Everyone’s Best Friend – Jim Malloy

Posted on June 15, 2023 by Marty Ryan

June 3rd is a significant date in my life. My parents, Francis Martin Ryan and Rhea Madonna Fritz were married in Breda, Iowa, on this date in 1941. Twelve years later on the same date, my brother Kevin (“Cub”) was born. I can remember June 3, 1957, when Cub sat on the bed and told our mother that he didn’t want a baby to be born on his birthday. He didn’t get his birthday wish; Joe was born that day.

On Saturday, June 3, 2023, my best friend from childhood, Jim Malloy, passed away at the Iowa Veterans Home in Marshalltown.

Jim Malloy, or Jocko as he was known to those close to him, was everyone’s best friend. He was the best friend to Honcho and Cub[1], both who have preceded him in death. He was also the best friend to Scotty, Fuzz, and his cousin Rufus[2], to his brothers Frankie, Bugs, and Goosy[3], and so many more people too numerous to continue. Smokey and Dusty Dalton[4] were also awfully close to Jocko.

Jim was two years and a day younger than me. However, we hung out a lot together and got into trouble gobs of times. I can’t write about most of them, but I’ll relate a few. There is no abacas that can calculate how many times we skipped school. I have written about it at least once in a past blog [see: Chuck’s House Party]. There were other times that weren’t as colorful. One sunny morning where you could see your breath, I met Jim and Honcho at the bridge crossing the King Creek by St. Ann’s Church. The Kuemper bus had just left without Jim and me on it. However, it was planned that way. We spent the entire day sitting in someone’s car. Farm kids drove cars to the church and parked across the street. At least one person would leave the car doors open, but none left the keys in the car. Every time a car came by, we would duck down. One of us would take a peek once we heard the vehicle drive by. As an adult, looking back on those days, I wonder what was accomplished by spending time in a car without heat, without lunch, without a bathroom, and lacking any connection to common sense. And we did it more than once.

Jocko and I were the first to dive into the new Vail Community Swimming Pool. We weren’t the first in, that honor went to a farmer who left the Legion Club one evening, drunk as could be, climbed the chain-link fence and “jumped” into the pool fully clothed. Jocko and I climbed the chain-link fence and dove into the pool, naked. That may have been one of the dumbest things we did, but it wasn’t the most dangerous – by far!

During a spring melt, Honcho, Jocko, and I were on the Boyer River. The river was straightened eras ago in an attempt to keep the town of Vail from flooding. As a result, the banks of the river were ninety degrees, straight up and down. Once on the ice, the only way to the top of the bank would be to find egress and exit at a few locations up and down the river. While on the ice, it began to break up. Laughing like it was the most fun we had ever had, and it probably was, we jumped from ice floe to ice floe to avoid falling into the river. We must have done that for over a quarter of a mile, which may not seem that far. But try it sometime; it took most of a Saturday or Sunday afternoon. It was exhausting, but in the end, only our shoes, socks, and the bottom of our blue jeans were wet.

One Sunday morning when we were adolescents, I had acquired a bottle of vodka. I have no recollection of how I got it. I purchased a couple bottles of orange Nehi soda to make screwdrivers. Jim and I found an abandoned car and drank our cocktails like we were a couple of sophisticated adults. That afternoon, several of our friends came to what we may have thought were our wakes as we laid on the cool cement underneath the railroad bridge along the King Creek. Both of us were suffering from the dry heaves. I rarely, if ever, consumed vodka after that.

Jim entered the Navy a few years after I was drafted into the Army. He received a medical discharge and struggled with severe mental health problems after that. He spent the last twenty years of his life in the Iowa Veterans Home in Marshalltown prior to succumbing to cancer. I did my best to visit him once a month over the past decade.

Like his family who also visited him, our destination was the Perkins Restaurant on the south end of Marshalltown. “Two pancakes!” And with those two pancakes was coffee, two creams, a glass of water with ice (he added a few ice cubes to his creamed coffee), and lots of syrup. The only time we didn’t go to Perkins was the last time I went out with Jim. We went to a Dairy Queen to get malts. He ate his chocolate malt so fast I got an ice cream headache watching him.

My list of people and events to remember on June 3rd of every year gets longer. I miss everyone’s best friend, Jocko!

Related blogs:

The Green Latrine

Thank you, Sir

I Went to School – Sometimes

Midnight Savings Time

Chuck’s House Party

A Brief Tale

[1] Honcho is the late Jim Devold; Cub is my brother Kevin.

