The Hangout:

Jones DX gas station on the corner of Seerley Boulevard and Main Street in my hometown of Cedar Falls, Iowa, was the place to hang out with my buddies.  Roy Weikert owned the station, and he didn't mind if we hung out there as long as we didn't get in the way and as long as we bought a bottle of pop. I was fourteen years old and not able to drive, but that was to come soon than I expected.

The older guys would drive in just to show off their hot rods and custom rides and wrap up their exhaust pipes. And they were loud!  I just sat down and waited for the day when I could drive alone.

There was a driving range at the college where my dad taught where new drivers learned to drive. My dad would take my sister Barbara there and I would ride along.

I knew already that I could drive better than she could.  I just needed to get my chance.  In the meantime I waited.

Not too much later we were visiting Grammy Spickler's farm.  My dad wanted to get some fresh air. We went for a ride.  It was my big chance.  My dad pulled off the road and he asked me if I wanted to drive. "You bet!! WOW!!"  I slid out the front door right into the driver seat.  With my dad's help we were off.  I was driving!  I could barely see over the dashboard.  My mother never knew.

Later he took me to the driving range where I did quite well. We went to the driving range often after that.

 Later I got my driver's permit so I could drive on the road with my dad or mom.

In the meantime I waited, hanging out at Jones DX station, drinking my bottle of pop.

TV's and Cardboard Boxes

Dear Ethan:

I hear you like to play in cardboard boxes at home with your friends.  The bigger the box the better.  I also know that you like to watch TV, but when I was a kid there were no TV's.  We just listened to the radio or played in the neighborhood.

One day after I had just finished my paper route in the neighborhood,  I walked past the Perry house, and there was something different going on.  There was a soft blue light coming out of a window.  The next day there was strange long rod on the top of the roof with lots of other rods sticking out.

A couple of days later,  Bush Dodd, our good friend across the street,  started carrying a lot of old tools and boards of wood into the Perry house.  It looked like Bush was remodeling the house. and he was.

The kids on the block were wondering what was going on, including me.  Even some of grown ups were starting to take notice of what was going on and got curious and started to poke around.  Some of the moms were getting nervous and took kids indoors and to bed, including me.  It went on for a couple of days.

Then one day Mr. Perry invited us all to come in for a surprise.  When we all came in we were in what looked like a little movie theater with a big radio and a movie going on.  We had never seen  such a thing.  Mr. Perry explained that it was a television, like a movie in your own home. The picture was in black and white, and we thought it was something wonderful.

A couple of years went by and my dad finally bought our own TV set.  It came in a big cardboard box, and  my best friend, Bill and I played in that box until it finally broke completely down.

You know what, Ethan? I love big old boxes.  When we get together again, let's get a big old cardboard box and play.

 My best game is to make a fort!  The bigger the better.

Love you, Grandpa

• The Wild Ones

When I was in high school there were two car clubs in the Cedar Falls and Waterloo communities. Cedar Falls had the Pacers, all from Cedar Falls High, who mainly drove 1940 Ford coupes, lowered in the front and painted in primer gray.  They had the obligatory club plaque hanging from the rear bumper, and they wore jackets with "PACERS'  on the back.

I think I knew most of the Pacers by name, car and reputation.  But the only one I remember today was Jace.  He was tall and thin, had "the hair," and was quite good looking from the girls'  opinion.  I knew him later in college.

There were probably twenty or so members and a number of wannabes,  They worked mostly on their own cars and cruised but made an awesome spectacle when they were together.  That was usually on summer Saturday nights at Teen Time.  

Waterloo had the Ramblers.  They drove mostly newer model Chevrolets, lowered and nicely painted with a name lettered on the rear fenders.  One was a '56 two-door painted a dark red called "Blood Rust."  These guys were usually older, out of high school and had more money in their cars.  They were also from Waterloo, which made them bigger stuff in our eyes since Waterloo was the larger of the two cites.  I have no idea how many there were in all, because we were less likely to see them all at one time.

But they could be seen together sometimes at the Hop at Electric Park.  We knew them more by the names on their cars than by their real names.

The Ramblers and the Pacers seldom crossed paths and stayed mainly in their own towns.  They weren't territorial , but they kept distances from one another.

There were also car clubs in various small towns not far away like Janesville, Waverly and Parkersburg.  But they were lesser known....until the Dike Incident.

Who knows what the real story is? Even those who were there have blown it way out  of proportion. My telling of it is certainly second-hand, and over fifty years removed.  It must have been the summer of '59 when it happened.  There was one kid who was sort of on the fringes of the Pacers.  I knew him but can't remember his name.  He was small and mainly a punk.  Somehow he got into a scrape with some guys from one of the small towns and got his butt kicked.  He then threatened to call the Pacers and the Ramblers down on his adversaries.  Word started  to spread  that everyone was to meet in Dike for a Rumble.

Now, Dike was a very small town.  At the time,  the whole town could have been treed like "The Wild Ones", only it wouldn't have taken as many guys.  The thought of having several hundred angry teens in town was a little terrifying. The Dike police called for reinforcements.

So, on a hot summer afternoon every car club from miles around, converged on Dike for a showdown.  The Iowa Highway Patrol sealed off the town, moved in and nothing happened.  I think everybody, especially the would-be combatants, were glad the cops showed up.  It was over before it started.

But there is still this myth that persists and grows with each telling.  The story made the "Des Moines Register",  sort of like the Arnold Park riots of 1965.  The telling is more important than what really happened.

If someone wanted to, there are a lot stories like that that need to be researched.  I wonder how many guys still remember that incident, and even more, I wonder what happened to all those '40 Fords.

THE NEIGHBOR I NEVER KNEW

I owe a lot to a neighbor of mine at our home in Cupertino, even though I never knew his name or exactly which house he lived in. But one summer day he conveyed a very important message to me just by his actions, as I would see him day after day briskly walking lap after lap around the block. Actually, he was shaming me into action, and even though he wasn't aware of what he was doing, it worked.

In my garage sitting on top 0f my seldom-used table saw was my 0ld PRC racing wheelchair. It had been a gift from my old running friends the year after a motorcycle on which I shouldn't have been riding took a nosedive into a ditch and left me an L-1 paraplegic. It had allowed me for a time to "run" again, and I truly loved it. But, as time passed, and my friends stopped running for various reasons, so did I. And for eight years my racing chair and I gathered dust together. Oh, I stayed busy as a teacher, raising three children, and enjoying a wonderful relationship with my wife, Diane. But the big blue recliner in front of the TV was far too comfortable, and the waistline was growing bigger by the year.

