- and we helped eat the cheese -- but none of us had the guts to say, “This is wrong; take the cheese back.”

Rushville

Things had been getting better economically and with the war good jobs became more plentiful. My dad was too young for World War I and too old to be drafted in the Second World War.

It was obvious the small paper at Murray would never be much for income, so Daddy took a job in Rushville, Illinois, in 1942. We stayed in Murray to see my sister Marcheta graduate at the top of her class of 21 students. Rose Marie finished her sophomore year and I got through seventh grade in Murray.

The house Daddy rented for us in Rushville was not ready so we had to live in a cabin camp for about two weeks. Bed bugs were rampant, cooking facilities were non-existent, and the small space was not really conducive to a happy family in a strange town.

We finally got into our house and it really was one of the nicest we ever lived in. Rose Marie and I enrolled in school and I had little trouble adjusting.

I got a paper route delivering the Peoria daily but the job ended abruptly when I was hit by a car. We had been instructed to be very careful crossing streets, particularly if papers blew away when we were folding them preparatory to delivery. In the darkness of one early morning, the paper I was folding got away and blew into the street. I looked carefully both ways and retrieved it. But just as I was returning, another gust caught a second paper and I instinctively darted after it into the roadway. Just at that time a car was passing and it hit me. I was leaning over to get the paper and the front fender of the car struck me in the forehead. Fortunately there was a hospital just a block away and I was taken there. I regained consciousness and was diagnosed with a contusion -- apparently a blow less serious than a concussion. The wonderful part of all this was that the newspaper’s insurance covered all expenses and gave my mother $5 a day for taking care of me at home for a week of recuperation.

My only other memory of Rushville was in the use of different terms for familiar things. For example, the first time I stepped onto a basketball court as an eighth grader, the referee blew the whistle and yelled steps. I was to learn that meant traveling, the term I was familiar with for taking steps without dribbling the ball.

Severed Heads

While I can’t remember being unhappy in Rushville, my dad apparently decided it was time to move on. He went to Monmouth, Illinois, to look into a printer’s job but came back and then looked into one at a calendar factory in Red Oak, Iowa. This job did not materialize but one at Avoca, Iowa, did and we moved there for the second semester of the 1942-1943 school year.

Rose Marie had difficulty adjusting. According to her account, she was operated on for appendicitis but the rumor spread that she had an abortion. She refused to go to school, which added to the rumor fire. Mother told her if she didn’t go to school she would have to work and would pay her five dollars a week to do our housework. She didn’t much care for the work and with the first paycheck, she bought a bus ticket back to Murray and stayed at the Farr home. (I have a hunch a boyfriend at the old hometown had something to do with all this.)

Mother called Hazel and told her to let Rose Marie stay a week and then put her on a bus back to Avoca. Rose Marie enrolled the following term at Avoca, made up her work, and graduated with her class.

As the new boy coming in the middle of the year, I was miserable for a long time because of teasing and taunting by other kids in the class. Finally, however, another new student showed up and the class bullies transferred their venom to him. Sad to say, I probably joined in the teasing of the new kid to prove I now belonged.

An example of the tricks played by my classmates came in the spring when a cousin of mine, Dick McCrary, came to visit. He lived in Omaha and had spring vacation. We didn’t get that spring break so he rode his bike the some 40 miles to Avoca and visited me in class.

During one class when the teacher wasn’t looking, one student pushed the unabridged dictionary off its stand. The noise, of course, startled everyone including the teacher and as she turned around, everybody around Dick pointed at him. He was innocent, of course, but the teacher informed him that even though he was a visitor, he would have to behave himself.

Dick perhaps brought this trick on himself because of the rather wild story he told the kids about his trip out to Avoca. He described a train wreck at Neola as he was riding by. It included heads being severed and rolling out of the cars and other gory details. The fact was, a train had derailed and he witnessed it, but no injuries were sustained.

Dick was prone to telling tall tales but when I would challenge him, he would say “Just ask my mom if it isn’t true?” Of course, if I did that, I would look bad in his mom’s eyes for accusing him of lying. Finally, I went to his mother in desperation and actually questioned her on a story he had told. Wouldn’t you know it? This was one of the few times he was telling the truth. Kind of like the poker player you know is bluffing but when you finally call, he has you beat!