[2] Mike Scott is obviously Scotty, Fuzz is John Fasbender, and Rufus is Mike Malloy.

[3] Frankie is his older brother Joe; Bugs is Bob, and Goosy is short for the formal nickname Baby Magoosy, otherwise known as Jerry Malloy.

[4] Smokey was the Malloy’s dog; Dusty was Honcho’s dog.

 

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The fine art of negotiating

Posted on May 30, 2023 by Marty Ryan

The recent negotiations between the White House and Republicans in the House brought back some fond memories. During the 1980s, I participated in several union negotiations. Most of the corporate negotiators were mid to upper management employees. However, when negotiating with Farmland Foods, the lead negotiator with the company was a gentleman lawyer from Kansas City, Sewell Couch.

Mr. Couch liked a drink or two after work. His usual hangout was a bar in uptown Denison called The Lounge. Several times during the negotiation season (about every 3 years), I would drive by The Lounge to see if I could spot Sewell’s brown four-door Chevy Cavalier. If he parked anywhere nearby, I would stop in and find a seat next to him. If there wasn’t a seat next to him, I would stand behind him and order a beer. After a couple of sips and striking up a conversation with Sewell, a person on either side would move and offer me the chair next to Sewell. The first thing I did was count the individual single dollar bills, lined up in a layer so they could be easily counted. It didn’t take long to figure out that each bill represented a drink. If five one-dollar bills were neatly layered in front of him, I knew that Sewell had five drinks. If he bought me a beer, he would not add a bill to the pile, but if I bought him a drink, he would add a dollar bill. I learned later from a bartender that the dollar pile ended up as a tip.

I wouldn’t initiate shop talk until Sewell had at least three bills in front of him. He was careful, sober, or not. As we came to know each other, which was in the end very little, he began to call me a latrine lawyer. I accepted that title with pride. We never settled on an agreement with any issue facing the negotiating teams, but our conversations did lead to some persuasive discussions with our respective negotiating teams.

Sewell had a process for presenting the corporation’s proposals, one that I adopted because of its practicality. If the company had sixteen separate proposals, Sewell would present each member of his team, and each member of my team, with sixteen sheets of paper. Each sheet of paper had one explicit statement typed neatly on it. If that issue was taken off the table, everyone threw that sheet of paper away. I didn’t. I often wrote notes on the proposal and kept it for future use. I didn’t invent that procedure. I saw Sewell doing it, and he may have mentioned it at The Lounge during one of our early evening chats.

He told me once that the trunk of his car had a box with several different brief cases in it. As he went from one union workplace to the next, he just shuffled one brief case for another. It was another practice that I adopted for the convenience of being as organized as possible, keeping paperwork separate.

At the end of a negotiating session, everyone pulled out their calendars/planners to agree on a date for the next session. I was the only one without a calendar or planner. He mentioned that I must have a photographic mind because I didn’t need to check future dates to make sure a proposed meeting didn’t run into another. I told him he was correct. “You just wait, mister smartass,” he would say. “Someday you won’t even know what day you’re in.” I laughed. Now, I know what he meant. And I’m laughing again.

A union steward on light duty because of a work-related injury was assigned to clean up detail in the Carroll, Iowa, plant. He was emptying trash in the office when he saw a letter from a vice-president of the company. On top by the letterhead was a statement: “How to get rid of the union.” He turned it over to us and we called a meeting of the vice president, two plant managers and Sewell in Omaha. Each of the four was given a copy of the memorandum. Sewell said, “this is the first I’ve seen this.” When confronted with the memo, the vice-president said, “I’ll turn this over to my legal counsel.” Sewell promptly tossed the letter onto the table and said, “no, you won’t. Without these guys I don’t have a job.” It wasn’t long after that, the VP was fired.

One weekend I had plans to go to Kansas City with one of my co-workers in the packing plant. We intended to golf at a couple of courses in St. Joseph and Kansas City, and take in a Royals baseball game on Sunday before heading back. The night before the baseball game, we couldn’t decide where to eat. We had KC BBQ for two consecutive days and nights and wanted something different. I called Sewell. He recommend The Savoy. If you’re ever in Kansas City and want a high-end dinner, this is the place to go. I have never had a better steak, service, or ambiance. Sewell didn’t hesitate when he suggested it. We beat each other up during negotiations, but respect was paramount between the two of us.

When I graduated with a degree as a paralegal, he was the first person I called. “It’s official, Sewell. I now have a degree as a shithouse lawyer.” Neither of us got the last laugh. We laughed together.