So one day in late July I dragged down the old PRC, pumped up the tires and started around the block. I made four laps before turning into the driveway for a glass of lemonade. Within three weeks I was doing three miles, and by August I was up to five. Looking into the mirror was becoming more pleasant as I tightened my belt a couple of notches and my face became thinner.

In September that year I was joined two evenings a week by one of Diane's co-workers at the Harker School whom she told about my "running." Mike and I became great friends and our running conversations covered nearly every topic imaginable, usually lasting well into the evening as we joined Diane in the living room for an after-run beer.

We had never really considered our running times during our five-mile runs, even though we knew we were getting faster, until one evening as we turned up the street toward home Mike looked at his watch and said that if we really pushed it we could break fifty minutes. So we broke it, and from that point on, time became a factor. Soon we broke forty-five, and when we broke forty we celebrated with a pizza. I knew that there was a limit that I could do in the old PRC which weighed over thirty pounds. But I also knew that I couldn't afford one of the newer models. My times kept dropping, with sub-forties becoming more regular in a 10K race. I was even running some mid-thirties and decreased my times.

On the weekends and when I didn't run with Mike, I increased my mileage. I could tell that I was getting stronger. Then I began to look for some competition.

I first ran the San Jose Mercury News 10K in 1980, three months before my motorcycle accident. I ran it several times in the PRC from 1982 t0 1986. But from 1986 until the next summer the chair sat on on the top of table saw.

When the race announcement appeared in the Mercury News I sent my application immediately. I was pumped. Mike and I continued to train as the race day approached, and I became more confident that I could at least break forty-five minutes. I decided that was my goal. I felt it was realistic.

On race day I arrived at the starting line an hour early. I wanted to meet and talk to other wheelchair racers, ask them about their equipment and their training techniques, and to learn about the best ways to push.

It was there that I met Marty and Emily Ball. At the age of 50, Marty was at least four years older than me, yet he had won the Mercury News the previous year and was one of the favorites. Emily had won the previous year's women's devision, and as it turned out, she won again. I felt that I was in pretty good hands, and at only 46 maybe I could compete after all.

After looking over my chair, Emily asked me if I was interested in buying a new one. I said I was, but that price was a real consideration for me, and that I wasn't sure that I could afford one right then. She responded by telling me of a friend of hers who had one available at a reasonable price. And, I responded that if the price was right and the chair fit, I would certainly consider it. Her friend turned out to be Jerry Deets, one of the world's best wheelchair racers.

The Mercury News turned out to be the last race I ran in in the PRC. I bettered my goal by nearly five minutes at 40:16. Marty and the fast pack left me at the starting line and soon were out of sight. But I managed to stay within sight of Emily for most 0f the race and finished only slightly more than four minutes behind her.

It turned out that I ended up eighth in the field of sixteen. But it was a distant eighth. Yet, with the more than 7000 runners, I did quite well. My long time running able bodied friends and Mike were duly impressed.

On the following Saturday I saw Jerry Deets at the National Wheelchair Basketball Tournament regionals in San Jose. I bought a new racing chair from him, and made a new friend. It's the friendships that make sports fun, I guess.

In the years that followed I purchased another racing wheelchair and entered several races, including three marathons. When race sponsors began to age group the wheelchair division, it opened a new dimension for me. I won or placed in several events, earning medals and even some money!

The year 2002 proved to be a turning point in my riding when I purchased my first handcycle. I rode it so much that I wore it out and had to get a new one, which is the one I use today.

The neighbor who inspired me to race does not know this story and probably never will. I would like to share this with him to thank him for his contribution to my life.

To date, I have logged over 2500 miles, and am still going. I'd like to think that he would be proud.

Steam Engines

STEAM ENGINE TRACTORS

My dad once wrote that as a child he would lie awake during a spring night with the windows open enjoying the sounds of the South Dakota prairie . . . a far off coyote, the night birds and the crickets. But then one night he heard another sound, a familiar sound, but a sound foreign to the night, the sound of a tractor working the fields, the steady put-put- put sound of a two cylinder John Deere tractor working its way back and forth across a a distant field at night in the in the dark, the sound of progress.

My dad was born at the turn of the twentieth century in a house that stills stands on a section of land seven miles east of Pierpont, South Dakota. And, he brought the experiences of that time to life for me in his writings and in the things he taught me. It was a time when those in agriculture were realizing the awesome responsibility not only to feed themselves and their way of life, but to feed an entire nation. It was a time when machines were replacing horses, and the necessity to produce more more rapidly and consistently required every farmer to be both inventor and innovator just to survive.

Out of that time came massive steam machines that belched black smoke, and hissed, and whirred and chugged along on huge spiked iron wheels, steam engines to till the soil and drive the threshing machines, clear the land and move a nation into the twentieth century.

It was a need to pass on the meaning of that experience that prompted our visits to the farm of his youth, and his writings and pictures albums. A need that I didn't understand at the time when he would drag me to off once more on the hottest day of the summer to see the old steam engines belch black smoke and hiss and chug along on huge spiked iron wheels at the Cedar Falls Thresher Men's Field Days. But, it's a genuine need we all feel as we get older to stress upon those who follow that the times in which we lived were significant and important.

Oh, I tolerated the trips to Thresher Men's Field Days and even enjoyed them a bit, I guess, but how many times did I have to see a steam engine pulling a thirty-two bottom plow to know that the work was hard and dirty and hot and not a whole lot more efficient than than using horses to do the same job. I was missing the point . There was a lot more there than just a bunch of old men in bib overalls trying to relive old times. There was a message there and I was missing it.

When I went to work, many of the jobs I got were on farms. I detassled corn and bailed hay mostly. I was growing up. I began to understand what it all meant. Even though I was a "town kid," I began to see the big picture, and I envied my schoolmates who lived on farms, and visited them when I could. The idea of living and working on a farm drew me in.

My mother grew up on a farm not too far from the Mississippi River in Illinois. My grandfather passed away long before I was born, but my grandmother ran the farm with the aide of several hired hands. Later, my cousin, Keith, who is sixteen years older than me took the farm over, where he and his wife still live. He no longer runs the farm but leases the land to the Cargill Corporation.

My family has held the farm for over 100 years. The barn still stands on a little hill not far from the house.My wife and I visited the farm in 2011, and it is still a beautiful site to see.