“Why, It’s For All Of Us”

The move to Avoca was not all that bad. My dad worked for the newspaper and the part-owner/editor was taken into the wartime Navy. My folks were both enlisted to take over the paper and run it for the duration. After only about six months, however, the editor resigned from the Navy and came back to resume his position. We never did find out the details of his military career.

When we first lived in Avoca, housing was in short supply so we found a place that was in the basement of a former funeral home. It wasn’t that bad except the windows were at ground level and curious neighbor kids tended to become window peepers interested in the new people in town. My clearest memory of the place was the canopied driveway where I could work on my bike. Hour after hour was spent tearing apart that New Departure brake and putting it back together again.

This was also the place where I had my first girl friend. I don’t remember her name but she was a large girl -- an Amazon, you might say. I was not alone when I got my first kiss. We were with another couple and my awkward one-armed smack drew a derisive comment from my buddy. He proceeded to give me instructions but the romance was short lived and the lessons ceased.

After we had been in town awhile and I became acquainted, a group of guys came by to see if I wanted to go bike riding. My folks were pleased I was being accepted by my peers so they said it would be okay if I was home by dark. We had not gone three blocks from my place before the plans changed and we ended up at a local pool hall.

Later, my dad had gone out for a pack of cigarettes and noticed my bike parked in front of the pool hall. I saw him come in and he stepped over and calmly told me to come home when I finished the game. I then realized I probably was in big trouble because the place was rather unsavory.

My dad grabbed me just as I got home, pulled me into a spare room and said, “For gosh sakes don’t tell your mom where you have been.” He explained that there were two pool halls in town. The one I was in was a hangout for some of the worst elements in town. The other one was run by a man who wouldn’t let you play pool if school was in session or if you misbehaved. He told me if I wanted to learn to play in that pool hall he would bring me down and teach me the game. Thus began an avocation to fill many hours of leisure time during my life.

One of my favorite stories involved the grocery store (where I worked part time), which belonged to Bill Hinz and his wife. As was the practice in most small town stores, customers charged everything and paid their bill at the end of the month. One noon hour, I was left alone in the store when a young boy about eight years old came in and asked for toilet paper. I got a three-roll pack off the shelf and sacked it for him and he began to leave. I asked him, “Who’s this for?” wanting to know whom to charge it to since I didn’t know him. He looked at me like I had to be the dumbest clod in the universe and said, “Why, it’s for all of us!” and he walked out. I reached in my pocket, got 25 cents—the 1944 price of three rolls of toilet paper -- and put it in the cash register. That story told over the years was certainly worth the 25 cents it cost me.

My profession for most of my adult career was probably influenced by a teacher I had in eighth grade at Avoca. Her English class was not the most interesting in school but the fact she had one glass eye and the other one was crossed made it virtually impossible to get by with anything in class. She was never looking where she appeared to be so you had to assume the thrown spit ball or passed note would be seen. Consequently, I learned more English than could normally be expected of a 13-year-old and my entry into the journalism field was made a little easier.

At just over 100 pounds, I don’t know why I went out for football -- but I did -- though my career at Avoca was short lived. While returning punts in practice one day, I was slammed into the ground by a teammate. I instinctively put out my hand to catch myself and it jammed my arm back into the socket. Something had to give and it was my shoulder.

The dislocated shoulder kept me out of football but I was a glutton for punishment and decided to try my hand at basketball in my sophomore year. I was only about 5’10” but was fairly quick and seemed to have an eye for the basket in practice. When time came for our first game, the coach, just before tip-off in the locker room, named four of his starters. The other one, he said, would come from me or my friend, fellow sophomore Ev Bauer.

Ev was a much better player than me and later I realized the coach was trying to get him to assert himself by giving him a chance to speak up. When the coach said, “Who wants to start?” I waited for only the briefest of time before I spoke up and said, “I do.” Soon in the first quarter Ev came off the bench and played well. I transferred out of Avoca the second semester but he went on to be a star for the team during his high school career.

High School Daze

With the Avoca editor back from the Navy, my folks decided to move on and went to Ida Grove, Iowa, to work for the Pioneer Record. Mother learned the Linotype and became a two-thirder (an apprentice who got only two-thirds wage until they became qualified). The major ownership at Ida Grove was held by the same man as Avoca so the change wasn’t that radical.

Because of that linkage, it was natural for the two papers to be in communication. Thus, before I transferred to Ida Grove (I stayed at the Hinz home to finish the first semester when my parents moved), a story about a transfer sophomore basketball player was published in the Pioneer Record.