 

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Draft Day 1970, Part II

Posted on May 16, 2023 by Marty Ryan

Continued from Draft Day 1970, Part I

On May 4, 1970, just four days after my decision to decline enlistment into the Navy, I walked downtown to get the mail for my mom. I was about halfway home when I noticed one of the letters in a brown envelope was for me. I opened it right there. “Greetings, from the President of the United States of America . . .” Damn! It was my draft notice. On May 10th, I boarded a bus in Denison, Iowa, along with another Crawford County male resident to the same building I was in less than two weeks ago. This time, I was not given an option.

Before I got on the bus, I was standing with my mom. There was another woman who mom knew, and her son was standing with her. That woman asked if I would watch out for her son who had never in his life traveled out of the county. Wow! I said I would, but I have to be honest. I had no intention of interfering with the life of a 19-year-old that was about to have some of the most harrowing experiences of his life. His name was Al.

There were two guys from Carroll County on the bus. One was Jim from Carroll, the other was Jeff from Glidden. Jim knew me, but I didn’t know who he was. Before the bus reached Omaha, we were best friends.

The four of us went through some tests. Most were conducted months prior to induction. Those were the intrusive ones where we were all walking around in our underwear. The tests this time were just some simple follow-up procedures. We were put up in a one-star hotel for the night and instructed to stay in our rooms. Well, that was a challenge. Jim went through the phone book and found the telephone number for one of two guys we both knew from Carroll. I graduated from Kuemper High School with both of them; Jim went to Carroll High. We called them and they invited us over.

Jim and I hopped in a cab and rode over to the apartment shared by Tommy and Skitch. We smoked pot, drank beer and listened to Spirit in the Sky by goat farmer Norman Greenbaum over and over and over again. We somehow made it back to the flea bag hotel for the night.

The following day was comprised of more tests and a lot of waiting around. Jim said good-bye; he was released. It was several years before I found out that he was released because he had a criminal record. However, he was drafted again a few months later and sent to Germany. I met him at a party in Auburn, north of Carroll, just about a year after both of us had been discharged and he told me the whole story, which I forget now.

After waiting for what seemed like hours, we were whisked off down the stairs (no elevators) to the alley below – about seven floors. We were jammed into private cars and quickly driven to Eppley Airfield north of Omaha. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the procedure taken by the military personnel was to avoid anti-war demonstrators out front.

There must have been thirty of us because from that day on we were the largest portion of the platoon of Charley Company, 2-1, whatever that means. The “2” may have been a squad and the “1” the number of our platoon. We were made up of 19-year-olds from Iowa, Nebraska, and South Dakota.

We were secured tightly at the airport. However, there were no soldiers or police, but you could tell that some of the drivers of vehicles moving us to the airport were packing. They looked so casual. I’m sure at least one of them was waiting for one of us to separate from the group and seek freedom. Didn’t happen. We were all making new friends and discovering small bits about each other.

It was my first time on a commercial airline. We made a stop in Denver, picking up about ten more draftees that would round out C-2-1. We arrived at SeaTac south of Seattle and were bused to Fort Lewis, Washington, our new home for nine months.

I have no idea where Jim is now. Jeff passed away last year. Skitch passed away a few years ago, and Alan died a little over ten years ago. Tommy lives in Arizona.

Norman Greenbaum was a one-hit wonder and is still alive today, but when he dies, he’s going up to the Spirit in the Sky.

Related blogs:

Indoctrination

Run, Ryan, Run

Ryan, you cheated!

A pattern begins to develop

What a MESS!

Order Up

Missing in action

 

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Draft Day 1970

Posted on May 10, 2023 by Marty Ryan

Part I

Throughout the history of the United States, there has been a military draft. Conscription, as it’s called, was used first in the Revolutionary War. However, it was the states that drafted able-bodied men in the militia, since the federal government had no power to do so.

The draft was implemented in the American Civil War, World War I, World War II, The Korean War, and the Vietnam War. I was an unwilling participant in the latter.

On December 1, 1969, the first draft lottery was held for men born between 1944 and 1950. Every male in the country was assigned a number drawn in the lottery that corresponded with the man’s birthdate. Those with a high number, such as 365, had nothing to worry about. Those with low numbers either enlisted in the Air Force, Navy, or Coast Guard. Approximately 100,000 fled the country. Many men sought deferment by enrolling in college and maintaining a 12-credit hour schedule. A few hurried to the altar and rushed into marriage, hoping that path would provide them with leniency from local draft boards, and more importantly, stateside status if they were drafted.