On our trip through Wisconsin, Illinois, and Iowa, we were amazed by the vast rolling fields of corn and soybeans, now run by huge corporate farms. The changes are amazing. It's happening
all across the country. Our country has a huge appetite!

Today I am substitute teaching at Chico High School in Chico, California, where I will be working with high school students in the agriculture program at the school. Most of the students are members of the Future Farmers of America program. Unlike me, so long ago, I know they are getting it.

My Summer of 1963

My Summer of 1963

I was just finishing my junior year at the State College of Iowa and looking for adventure and summer employment. My older friend Jack, who lived across the street, had spent several summers as a ranger at Grand Teton National Park and he told me all about it. I was encouraged to give rangering a shot. I was headed to the Tetons.

I discovered that becoming a ranger wasn't quite that easy, so Jack gave me some tips. Number One was to mail as many resume letters to every National Park in the country as you could. So I did. Every night when I wasn't studying for finals I was sending letters. I started with Grand

Teton National Park. Then Yellow Stone Park. Yosemite was next along with the Grand Canyon. Then the Great Smokey National Park, Glacier National Park and more. Then I waited. Nothing!
So I sent more letters and waited and waited.

My parents left to visit relatives in Illinois and South Dakota. When they left, I was alone. My brother went with my parents. My sister had long ago gone to live in Denver. I was giving up hope for a summer in a National Park.

It was hot. I was disgruntled and angry at myself. The chance of getting any summer job was passing, especially a job in a National Park.

I was lying on the couch on the front porch when the phone rang. I thought it was one of my buddies who wanted to go down to the Circle for a couple of brews. But that wasn't it. There was a man on the line who identified himself as the superintendent of Lassen Volcanic National Park in California.

I was overwhelmed. He told me that he had read my letter, and he asked me if I was interested in a job at Lassen. I stuttered and said, "YES!" He asked me how soon I could be there. I said that I was going to be there as soon as I can. He said we'll expect you.

He said that I would have to purchase my ranger uniform at Fort Collins.

My mother always had some money stuffed away just for "those" kinds of circumstances. I knew where the money was and I took less than $100. I loaded up my '54 Chevy with what I thought I needed, filled up the tank, checked the tires, and I was ready. While the Chevy was drivable, it needed some attention. It took me most of the day to get on my way. It was late afternoon when I finally pulled out of our drivcway.

I had gone on a ski trip over spring, so I was familiar with the trip on I 80 . But I wasn't prepared for the Colorado deer. I hit one on the right front fender. It took me most of the day to get on my way again.

My sister had moved to Denver to get her Masters Degree at Denver U and had a baby girl. I knew how to get to her home, so I moved in for the night. I took care of the baby while she did some shopping. I was worn out so I spent the night.

The next morning I called the Park Superintendent to tell him that I was on my way, which I was at noon. The Chevy was running fairly well.

It's a long and lonely drive from Denver to Lassen Volcanic National Park. I had no idea how long. In my home state of Iowa I could cross the entire state in a matter of hours, but it took me more than a day to cross Colorado. In Iowa I could always wave to a friendly farmer as I passed by, but in Colorado I was alone. I was amazed at the changing landscapes, mountains, deserts, open space and forests. I crossed into Utah late in the evening and found a place to sleep in a little town I'll never see again. At one place I slept on a picnic table at a highway rest stop. I was concerned about the Chevy. It was hot. I was thirsty. I was in the middle of nowhere but it was beautiful.

I crossed over into Utah and it was much the same. I pushed on to get as far as I could, but stopped frequently at a gas stations because I didn't know when I would see the next one.

My brother had a little portable radio which I grabbed before I left Iowa. Why not? He was off with my parents and I was alone. I could pick up some radio signals, but they went in and out. Yeah, I was lonely.

I entered Nevada and stopped at a gas station. While the attendant filled my tank, I lost fifty cents at the slot machine. There was a big flashing sign with a nearly naked show girl on top.
I wouldn't have seen something that in Iowa
My goal for the day was Reno. I knew I was getting close to my goal. In fact, I was only four hours away.

The landscape was changing, more forest land. I was on Highway 36 and I knew that it would take me to the Park.

I was a sorry-looking vagabond when I drove up the Lassen National Park headquarters. I walked in and introduced myself to the Park Superintendent. We shook hands and I took a deep breath. I will never forget that moment. I was a Ranger!

Mineral, California, was a very quaint little community with the Park Headquarters, a gas station, which served as a grocery store as well, and a population of about 85 full time residents.

I was introduced to the regional ranger who escorted me to my cabin eight miles up highway 89 to the Southwest entrance station where I was to reside for the next three months. The cabin was of WPA vintage and only large enough for me and my two roommates. Dick Black was the oldest of the three of us and was a veteran of ranger life. I shared the bunk room with Mike Katz, another ranger. He also had some experience. That meant that I did the dishes and cleaned the cabin

Our job was to greet the park visitors and collect their entrance fees. Our little kiosk was hardly large enough for the two of us to move around. But we managed. Dick was responsible for patrolling the road from the entrance to the summit of the road, an elevation of over 8,500 feet.

The air was clean and fresh except for the sulphur smell that settled from the Sulphur Works up the road.

When my watch was over I drove across the Park to Manzanita Lake at the north end of the park. That was where the action was. Rangers were everywhere, so I introduced myself and entered the visitor station. From Manzanita Lake there was a beautiful view of Lassen Peak. I was overwhelmed. I told myself that I had to hike up Lassen Peak. And I did. Not just once but several times over the summer. Whenever I was able I explored that wonderful discovery.

And so the summer went on, working at the entrance station and exploring the park. I knew it would have to come to end, and it did. I packed up the Chevy, and said goodbye to Lassen Volcanic National Park. I had to complete my schooling. But I knew I would return.

And return, I did, many times over the years. Sixteen years ago my wife and I bought a home at Lake Almanor, just a 40 minute drive from Lassen. We go there often and love to take family and friends.

SOLDIERS COMING HOME

I was three years old when World War Two ended, but I remember it well. I remember the celebration and the commotion of the college boys racing up and down Seerley Boulevard hanging on to the running boards of their old jalopies, blowing their horns and cranking up air raid sirens. It scared me because I didn't understand what was happening. But I knew it was something big. My mother finally caught up with me as I ran toward the spectacle on Seerley Boulevard and we both stood on the curb and watched it all.