As is so often the case, accomplishments do not live up to expectations. While I was on the first ten at Ida Grove, I was more of a practice player -- shooting the eyes out, stealing passes, et cetera -- but those things never seemed to materialize in games. Consequently, I probably hold some kind of record in that I started my first game of basketball as a sophomore, but never started another contest in my entire career.

My basketball career was shortened when in my junior year at Ida Grove I quit in the middle of the season and pride kept me from changing my mind and coming back to the team.

We had a hot shot star player who was at heart a bully who liked to exert his skills to make his teammates look bad. For example, when a player went up for a jump shot, he unobtrusively tapped them on the chest, causing them to crash to the floor from such a vulnerable position. On loose balls, he would make a point to let you get there first and then slam you into the gym wall under the pretext of trying to recover the ball.

The coach either failed to see this or condoned it. I went after a loose ball in practice one day and I just knew this bully was going to try to jam me. He did and I blew up. Even to this day I do not swear very much, but I cussed him out with words that even surprised me and I stomped off the floor.

The coach and superintendent each talked to me in the next few days and asked me to reconsider but after a display such as mine, there was no way I could go back -- at least in a 16-year-olds’ mind. Besides, I had already talked to the drama coach and she allowed me a late part in an upcoming production so I had a legitimate excuse of no time to practice basketball.

That was the first of many plays I acted in during high school and one in college. Our school had junior class plays, senior class plays, all-school plays, and plays put on by the Thespian Club -- and I was in most of them.

There were many fond memories of those productions, but one in particular stands out because of the trick pulled on me by the cast members with the consent of the director. This play, I think, was High School Daze, a fluff piece much like the latter day teenie bopper movies with Frankie Avalon and that ilk.

My part was the popular class member with lots of girl friends. Unknown to me a girl, who in real-life had been hounding me and whom I had been trying to avoid, was inserted in the cast to follow me around just out of sight throughout the whole play. The audience, composed mainly of high school students aware of the real-life situation, enjoyed the ruse immensely. The laughter that resulted -- sometimes at times I did not expect -- made me think my comedic aptitude was brilliant. Eventually, I was told of the ruse and my ego was somewhat deflated.

The Devil and Other Jobs

When I came to Ida Grove the second semester of my sophomore year, I walked in on an apparently volatile situation. An all-school assembly had been scheduled my first day in class and as we filed toward the auditorium, an upper class student stopped us and said, “We are going to do it at 11:05 a.m.” I didn’t have any friends, being so new, and therefore hesitated to ask what was going to happen.

I found out soon enough. The assembly started at 11:00 a.m. and at 11:05, ninety per cent of the student body rose and walked out. It appeared the senior class had a difference about something with the superintendent that was not being resolved and the walkout was in protest over it. I don’t remember the issue now but I suppose I did at the time. Regardless, as a newcomer, I was not about to stay in that auditorium while the majority of kids were united in leaving. We all got suspended of course, but after three days, either a compromise was brought about or the administration relented. At any rate we were re-admitted to school.

That was not a very comforting way to be introduced to my new school, but it did not prove to be a forerunner of further disruptive behavior. As a matter of fact, our class, as well as the ones following us and the one ahead, were generally superior from the standpoint of scholastics and activities. I’ll not include athletics in those groups because the record certainly does not reflect excellence.

As I had in Avoca, I found part-time employment in Ida Grove. It was nearly a repeat of Grandfather’s history as I was taken on as a devil at the newspaper office. My experience as a 12-year-old feeding that small press in Murray should have helped me but performing the same job on a huge newspaper press proved to be more than I could handle. Visualize, if you will, a blank piece of paper the size of your daily newspaper opened up. Take that very flimsy newsprint and guide it into three pins positioned just ahead of the press cylinder, where it is grabbed to be pulled through and pressed against the type forms for printing. That is simple enough -- it you have plenty of time to hit the pins and adjust if you are off.

However, the press runs at a speed to produce 1,500 or so papers per hour. So that means fitting one in place every two or three seconds. Let me tell you, it takes some practice and skill to learn that job and I did not fare well. When you let the paper go through crooked, it tends to tear and go into the ink rollers, thereby creating a mess and a time consuming process to clean up. Later on in my career, I did become proficient in press feeding but only after many frustrating days picking paper out of the rollers.