My number was 125. I didn’t worry at first, but then I had heard that Crawford County’s quota for January of 1970 would include those with numbers up to and including 90. I developed a plan.

On December 31, 1969, I walked into a Navy recruiter’s office and enlisted in the Navy on the 120-day waiting program (Delayed Entry Program). That meant that for the next 120 days I would be draft-free and didn’t have to report to the induction center in Omaha until April 30. I continued to party and work, knowing what was coming next. On the weekend before my induction date, I had a keg party in my parents’ basement. They approved of it, mostly because they were getting me out of the house. Scores of people showed up, all believing that this was the last they were going to see of me for a very long time.

However, on April 30th, I was standing in a room with other Navy and Marine recruits and the Marine captain came into the room to swear us in. I had discovered previously that everyone was given the option to turn down induction at the time of swearing in. I took my chances. Sure enough, the captain asked: “Does anyone present wish to decline enlistment?” I raised my hand. I was asked to leave the room. I did so, happily.

I didn’t get far before a uniformed person told me to take a chair. I didn’t think he could make me, but I did comply. When the captain came out of the “swearing in” room he asked me to follow him. We went into his office where he had me take a seat as he positioned himself behind his battleship gray, military-issued desk. He told me about how much money I cost the Armed Forces, and several other things that I failed to hear. You see, I had to get out of there and join the Air Force on the Delayed Entry Program where I would have another 120 draft-free days to work and party.

Computer was not a household word in 1970. Evidently, the Armed Forces had them. I attempted to join the Air Force in the same building that afternoon. I was denied. Okay, someone must have called down a few floors in case I had the nerve to pull some stunt no one had thought of.

Someone did think of it. I tried to enlist in the Air Force in three different locations after that day. I received the same message – denied!

On May 4, 1970, just four days after my decision to decline enlistment into the Navy, I walked downtown to get the mail for mom. I was about halfway home when I noticed one of the letters in a brown envelope was for me. I opened it right there. “Greetings, from the President of the United States of America . . .” Damn! It was my draft notice. On May 10th, I boarded a bus in Denison, Iowa, along with another Crawford County male resident to the same building I was in less than two weeks ago. This time, I was not given an option.

To be continued . . .

Related blogs:

Indoctrination

Run, Ryan, Run

Ryan, you cheated!

A pattern begins to develop

What a MESS!

Order Up

Missing in action

 

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Fool me once

Posted on April 21, 2023 by Marty Ryan

As a lobbyist, having lunch with a legislator is a great opportunity to discuss the issues that matter most to you, and if it’s just the two of you, the legislator’s ear is all yours. And if the legislator is the chair of a committee, you have really scored in having your concerns met.

In the mid-1990s, State Representative Chuck Hurley (Republican from Fayette, Iowa) asked if I had lunch plans one morning. After letting him know that I hadn’t thought that far ahead, he asked if I would like to join him for lunch. “Absolutely!” I excitedly exclaimed. Rep. Hurley was the Chair of the House Judiciary Committee, and most of the bills I followed went through that committee.

We met in the cafeteria in the basement of the Capitol. We were as far away from everyone else as we could get, but I didn’t care, I had a one-on-one with a man who could help my bills pass or die. I had purchased my lunch from the counter, he brought a sack lunch. He wanted to know more about me; marital status, children, age, was I a hippy at one time, etc. He shocked me when he told me that he had hair longer than me when he lived in Kansas. At this point in his life, he was a Christian man appointed by God to do God’s work.

After that experience, it was no shocker when I was asked again if I had lunch plans. Often, I didn’t, but I would have taken anyone else’s invitation over Chuck’s. However, this time he asked if it would be okay if Rep. Dan Boddicker (Rep. Tipton) joined us. Wow! I couldn’t pass this up. Rep. Boddicker was the Vice Chair of the House Human Resources Committee, and would probably be the Chair next year. If my bills didn’t go through Judiciary, they would probably be in Human Resources. This lunch was going to be fruitful; I just knew it.

When it came time to go to lunch, I was happy to see that we were grabbing coats. This lunch was not going to be in the crowded Capitol cafeteria. I never thought to ask where we were going to dine. That would be rude, unless they expected me to pay, but that’s not an option when lobbyists are limited to spending more than $3.00 a day per legislator. In the mid-1990s I could have bought each one a hamburger at McDonald’s, but one of them said we were going Dutch (is that term offensive to people of Dutch heritage?) So, I sat in the back seat and let them take me to wherever they desired to go.