The boys were coming home! Everything was going to be all right. But as the boys came home, what were they going to do then? Many went to college.

Cedar Falls, Iowa, a quiet community of about fifteen thousand residents, was home to Iowa State Teachers' College, and it became the home of hundreds of men returning from the war.

Prior to then most of the students at the college were young women. But now, many students were men. These men were more mature than the college boys of the past. Many were married with families, which created a big problem. Where were they going to live?

My family had a basement apartment in our house, and we rented it out to a number of young couples who were students at the college. It was clean and comfortable with a backyard private entrance so we wouldn't run into each other. While the apartment had a toilet and laundry, the renters had to go upstairs to bathe. No one seemed to mind.

The first couple who lived in our apartment were Jim and Onalae Jenson. Jim had been a student at I.S.T.C, but he was drafted into the Army Air Corps and served in Europe. As a bomber pilot he flew numerous missions, was shot down and captured. But he was able to escape with the assistance of the French Underground. Later Jim was shot down a second time and held for two and a half years. He was given a garbage disposal assignment under heavy guard. As the war wore down security was loosened somewhat. Jim drove a horse wagon of garbage out of the camp and just kept going until he was rescued by the French once again.

Jim finished his studies at I.S.T.C and decided to become a veterinarian. He finished his degree at Iowa State College in Ames, Iowa, and started his practice specializing in large animals in southern California. Jim cared for many of the horses used in Hollywood.

I recently heard from Onalae. Jim has passed away. It was Onalae who told me Jim's stories.

Bob Siddens, the renowned wrestling coach, and his wife Jo, also lived in our basement apartment. Bob used to take me up to the wrestling room on Saturday mornings and show me how to wrestle. He also showed me how to stand on my head. Over the years there were at least ten couples who lived downstairs.

Many other homeowners were doing the same, but the housing was very tight. More housing was needed to meet the demand.

When the war was over the military was loaded with surpluses, especially Quonset buildings. One by one, Quonset by Quonset, Sunset Village emerged from a field south of the I.S.TC. campus. Sunset Village served the housing needs of hundreds of students and their families from 1947 until 1972 when it was demolished, and replaced by apartments facilities.

Many of my friends and classmates lived in Sunset Village. Even a number of faculty members lived in Sunset Village.

I used to go with some of my friends to deliver the local newspapers. It gave me an opportunity to take a look inside a Quonset hut. The Quonset was split into two apartments, making a small facility even smaller. It was tight and hard to keep clean depending on the weather. The roads were not well surfaced. The rent was affordable and the demand was high. They took what they could get. Hot in the summer and cold in the winter. There was no insulation.

I'm going back to Cedar Falls this summer, just for a short time. But I think I'll drive down Seerley Boulevard after I drive past my old home on Walnut Street.

I'm going to take some pictures of College Hill. More to come.




My Teachers were Heroes Too!

The mission at Iowa State Teachers College was to train the best teachers for the children in the state of Iowa, and that mission has been upheld.

To accomplish that mission there had to be a tremendous effort on the part of the instructors and professors who taught their student how to teach. Among those special people there were those who also served gallantly during World War Two:

1: Dr. Howard Vander Beek guided assault landing crafts onto the beaches at Normandy. He taught English at the Price Laboratory School and was a professor at the college.

2: Dr. Randall Bebb, who taught at the Lab School, flew supplies over the "hump" from India into China. He also was a professor at the college.

3: Dr. Ross Nielson served a combat information officer on a Navy destroyer. He, also was teacher at the Lab School and at the college.

4: Dr. William Happ's engine failed on a training flight over Lake Michigan. He dreaded water for nearly two days before he was rescued. As a result he insisted on building a indoor swimming pool at the Lab School. He taught hundreds of children how to swim.

THE LITTLE COTTAGE ON THE COLLEGE CAMPUS OR EVEN THE KINDERGARTEN TEACHER WAS A Ph.D.

Dr. Dorothy Koehring was my first teacher. She was a small woman in her late fifties with gray hair and kind eyes. She taught nursery school and kindergarten, and we all loved her.

My sister, Barbara, would walk me up the little sidewalk to the Iowa State Teachers College campus. Mother would say, "Take Randall by the handle and lead him off to school." My dad asked me what I did at school, and I said I played and played and played.

Iowa State Teachers College was one of the premier colleges in the country for the training of teachers. Its mission was to prepare young men and women to become teachers. My dad was a professor at the college.

To achieve that mission the college had to teach students how to teach. For that purpose a laboratory school was developed where college students could develop their skills. As a child I attended that school from nursery school through high school. My teachers were all professors at the college and most of them had a Ph.D. They taught both at the college and at the Lab School. Many times there would be college students observing the classes I was attending. My teachers were actually teaching two classes at the same time, one for my classes and the college students who were observing. It was a school within a school.

I have been in school since I was four years old as a student and as a teacher for forty six years. My grandmother was a teacher, my mother taught in a community college, and my dad was a professor, and my brother and his wife were teachers as well. Most of my best friends were teachers.

Iowa State Teachers College became the State College of Iowa, and later the University of Northern Iowa. The university has grown tremendously. The little cottage on the campus is long gone.

I'm sitting in my computer room listening to some BLUES ROCK on my iPhone and remembering Miss Koehring, Dr. Paul Brimm, Mardell Mohn, Mrs. Blackman, Bud Happ, Dwight Curtis, Corrine Harper, Howard Vanderbeek, Marguerite Struble, Al Moon, Marshall Schools, Al Potter, Mrs. Holmberg, John Aldrich, Thomas Wikstrom and Ross Nielson

From my yearbook: "The Malcolm Price Laboratory School is an important part of the Iowa State Teachers College. It is here in the Laboratory School that the college students who plan to become teachers have practical, first-hand experiences in the learning to be teachers. We, all of us, have a responsibility to help them in every way possible to become good teachers for the boys and girls in the state of Iowa."

The Rock Island Rocket

Ethan,

One thing I love about living in Chico is hearing train whistles far off in the distance. As the train gets closer to town the whistles get louder. Then the crossing barriers go down, and the train roars through at speeds up to seventy miles an hour as the huge engine shakes the ground beneath its steel rails. Trains have always fascinated me.

My mom and dad gave me and my brother, Hugh, an electric train set for Christmas one year. We were at Grammy Spickler's farm, of course. I couldn't wait to get home so I could show it to my best friend Bill. Bill had a train set in his bedroom. His dad made a fold-down table for his train set. It had tunnels and bridges and all kinds of farm animals to put on his train. I would take my train to his house, and we would play trains for hours and hours.