But for the time-being, I found working in a local grocery store less frustrating and more profitable. I got a job in Pete Besore’s store and after being there awhile I was making $23 week in the summer for a 50-60 hour week. That was more than Mother was making for her two-thirder job, but for only 40 hours, of course.

Pete was a long-time grocer and shuffled around the store like he was on his last legs. But come six o’clock, he would grab his golf bag and out he would go for nine holes before supper.

His son, also called Pete, worked in the store, too. Naturally, he did not have to worry about keeping his job so he was not really an exemplary employee. One Saturday night (we were open until midnight), the elder Pete handed me an extra five outside my pay envelope and walked away. I didn’t say anything -- perhaps because Pete’s wife was the bookkeeper and made out the envelopes -- but the next week, the same thing happened.

I waited for a moment alone with the boss and asked him what was going on. “Well,” he said. “You’ve been doing a good job and I wanted to let you know I appreciate it. Young Pete spends most of his time back on the can reading comic books but I didn’t want Hulga (his wife) to know I was paying you more than him.”

And That Starts with “P”

Hulga was a rather formidable women, both in size and demeanor. Even though the war was over by now, the draft was still on and one of the store’s employees was called. We had a going-away party for him and coming home from the restaurant, Hulga glanced out of the car and remarked about a girl trudging along the street. “She looks like she’s been following the plow all her life,” Hulga said in her own blunt form of talking. “Well,” said our guest of honor. “My family lives on a farm and that’s my sister!” “That’s not the first time I stuck my foot in my mouth and it probably won’t be my last,” said Hulga with no more of an apology.

Pete was a good merchandiser and ahead of his time in some respects. Super markets today stay open 24 hours a day but in small town America in the 40s, Saturday was the only open night, but there was no self serve. The customer came in with a list and a clerk filled it. On Saturday nights the customers would come in early, leave their list and then go to the movie, the tavern, or just visit in the town square, only to come back at midnight to pick up their groceries.

Pete tired of that system, so he put a notice in his newspaper ad that the next week we would close at 8 p.m. and any groceries left in the store would be stacked out front. I think we had one box of groceries left that first week, but after that we were able to get out of the store early and no complaints. Customers can be trained!

Food rationing was still in effect and many items were hard to get. Wholesalers used the situation to get rid of slow moving products. They promised extra boxes of candy bars, or whatever was in short supply at the time, if the grocer would accept these slow movers.

In this situation, we were stuck with a dozen cases of Otoe brand beans that just didn’t sell. Pete told us to build a wooden bin and put it right in the front where customers couldn’t miss it.

“Take the beans and dump them in the bin,” Pete said. “Don’t line them up in rows or anything -- just pile them up”

The beans normally sold for 10 cents a can but Pete made a huge sign that read, “Just In -- New Otoe Beans--2 CANS FOR 25¢.” The beans sold out in three days and we got extra goodies from the wholesaler. The candy bars were used as gifts to customers when they paid their bill at the end of the month.

That was something I still don’t understand. Pete carried them for 30 days without interest and then gave them a bonus. That practice changed, of course, when stores became self-serve and cash or check was required.

Bill O’Brien owned the one pool hall in Ida Grove. He was a large, bald-headed man who ruled his place of business with an iron hand, at least in the eyes of high school kids.

Since I had learned to play pool in Avoca and my dad found Bill’s place to be acceptable, I started frequenting the place when we arrived in Ida Grove and in that way became acquainted faster.

Bill did not allow any horseplay in his establishment and we considered him unduly strict. I learned much later, that for all of his gruffness, his heart was in the right place. Apparently many of his pool-playing high schoolers found him a source of financing when it was time to go to college. Several college graduates owe him their starts in life.

Politics

I was still considered new in town when we started our junior year but had become fairly well acquainted during the summer months. Early in the school year all the classes elected officers. Our class of ‘47 had been together for the most part since kindergarten and tended to elect the same group in each class from year to year. Someone got the idea it would be a big joke if they elected the new guy and they got enough votes together to put Ken McCormick in the president’s seat.

I felt quite honored but it didn’t take me long to find out what had happened. It was too late to do anything about it so I served as best I knew how. About all that was required of the junior class president was to conduct one or two meetings, to organize the junior-senior prom, and to give the welcome address at that function.

I assume most of the class members were in on the election joke, but most of them were not aware of how I got re-elected to the senior class presidency.

Having been a carry-over officer, it was my responsibility to assist in the vote counting during the senior class election the next year. Looking back, I can see it was not a very proper election. Instead of nominating candidates, we were simply instructed to write down whom we wanted for president.

Being neophytes, we didn’t realize how fractionalized the vote would be under such a situation. At any rate, when the votes were counted in the presidential race, there were four votes for Ken McCormick, three for Roger Anderson, two each for a couple other classmates and the rest divided one each for as many candidates.

The election committee (composed of myself, Roger, and the class sponsor) determined I was the presidential winner and Roger should be vice-president. The secretary and treasurer were elected on separate ballots.

We didn’t disclose the vote and let the class assume it was a landslide to retain the previous administration in office.

While the senior year was certainly busy from the standpoint of academics and activities, it was a relatively uneventful political two semesters.

A Year Book of Their Own

Our class did do one thing no other had done for some 20 years and I did become the driving force behind that. Many class members expressed a disappointment that the school had not published a yearbook for many, many years.

I went to our superintendent, Mr. Young, and told him of our concern and he said the reason no annuals had been printed was because of the large amount of work it took and the lack of funding. I assured him the class would work on the yearbook and we’d find a way to finance it without school district funds.

Mr. Young, probably thinking it would be an impossible challenge, told me he would agree if I could get signatures of 75 per cent of the class saying they would support the project.

We got those signatures and went to work. My association with the newspaper helped us get an offset printer to publish the book at a reasonable price and my folks’ experience in advertising helped me solve the financing problem.

Most annual staffs sold advertising to raise money and then give the sponsor space in proportion to his donation. Instead of that, we solicited local businesses for donations with the stipulation the amount would be listed at the back of the annual.

This served two purposes. The more prestigious firms did not want the community or their competitors to out-do them, so their donations were sizable. Secondly, instead of adding to the cost of printing by taking a lot of pages for advertising, we used just one page to list the donors.

It was one of my biggest disappointments not to be named editor of the annual since I felt I had been instrumental in getting it approved. Instead, Marc Houlihan and I were named co-editors. Marc was quite talented and there was no doubt of his ability, but it was just one more time he had bested me.

He was a talented trombone player, a baritone vocalist, and excellent actor. Declamatory contests were popular in that time and it seemed no matter which division I chose, Marc would follow suit and beat me to win the district entry. One year I waited until the very last moment (and after Marc had already declared) to select my division. Wouldn’t you know, he changed to my division just hours ahead of the local contest, switched to my classification, and won.

Marc’s post-graduation goal was to go to Hollywood, not to be an actor or director but to become a producer. Whether he ever made it or not, no one really knows. He came to our l5th class reunion but no one has heard of him since. In all these years, I have watched credit lines on movies but have yet to see his name.

With the donations and sales of annuals, enough money was raised to produce the yearbook. We finished up copy for it just after the second semester started in January and sent it to the printers with the promise it would be ready by our May graduation. That didn’t happen, but because of the delay we were able to get some of the late happenings of our senior year in the book, such as results of the national music contest.

That event, which was held in St. Joseph, Missouri, threw a crimp into our junior-senior prom. Many of the class members had to leave the dance early because they had to get up at 4 a.m. the next day to leave for the contest.

The Letterman’s Club

Our class seemed to thrive on clubs. Everybody joined something, depending on their interests. Future Farmers of America, Future Homemakers of America, library club, science club, and others. If we didn’t have a club for a particular venue, we organized one.

I was named to the National Honor Society as a junior. Being tapped at a general assembly to that prestigious group was quite a thrill but all the other clubs were simply those you joined voluntarily (except the letterman’s club in athletics). I belonged to Quill and Scroll for journalism, Thespian club for actors, and the science club.

I lettered in four sports. That sounds like I was a real jock but the fact is, the level of athletics at Ida Grove was such that almost anybody who went out could earn a letter.

I have related my basketball career and even though I played only part of my junior year and sat on the bench a good deal of my senior year, I still got a letter.

Football was certainly not my sport, although I did play and actually started some games. At 120 pounds, there weren’t too many spots for me, but as I indicated, we did not have a plethora of players so I was delegated to play end -- both offensive and defensive -- since the platoon system was not known at that time.