Back in those days trains were a lot different than they are today. Most trains had coal-burning steam engines that spewed out huge clouds of black smoke and white steam. Unlike today's modern trains that run smoothly and quietly, the trains I remember as a boy were dirty and noisy and rough-riding. But it was always exciting to see them when they stopped at the railroad station. The fireman and the engineer had to take on water for the boilers, grease the wheels and sometimes hook up more train cars. Being a railway worker was back-breaking dirty work.

There were two major railroads that ran through my home town of Cedar Falls, the Rock Island Line and the Illinois Central. There was also the Waterloo, Cedar Falls & Northern. The was a local line that went north and south not too far from our house. There was also a small train line that delivered coal to the college. It ran two blocks from our house. It ran so slow that we could pass it on our bicycles. I had a friend named Gerry whose dad was a engineer on the WCF&N, and occasionally Gerry got to ride with his dad on the train. He was the envy of us all.

Fairly often my dad made business trips around the state, and he usually took the train. That meant that we would all get to drive to the station to send him off. It also meant that we got to watch the Land of Corn come into town and stop at the Rock Island depot. That was a real excitement. My dad would board the train and wave goodbye, and slowly the big black engine would build up steam. The engineer would sound the whistle, push the throttle and the train would slowly begin to move. Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug! The Land of Corn would gradually gather gain speed until it was out of sight. But we could still hear the Chug, Chug, Chug and the blast of the whistle as my mother drove us home.

A week later my dad would come home and we got to do it all over again in reverse. The Land of Corn always arrived at 9:30PM. It was great to have my dad home again.

One summer there was a horrible train accident when a fire engine on its way to a fire was struck by a train. The firemen were sounding their siren and didn't hear the train coming. Just as the fire engine crossed the tracks it was hit by the train at full speed. Unfortunately, the firemen were all killed. After that they moved the fire station away from the railroad tracks.
It was a very sad time for the city of Cedar Falls.

My brother and I shared a bedroom on the second story of our house. On hot summer nights we always slept with the windows wide open. Shortly before 9:30 we could hear the Land of Corn coming into town and drawing to a stop at the Rock Island depot down town. Later on we could hear the departure whistle blow and the Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug! as the train left town again. We both listened to the train sounds as long as we could stay awake. Those are sounds I will never forget.

The Rock Island depot is still there, but it's now a bank. The trains no longer stop there the way they used to.

I know how much you like trains. I like them, too. Trains have changed a lot since I was a boy. I can't imagine what trains will be like when you grow up.

Love you, Grampa

Christmas at the Farm

Ethan

While I write this you and your dad are driving to Chico to spend some Christmas time with Grandma Fossum and me. Here in Chico we are both anxiously awaiting your arrival. The Christmas tree is lighted, Grandma is busy in the kitchen, and the gifts are under the tree. We can hardly wait to see you.

As I await your arrival I am thinking back to my childhood as I remember driving to my Grammy Spickler's home on the farm. There were five of us packed in the blue Chevrolet along with numerous gifts. Our route took us 140 miles past snow-covered fields as we passed dozens of beautifully decorated farmhouses, several towns and across the Mississippi River. Grammy Spickler was always waiting at the front door when we arrived.

The Christmas tree was cut from the woods in the back of the farm and it was always trimmed beautifully with many special decorations hanging from the branches.

It took time for all of the friends and relatives to arrive, especially when there was a bad snow storm. As they gathered there was talk of the weather and the corn crop, farm machinery and crop prices.

It took a long time to prepare dinner. There were a lot of mouths to feed, usually relatives I didn't know very well. Grammy Spickler's sisters were there: Aunt Nellie and Sister Ella, and boy could they cook. It seemed to take hours to prepare the dinner, but it was worth the wait. It seemed that Grammy Spickler was always in the kitchen

Once we sat down and said grace, the dinner was served: Roast chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh baked rolls, string beans, and dessert. Dessert was home-baked apple pie and white layer cake.

Since there wasn't room for adults and children at the table, we kids sat at our own table.

My cousin, Keith was just back from the War, and he and Elaine were newlyweds. I remember them sitting on the couch and snuggling. One Christmas Keith had to bring in a whole litter of baby pigs to keep them warm. They wouldn't have survived if they had stayed in the barn. By the next day the pigs were back with their mother and doing fine.

The big excitement, of course, was opening the presents. One year I got my electric train and another year I got my new Silver Streak sled. Most of our gifts were practical: a new flannel shirt, or a stocking cap, new winter gloves and story books.

My brother and I always wanted to stay up late so we could see Santa Claus, but we could never stay up that late. Grammy Spickler's house didn't have a fireplace, so we hung our stockings from the railings on the stairway.

We were always up early and came down stairs quietly so as not to bother the grownups. And guess what, Santa had been there! He never let us down. Grammy Spickler was already in the kitchen preparing breakfast. We asked here if she saw Santa Claus, and she would say, nope, I didn't get up that early.

Grammy Spickler was the only grandparent I ever knew. She was loving but firm and always had a twinkle in her eye. If I got out of line she would always say that she was going to pulverize me. I had know idea what pulverize really meant. But I knew enough to know that I'd better not do what I was doing. That's all I needed to know.

I loved to go to the farm. It was where my mother was born and where she grew up. I felt free at the farm, and I always felt safe. Most of all, I loved the farm at Christmas time.

Portia and me

I loved going to my grandmother's farm in Illionis. My mother was born and raised there.

My grandmother was widowed by the time I came along, and she ran the farming operation assisted by a couple of hired men, mainly neighbors. She tended the chickens, raised the garden, cooked the meals, and maintained the house. Grammy Spickler was a not a large woman, but she was strong and could carry two buckets of water from the pump quite easily.

She was very loving , but could be sterm when need be. When my sister and I got out of line, she would say that she was going to pulverize us or skin us alive. We had no idea what that meant, but it had to be something pretty awful. When we went to bed at night she always tucked us in and said our nightly prayer. "Now I lay me down to sleep."

I always had trouble going to sleep at night because I knew I'd get to see my friend Portia the next day. Portia lived on a farm about half a mile up the the road. At 9:00 Grammy Spickler would call Portia's mom to see if we could play together. The answer was always "yes."

So off I went up the road to Portia's farm. It was a long walk, especially in the winter. But I knew Grammy Spickler watched me all the way.