My only claim to fame in football also happened to be the only game we won our senior season. I think the game was at Sac City and it really doesn’t matter except that it was on the road. We were trailing 12-6 and our quarterback, Pete Besore -- the one I told you about before -- called a pass play. The other end and I were supposed to go down field, cross in the middle and Pete was supposed to throw to the other guy after we had passed each other. He threw it a little soon and I took the pass instead and streaked down the sidelines to a touchdown.

So there we were, late in the ball game, tied 12-12 with the extra point coming up. Coach Tate had been emphatic all year that our kicking game stunk and that all extra points would be running plays.

Pete had tried to get Coach Tate to let him kick extra points all year, but he wouldn’t do it. This was the last game of the season, Pete was senior, and -- what the Hell. He called a kick, waited for the holder to put the ball down and promptly made the extra point -- left footed! I halfway expected him to turn to the coach and thumb his nose, considering he had not only defied instructions on kicking but also the fact he was right handed.

On the bus ride home, I figured the coach would blow up and give Pete the dickens. Instead, he was quite genial and I was the one that got the ribbing.

“McCormick,” he said, “don’t get a big head over that touchdown. The only reason you out-ran the defense was because you were so damn scared of being tackled.”

The other two letters came in track and baseball. We were a small school so most students had to participate in more than one sport. It was quite ridiculous, but we practiced track and baseball on the same nights -- an hour or so for one and the same for the other. As a consequence, we were not much good in either. I played a mean outfield and hit all of 0.125. I had no stamina for the long races in track and was not fast enough for the sprints so I ended up mostly on relay teams.

I did win a few ribbons, but mostly seconds and thirds. At the annual class track meet, the seniors didn’t have a quarter miler so the coach put me in that race. Today, the athletes run it like a sprint. In those days -- unknown to me -- athletes were supposed to pace themselves to leave some for the final spurt. I ran it full speed the entire way and won the race, so coach declared I should enter that event at the up-coming district track meet.

As it happened, the 440 came immediately following a relay race in which I participated and, my stamina, being what it was, I didn’t finish. I tried to run it like I had in our class meet but I simply ran out of gas.

Life’s Little Learning Experiences

When V-J Day came -- victory in the Japanese sector of World War II -- we were given a day off at school. A group of guys decided to spend the day out in the country just goofing off as we did many times. One of the group had a bottle of wine and it was the first experience for most of us in the area of alcoholic beverages. Nobody much cared for the taste and by the time it got around to everyone, only a swallow or two was available to each.

However, by the end of the day we had wandered some five miles to the little town of Arthur and it was getting dark. The only business open in town was a tavern so we went in and pooled our money for something to eat.

While doing this, a highway patrol officer came in, looked us over and called us aside for a talk. We thought we were in big trouble for being under age and in a tavern but we found out later that wasn’t the case. It seems some inmates of the Eldora boys’ reformatory had escaped and we fit the description in a general way. After the patrol officer talked to us a while and was convinced we weren’t the runaways, he called our folks and they came to pick us up. By that time it was nearly midnight and all our parents were so concerned we were not disciplined too harshly.

A part time job opening came up during my senior year. It was at the J.C. Penney department store. It was cleaner and paid a little more, so I took it. Later, however, a layoff came and it boiled down to the manager’s son or me, so guess who got the ax? It was near graduation so I didn’t suffer too much. I did learn not to expect good work to out-shine blood ties.

Penney’s was (and is) a national chain and it was a good learning experience for me. One merchandising philosophy they had was to mark down items at specific times during their shelf life. All products were date coded so we knew how long they had been in the store. At the end of three months, ten per cent would be knocked off, another ten the next three months, and so on, until the item sold. After a year, if the item was still in the store, it would be discarded. It seems a costly method but it insured fresh stock and not very much was left at the end of a year.

The only thing I can remember not selling was a group of terribly gaudy bow ties that I was told to take to the trash. I couldn’t bear to throw them away so I stashed them at home and later became somewhat of a symbol for bow ties in high school and college.

The Penney’s store had the old pneumatic system of recording all sales. The clerk put the sales ticket and money in the tube and it was spirited to a second floor balcony where a bookkeeper made change and sent it back. All transactions throughout the store were made in this way -- a far cry from today’s electronic cash registers.

We had an interesting time when we were able to get scarce war-time goods such as silk hose. We got enough of a shipment to advertise the arrival and the crowd of women was unbelievable. At the end of the day, the heavy counters lining the women’s ready-to-wear department were nearly pushed to the wall from the crush of customers. One woman said she dropped her watch in a dressing room but it was so crowded she couldn’t bend over to pick it up. She asked a clerk to look for it after the crowd left at closing time.

Boys’ State

Election to Iowa Boys’ State was a highlight of my junior year. Normally, the American Legion picked two juniors and paid their way to the event. The war years, however, caused cancellation so no one had gone for four years.

Because of that, the local post decided to sponsor four juniors and four seniors in 1946. The function of Boys’ State is to help high school students learn more about local and state government.

We got our first lesson in politics the second night at Camp Dodge, near Des Moines, where we spent the week. We arrived early at a meeting only to be prevented from going into the assembly hall. Apparently a metropolitan school with a large contingent was having a caucus. After they asked where we were from, they let us come in. We later realized that even though we were from a small town, our eight votes put us in a class with the large schools.

The gist of the conversation inside the hall was for us to make a deal with the metropolitan delegation. If we would vote for their man as speaker of the house, they would vote for our legislation. Since we had no preference for speaker, we agreed to the deal. The next morning, we dutifully voted for their speaker and he was elected.

What we were not aware of, however, was that the speaker set the agenda and our piece of legislation was scheduled late in the afternoon. By that time, another measure very similar to ours was voted in. When ours came up, it was not even voted on because of the similarities. Our big city friends were relieved of their obligation but still received our help to elect their man -- a first lesson in politics. Be sure to know the true results of any deal you might make.

Another memorable moment at Boys’ State came at the closing ceremonies with Iowa Governor Blue as the speaker and some 700 juniors and seniors in attendance. Along with the governor on the stage was his good looking teenage daughter. After his address, he asked if there were any questions.

From the back row of the auditorium a hand rose. “Yes,” said the governor.

A serious question about something the governor had said during his speech was of course expected. Instead, the questioner asked, “Sir, does your daughter have 699 friends?”

Basketball Shorts

As I noted before, my athletic career was less than outstanding and maybe my lack of concentration -- or paying attention to the wrong thing -- contributed to that mediocrity.

An example: We were playing basketball at Pocahontas (yes, there is such a town in Iowa ) and we were getting beat as usual. Coach had called a time out, but how much can you say when you are 20 points down and less than a minute to play. Consequently, we had time to spare before play was resumed and we utilized it by watching the really good looking Pocahontas cheerleaders. My concentration powers were at their peak in this situation and before I realized it, the rest of the two teams were back playing and I was still watching. Loud screaming from the bench broke my reverie and my embarrassment was complete.

Also as noted before, my 120 pound, five-feet ten-inch body was not exactly ideal for sports. I had difficulty in filling out the standard uniforms issued to basketball players.

This deficiency was brought home one night when I found a note pinned to my jersey. I have often wondered why I didn’t save that memento because it contained a poem referring to my body type. I don’t remember the poem but it was funny and closed with the suggestion that I use the safety pin attached to hold up my basketball shorts.

The poem was not signed but I had a good idea where it came from. I had a number of girl friends -- not girl friends, but girls who were friends -- who were prone to such antics. I took it as a joke and waited my chance to return the favor some time.

Despite the won-loss record, those were fun times. One basketball game, however, did not distinguish me as a good sport. We were playing Denison (a much larger school with a good team) and contrary to all odds, we were within two points as time was running out.

One of our players threw up a desperation shot as the gun went off and miraculously it went in. The officials, however, ruled the ball was not in the air when the buzzer sounded the end of the game and therefore we lost by two points.

We were all furious, of course, and as we went into the locker room, I vented my anger at some cast iron coat hooks on the wall and they snapped off like match sticks. Just then, the officials came in and told us a review with the time keeper resulted in a reversal of their decision and the basket had counted for a tie game. We went back up to the gym and lost in overtime.

My deed had not gone unnoticed, so the following Monday I was transported back to Denison and required to apologize in front of a high school assembly. While that escapade gave me experience in public speaking, I don’t recommend it.

Football and Forensics

Football produced another embarrassing situation. As is customary, the visiting team uses the girl’s locker room because at that time of year it is available except during daytime physical education classes. In this instance we were assigned the Cherokee (another unique Iowa school name) vacant lockers in the girls’ quarters, where we left our street clothes during the game.

Each locker had a combination lock on it, but obviously we did not use it since we were not given the numbers for opening it. Some wiseacre, however, came through the locker room when we were gone and twirled the dial on my lock.