Portia's family raised horses and frequently road in trail rides and local horse shows. They were members of the Illinois City Saddle Club. Portia had two shetland ponies named Danny and Peanut, and they were the reason that I didn't sleep very well the night before. Portia and I were going to saddle up and ride.

Portia came out of the house wearing a checked shirt, dirty Levi's and a pair of worn-over cowboy boots that were hand-me-downs from Portia's older brother, Vaughn. (My sister had a crush on Vaughn.)

We saddled up the ponies and headed down into the timber. We would ride all morning before heading back up to the house where we ate peanut butter sandwiches and glasses of fresh farm milk. But first we unsaddled and watered the ponies, fed them some oats and let them roll in the dust.

After lunch we road the ponies back down to Grammy Spickler's farm and ate some of Grammy Spickler's sugar cookies and a glass of milk. After our snack we saddled up again and raced the ponies back to Portia's farm. For a while we'd help Vaughn do some of the chores in the barn. By then it was time for me to head back down the road to my grandmother's farm.

For years Portia and Iwere great friends. As we got older we rode bigger horses, took longer rides and participated in some of the saddle club events on Matched Pairs with fancy saddles and bridles. Portia's farm was sold after a big fire that took the house and barn. Portia got married and moved to a farm down in the bottom land along the Mississippi River. A few years back while Diane and I were visiting my cousin Keith we drove down to visit Portia who was just the same as ever, dirty jeans, rolled over cowboy boots, smoking a cigarette. Life hadn't been easy for Portia.

That's when I realized that in all the years of our friendship that Portia was not a boy.

Dry Run Creek

I had a Tom Sawyer kind of childhood. We lived close to the edge of town, only a couple of blocks from my home. Beyond that, just across 27th Street, was pretty much open farm land, and running through that land was Dry Run Creek.

The source of the creek was in Grundy County, some thirty miles from Cedar Falls, the town where I grew up. It twisted its way through country farmland until it eventually flowed through Cedar Falls and into the Cedar River.

For an eight-year-old kid it drew me like a magnet. With my friends, Chuck and Gerry, who lived across 27th Street, I spent long summer days at the creek. It was a place of wonderment for a kid like me.

My dad bought me a fishing pole, and along with my friends I spent hours along the creek with a can of night crawlers and a line in the water catching northern creek chubs and the occasional carp. We would catch them, throw them back in the water and catch them again.

After a good rain the creek would run full to its banks. We stood back in awe as the water roared by. As the the water level dropped we stripped off our clothes and went swimming. Of course our parents told us not to go into the water because it was dangerous. But the temptation was overwhelming and we swam anyway. I got more than one tongue-lashing from my mother about those swims.

While the water stayed up we built a raft out of an old door and a couple of tire tubes and floated down the creek like Tom and Huck.

As the summer progressed the creek nearly dried up so we went crawdad hunting in the remaining pools. Sometimes we caught a bucketful. Most of them were pretty small, but occasionally there were some really big ones. We kept them just to show them off.

When we got a little older we got braver and ventured farther up the creek to a mysterious place called Three Bears' Cave. It wasn't really a cave and there weren't any bears, but it was a great adventure and we could brag to our friends that we did it.

As the summer wore on and we got bored with catching crawdads we would try our best to snare gophers because there was a 25 cent bounty on gopher tails if we took them downtown to the feed store. We never caught any and I never heard of anyone getting a 25 cent bounty. But we kept trying.

The creek froze over in the winter and we could go ice skating for miles. We had to watch out for large stones or we'd have a big crash. More than once I went home with some major battle scars. Skating at Prexy's Pond was a better place to skate. But, that's another story that goes along with "Walnut Street Hill."

Many of my friends ran trap lines along the creek hoping to trap some muskrats or an occasional beaver. Jack Dodd, Bill's older brother, ran a trap line and did pretty well. I tended the traps with him a couple of times and learned several good lessons: You have to get up real early in the morning, your hands get really cold pulling traps out of freezing water, and skinning a muskrat was nasty.

Bill Stout and I built Indian shelters out of willow trees along the creek, searched for arrow heads and caught a snapping turtle.

The creek is still there, but it's all built up around it now. There's a huge church where there used to be a big cliff we climbed. The cliff got leveled by bulldozers.

I loved Dry Run Creek. I loved the adventures I had there. Somehow every little boy should have a "creek," someplace that is just for him to lay on his back and watch the cloud formations float by where a red-winged blackbird clings to a fluffy cattail.

We Wore Leather Helmets

In 1952 I was ten years old and in the fifth grade. We were in the old building on the Iowa State Teachers College campus which is now Sabin Hall. My teacher was Dr. Randall Bebb. Dr. Bebb was a tall, thin man with a reputation of being a stern teacher. He was a World War Two veteran and had spent a most of his military service in India supporting the airmen who were flying supplies to troops in China. We were all a little bit frightened of Dr. Bebb, but we all respected and revered him. We knew he was a very good teacher. He was my first male teacher.

We also had a new physical education teacher by the name of Bill Burke. Mr. Burke was a stalky burly kind of man whom I sure was also a war veteran. Mr. Burke was also the high school football coach. So, while the girls were with Ms. Schools, we boys learned about the game of football. We learned the football stance, how to hike a ball, how to carry the ball, how to kick the ball how to block and most of all teamwork. Most of us loved playing football and we couldn’t wait to play high school football.

We mostly played touch football, so we weren’t allowed to tackle and weren’t taught how to how to tackle. But that didn’t mean that we didn’t tackle when Mr. Burke wasn’t looking.

As a ten-year-old my parents allowed me to attend the high school games at O.R. Latham Stadium on the college campus. Usually I would walk to the games with my friends Chuck Sanders and Gerry Gress and sometimes with my best friend, Bill.

Mr. Burke and his high school team had pretty good season in 1952. In fact they went undefeated. But that wasn’t to last. After that school year Coach Burke moved to Oregon State University in Corvallis where he coached wrestling.

Mr. Burke’s replacement was big burly guy with a short butch haircut and intense eyes by the name of Carmen Ness. That year’s team did not do very well. After two years, Mr. Ness left to places unknown.

The new coach, who arrived in the fall 1955, was a guy with a southern accent who had played college football at the University of Rhode Island, by the name of John Aldrich. Coach Aldrich was to become a legend in his own time.

But his first season at Teachers College High School was a complete disaster. The team was not very talented and many of the players did not take the game seriously. All four of their football seasons did not go well. However they did do well in basketball and wrestling.

By that time I was in junior high school and I went to all of the home football games. I wanted to learn as much as I could about football. My best friend Bill and I played a lot of street football on Walnut Street with who ever wanted to play with us. A lot of time was taken up just choosing sides and establishing the boundaries. By the time the game started we would get called to supper

But I learned a lot playing street football, and I was really looking forward to playing high school football the next season.

My best friend Bill was a great athlete. He was excellent at every sport he played: baseball, basketball, football and most of all, tennis. I tried to do everything Bill could do, but he was always better. I tried to rationalize by reminding myself that he was two years older than me.
But that wasn’t it, and I had to admit it. Bill was simply the better athlete.

I really looked forward to playing high school football with Bill, but it was not to be. Bill kept breaking his foot. That ended his football career and we never got to play high school football together.

During my freshman and sophomore years I learned a lot and did well, playing on the junior varsity team. On two occasions I actually suited up and played in a couple varsity games.

During my freshman season most of our equipment and uniforms were old hand-me-downs from the college team. Our pads and helmets were ill fitting. The pants and jerseys had seen their better days. Sometimes they didn’t even match. My helmet didn’t have a face bar and I was constantly getting nosebleeds. Then I look up one day and saw my best friend Bill limping across the field. He had found a better helmet for me. No more nosebleeds.

The season of 1956 was beyond expectations, especially since they had won only one game the previous year. That was John Aldrich’s first year as coach and he took the team to five wins, two losses and one tie. It was also a very young team with tremendous expectations for the coming season.

During the off season I lifted some weights, ran on the track team, grew several inches taller and gained about ten pounds. I was excited about the 1957 football season.

When fall practices started every thing had changed. Coach Aldrich had installed a completely new offense: The Single Wing Offense with a Spinning Fullback. It was to change TCHS football for a number of years to come.

Along with the new playbooks Coach Aldrich handed out new practice jerseys, new game uniforms, new low-cut football shoes, and new helmets – leather helmets. Leather helmets hadn’t been used for years. But these were brand new helmets with full faceguards and I wore mine for three seasons and my brother more his for at least three more years. Today we would call them throwback helmets.

At home I spent a great deal of time studying the playbook. At practice time I became a living blocking dummy. It paid off for me because I learned a lot about the offense and that made me a better defensive player. During games I sat on the bench and had very little playing time, or should I say no playing time at all.

After the first game we all thought we had a pretty good team. After the second game we were convinced. The team won seven games in a row. With one game to go against Traer High School we were sure we could go undefeated.

In the fall of 1957 the entire state was hit with an awful flu epidemic. Schools were closed and our last football game was cancelled. Since we had the best win/loss record in the North Iowa Cedar League we won the championship. Not only that, the Teachers College High School Panthers was named Iowa state champions.

We thought we would have a pretty good team when practice started in 1958. We were big, we were fast, but we were inexperienced. It showed right away. There is not much we could say about the season of 1958, except that we got better as the season progressed. We ended up winning four games and losing four. We were disappointed and we had a lot yet to learn.

I joined the track team again just to stay in shape for football. I ended up placing second in the conference track meet and the district championships. For that I qualified for the state championships. That was the morning after the prom, so needless to say I didn’t do very well. I liked running track and I lettered three years, but I couldn’t wait for football to start again in the fall.

When football practice started in the fall of 1959 we were really excited. Were all experienced and by then we knew the offense well. We all believed we could go undefeated and out do the 1957 team that won the state championship by winning all eight games.






Our athletic director, Dr. Happ said, “We have a lot of big buys. We’re going to need a lot of toilet paper.” We also had a lot of returning lettermen who knew both offense and defense.

We beat St. Edmonds of Fort Dodge 31 to 6 in the opener, but we got a little cocky in game two and lost to Ackley 14 to 6. Three touchdowns were called back on penalties. We had a new player on our team who had moved from Ackley High to TCHS. He just happened to have been the one who committed the penalties. Of course no one could prove what we all suspected.

We put that loss behind us and went on to six consecutive wins. We beat Grundy Center 7 to 0 at Grundy in a driving rain and mud storm. Jerry Gross scored on the opening kickoff and that was it. We spent the rest of the game in the mud. We had never played in a better defensive game.

We won the last game against Traer. But the best thing was that Grundy Center beat Ackley. Ackley had lost two games. Grundy ended up with a 7 and 1 record. We had ended up with a 7 and 1 record but we won the championship because we had beaten Grundy Center.

It has been nearly fifty years since I put on my leather helmet for the last time. As my brother, Hugh, was five years younger than me he played football for Coach John Aldrich four more years winning several championships.

For several more years John Aldrich’s Panthers dominated the North Iowa Cedar League. He changed high school football in Northeast Iowa for many years to come.

Coach Aldrich wrote the book on The Single Wing Offence With a Spinning Fullback. The last time I saw Coach Aldrich was in 1995 when he stopped by my parents’ home in Cedar Falls and presented both my brother and me an autographed copy of his book. I have read it several times since then. Recently he and his book were mentioned in a Sports Illustrated feature article,.

Ethan,

Sports have been a big part of my life both as an athlete and as a fan. I am so happy that you are playing T-Ball. I hope you keep up your interest in sports. The more sports you do, baseball, soccer, swimming, fishing, running like your mother and Aunt Cheney do, golf, tennis and many, many more the better your life will be.

I hope you and your dad have enjoyed this story.

Love, Grampa

Walnut Street Hill

My mother used to say that Iowa had two seasons: Winter and August. And she disliked them both. But for a young boy like me I loved them. August meant freedom, no school, long days, play, play, and more play!

But the season I loved the most was winter. Winter in Iowa came early and stayed late most years, and that meant lots of snow on the ground and ice on the pond. Nothing could have been better than that.

We all waited patiently for the first snowfall of the winter. It didn’t take long. And finally Walnut Street hill was open for business. The city workers barricaded Walnut Street and all the side streets and lit the kerosene flares. We were in business once again. Out came the kids all bundled up in hooded parkas, snow boots and at least two pairs of mittens.

Walnut Street hill was just a block from our house and it took only a minute to get there. At first we would check the snow cover to make sure we had the fastest track, and cover our sled runners with wax to remove any rust. That would make the sled go faster. I would always slide the runners back and forth a couple of times and I was ready to go.