After the game -- which we lost 45-0, by the way -- a search was made for the combination to the lock without success. The bus was getting ready to leave and I had no choice but to accept the offer of a track suit and tennis shoes three sizes too large as apparel for the ride home. School officials promised they would mail my clothes when the combination to the lock was found.

That might have been all right under other circumstances, but as it happened we didn’t arrive back to Ida Grove until nearly midnight. At the time, we lived in an apartment downtown and that night a street carnival was still going full blast.

I got more than a few side glances as I made my way through the crowd with people wondering what this clown was doing in that kind of a getup. By the way, I did get my clothes back and I returned part of the sweat suit. I kept the shirt that had Cherokee Track emblazoned on the front of it. For years, people thought I was a track star at a major school.

In later years I was also mistaken for a letter winner from Grand Island, a major sports power in Nebraska. After I graduated, my folks moved to Ord, Nebraska and I would occasionally wear my Ida Grove letter sweater -- an I superimposed over a G. It was quite similar to the G over I for Grand Island, and since the colors were the same, the mistake was natural.

Four seniors qualified for the State Forensic League contest in Iowa City April 10-12. Richard Overholtzer and I won three of three debates to make it, along with two other seniors.

Socialized Medicine was the national debate topic that year. Fifty years later, the question of some type of national health care was still being thrown around in the U.S. Congress.

Out of the twelve rounds of debate, Richard and I won two on the negative side. Our other team, Don Young and Marvin Lorenzen, got a superior rating for their resolution while our team got similar recognition for a bill submitted to the student senate.

Senioritis

Perhaps the senior philosophy printed in the May 7, 1947 edition of Old Gold and Blue, our high school newspaper, says more about the perception held by my classmates with regard to me than anything else.

To quote: “Oh lookie, here’s weary Kenny, our senior class president, and surely his advice will seem as though ‘twere heaven sent. Says Ken, To succeed you gotta hypen the Zambe, Rondudi el pitcotish -- as any fool can plainly see! Clear?”

The same issue announced the election of those seniors to the most category -- most charming, most likely to succeed, et cetera. My status was Most Cooperative, a designation I was happy to receive.

There were many other memorable moments in my high school career but listing them seems terribly self-serving but I guess that’s what memoirs are for.

Some highlights: Being selected to a mass band at Sac City which was conducted by Karl King, who was the successor to the renowned John Philip Sousa, The March King; being named to the National Best Thespians Honor Roll for 1946-47 by Dramatics magazine; being selected as a waiter at the Junior-Senior prom of 1945, which was considered one of the highest honors a sophomore could receive; sports editor of the Old Gold and Blue; making the honor roll all but one quarter; taking part in two different national tests -- one conducted by Pepsi Cola and the other by Westinghouse -- to select scholarship winners (only four seniors took the tests); transcribing a radio show for WNAX in Yankton, South Dakota in which I gave a three-minute talk on Evaluation of High School Extra-curricular Activities; becoming a member of DeMolay, an organization for young people sponsored by Masons.

Although I did not qualify for any of the major scholarships in the contests mentioned above, I did win $100 stipend to Iowa State University based on a paper I did concerning county government. I interviewed every county official to see what they felt would be the one most important improvement in that level of administration. Most prominent in the comments was the suggestion that the office of county assessor should be eliminated since the work was only seasonal. I based my paper on that premise. Some years later, Iowa counties eliminated the assessor as a full-time elected official.

I did accept a scholarship to Simpson college at Indianola, Iowa. It was an athletic/academic scholarship and provided half my first year tuition. My high school guidance counselor, Lilah Simmers, was instrumental in getting me that scholarship.

I was never asked to go out for any sport at Simpson so I don’t know where the athletic part of the scholarship came from. The academic part was not that great, either.

Even though I was on the honor roll throughout high school, I did not end up in the top ten per cent of my class of 50 students. That was partly my own fault. As the class president, I had free access to the administration’s office for various reasons so I thought I had inside knowledge.

As in most schools, seniors don’t have to take final exams if their grades are up to par. Consequently, when I saw the secretaries posting grades in the office late in the semester I figured no changes would be made. I informed my friends of this fact and intimated doing any serious studying the last few weeks would be an exercise in futility. I dropped two places in class standings those last weeks. I’ll never know what I saw in the office to make me think grades would not be submitted for seniors. As in the case of most guardhouse lawyers, my advice was just about as valuable as what it cost the recipients.