My first sled was a hand-me-down. It was old and small and not very fast. I asked Santa for a new sled for Christmas when I was about nine years old. Santa was kind. We were at my grandmother’s farm for Christmas. We had finished dinner, done the dishes, and were opening presents in the living room. I hadn’t seen a package that was big enough to be a sled and I was beginning to feel hopeless. My dad had excused himself to go to the bathroom (which meant going outside to the outhouse), and when he returned he was carrying a long package which he put down in front of me. I couldn’t open it fast enough.

It was a brand new Silver Streak sled. The best of the best! WOW!! I was ecstatic.

The next morning I tried to go sledding down the hill next to Gramma’s house but the snow was too deep. I would have to wait till we got back home and Walnut Street hill. I couldn’t get back home soon enough. I knew there were other kids on the hill without me. So, when we arrived at home and had finished dinner I bundled up and headed up to the hill.

Now there are several sledding techniques. The first is sitting on the sled and steering with your feet. The second is to lie down head forward on the sled give a little push and off you go. But the best technique was the belly flop. Now the belly flop required a lot of skill. You picked up the sled, held it tightly while running as fast as you could go, and then dive onto the sled at breakneck speed. It guaranteed a thrilling ride.

Now Walnut Street hill was two blocks long. But with a good start and by avoiding being ditched by another sledder you could easily go four blocks farther. But what that meant was that you had to carry your sled back to the top of the hill. With a dry mouth from the cold and wind there was always a temptation to lick the runner for some relief from the thirst. It was too much to resist no matter how many times you had done it. Your tongue would freeze to the runner. Oh stupid me, I would think, I did it again. Same result, a large layer of my tongue froze to the runner. Nothing hurt as much as that did.

Some time later the city fathers closed Walnut Street hill to sledders due to safety reasons. It just didn’t seem fair. But times had changed. No more sledders on Walnut Street hill. What a shame.

A Little Change In Your Pocket

My dad used to tell me that it’s always nice to have a little change in your pocket.

I never forgot what he said. Having a little change in your pocket is very nice, especially when you earn it yourself. So as a young boy I set out to do just that. In those days I had a lot of ways to make money. It didn’t matter how much I made, it was pride that motivated me. If I made a quarter or a dime I put a little in my pocket and the rest in my Schmoo bank.

My first job was mowing the neighbor’s lawn with my sister, Barbara. We did it with a push reel mower. No motor. The grass was long and the mower was dull. It was a hot and humid day and it took both of us to push the mower. My mother watched us to be sure we were getting the job done, which we did. I don’t remember how much money we made, but I do know that we were proud of what we accomplished.

In the winter I shoveled snow off our sidewalks. I also had several regular jobs with neighbors. I got paid for the neighbors’ jobs, but not for our own where I also shoveled the driveway. My dad usually helped on the driveway.

When I was ten I sold the Sunday morning Des Moines Register on the street corner in downtown Cedar Falls. After that I got my own paper route with the Cedar Falls Record which I did for a year. I made four dollars a week, most of which I saved. But I always kept a little in my pocket to buy a malted milk or a Clark Bar candy bar at the Caramel Corn shop.

When I was in junior high school I worked as a dishwasher for two weeks in the Campbell Hall cafeteria on the university campus. That was my first hourly job. For two weeks of hard work I made about thirty dollars. That was big money!

During my high school years I spent the summers detasseling corn and bailing hay. I enjoyed being outdoors and I loved the farm atmosphere. The food was good also. I also worked in a supermarket, a warehouse, a factory, and doing road construction.

When I was in college I usually was able to find a summer job, unless I was taking summer classes. I was able to get a job working buildings and grounds on the university campus. I also worked for the International Harvester truck division in Waterloo. The pay was real good, but I really didn’t like it very much. I was hoping to get some training and learn about the business, but it never really happened. I didn’t know what to do and they really didn’t know what to do with me.

In 1963 I applied for a summer job in the National Park Service and landed one at Lassen National Park in California. That was the best job I had in all that time, and it changed my life. I won’t go into detail right now on my experience at Lassen. I’ll leave that for another chapter in my blog.

I took a course in finance and investing during my senior year of college and it changed my way of looking at money. While I was still living at home with my parents, I started talking about money with my dad who had been a long-time investor. I graduated from college with a major in business. I had taken courses in accounting, management, advertising, marketing, and even a class in typing. But not one of them taught me as much as what I learned from my dad and a little bit of change in my pocket.

My very best friend Bill

This is for my grandson, Ethan, and anyone else who would like to join us.

My family moved into our home at 2500 Walnut Street in Cedar Falls, Iowa when I was three years old. It was a wonderful neighborhood with huge elm trees lining the street. A lot of that time I don't remember, but what I do remember was making friends with the boy across the street, Bill Dodd. Bill was a couple of years older than me, but he took me into his life like he was my older brother.

Now, when I think of those times I think of you and Nicolas, and what wonderfull friends you two are. I was lucky to have Bill as my best friend just like you are with Nicholas.

Bill and I did everything together. He taught me about baseball and football. We played catch for hours. We tent camped in his back yard, played with his electric train in his bedroom, and read lots of comic books.

We learned a big lesson when we nearly burned Dodd's garage down. Fortunately we were not hurt except for the spanking we got from Bill's dad. We were both very lucky.

Bill and I learned to ride a bicycle at about the same time. From that point on we went everywhere, or at least we thought we had.

We grew up together and our friendship grew as well. We did go in different directions from time to time, but we were always great friends.

I looked up to Bill and he watched out for me. We were both in the same college fraternity, we both became teachers, we each raised a son and a daughter.

We are still great friends eventhough we live far apart. I always call him on his birthday and he always calls me on mine.

When you have a great friendship it will be for as long as you live. I truly hope that you and Nicholas will be friends forever.

This is for Ethan from Grampa Fossum

My Grampa Fossum was born in 1862, and my Grampa Spickler was born in 1866. That was a long time ago. As it was I never knew either of them as they were both gone before I was born. I missed not knowing them and the times I could have spent with them.



I do have pictures of them both and I have heard the stories of their lives, but that just wasn't enough for me. I never got to sit on their knees to hear a bedtime story or a lullaby.



Now that I'm a grampa myself I want to make sure that you know me well. I have a lot of stories in my head that I hope will help you know me better. Although they won't be as good as the times we spend together, I hope you enjoy them as much as I will enjoy writing them for you. It should be a lot of fun for the two of us.