We parked in a parking garage downtown and exited on to the Skywalk. Since my office was in a downtown building I knew where a lot of good eateries were on the Skywalk system. Most of them were fabulous.

I was genuinely surprised when we took the escalator down to the first floor of the Convention Center. We walked back to a breakout room, and I was informed that it cost $7.50 for a sack lunch to enter. What? My attitude was ‘let’s see what happens.’

The room was filled with men, most of them in suits. I looked at my sack lunch. A Delicious apple. I dislike Delicious apples. A bag of greasy potato chips. A wrap with mostly lettuce and a thin slice of ham. A small container of milk and a flimsy napkin. I felt ripped off just looking at the lunch. What sort of program were we going to witness? I have to say that I was confused.

Confusion turned to anger when someone began to give grace. Upon ending the grace with a collective “amen,” the speaker said, “welcome to Crossworks.” Crossworks at that time was a spiritual program for men only. I really knew I was in the wrong place when the leader of the group was Governor Terry Branstad. The governor and my two legislator hosts were Republican, and although I am a Democrat, it didn’t bother me. What bothered me was the theme of the meeting: “How to be nice to the little lady – your wife.” Okay, maybe that wasn’t the exact title of the meeting, but that’s what I got out of it. The program was condescending, terribly old-fashioned, and sexist.

Not only was I not married at the time of this event, but I may also not have even been in a relationship. Even if I was, the relationship was most likely not far along. I have no idea why these two legislators would have wanted me to join them in this adventure. Was it a joke to them?

They knew that I represented the Iowa Civil Liberties Union, an organization most people find objectionable because we represented atheists. There were Bible verses, prayers, and perhaps even a hymn. To make matters worse, we stood the entire time. How was I supposed to eat?

We left the event and walked back to the car. I was fuming. They asked me what I thought. I didn’t hold back. “Please, don’t ever do that to me again,” I pleaded. They laughed.

I would have been happy if someone would have paid my $7.50 entry fee. I only drank the milk. And it wasn’t chocolate.

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Those dog-gone blues

Posted on April 7, 2023 by Marty Ryan

A good friend of mine, and also a homegrown native of Vail, Iowa, Tom Hawley, was the publisher/editor of The Record-Herald and Indianola Tribune when I lived in Martensdale with my sixteen-year-old daughter in 1994. Tom approached me to contribute to a column “County Line” that featured essays written by residents of Warren County. I was honored and flattered to do so. That summer, I authored the following essay for The Record-Herald and Indianola Tribune.

 

I wish I had a dog.

Oh, it wouldn’t be difficult to get one. I could adopt one from the Animal Rescue League. Or I could buy a registered pedigreed pup from a pet store. Or I could write this article and hope someone would be touched enough to offer me a free one.

But since my lease has a clause that prohibits me from owning an animal, for now, I will have to live with the memory of a pet I had about 20 years ago. She was the best dog anyone could ever want.

One autumn evening in the early 1970s I was traveling down a dry, dusty gravel road when a small dog appeared on the shoulder portion of the road. The puppy was too small to be away from its mother, so I pulled over to the edge of the roadway, got out of my car and approached the little creature who fearlessly stood wagging her tail in anticipation of the affection I was about to give her.

This brave little animal had miraculously made her way up an extremely steep embankment while leaving what seemed to be her siblings huddled in a torn burlap bag at the bottom of the ditch. Apparently, all five multiple-bred hounds were originally destined for the river which was less than an eighth of a mile away.

I couldn’t resist adopting the puppy that bravely stood by the side of the road in a gallant effort to guard what was left of her family. That same evening, I brought her home and found homes for her adorable brothers and sisters. Convincing my mother that the dog would be no trouble was one of the most difficult lobbying efforts I have ever pulled off.

Once the dog was reluctantly accepted into the family, my mother scolded me for giving a mongrel the same name as the Blessed Virgin Mary. I assured her that the dog’s name, Mari, was actually short for America. However, as most of my close friends knew, since she was found near a cluster of wild hemp weed, Mari was in fact a shortened version of the full name I had given her, Marijuana.

Mari was a great companion and faithful follower, or fearless leader, depending upon where she walked in proximity to me. She would quietly sit outside any downtown business establishment for hours, waiting patiently, while I wasted time inside. As we left the business district for home, she would proudly lead the way, wagging her tail until she became distracted by another animal, another pedestrian, or even a wind-blown leaf.

One dreary, overcast spring morning, moments after we had acquired the daily mail and made other necessary errands, I heard her barking outside the house. Mari rarely barked, if ever. As I approached the porch door, I could see Mari was jumping six feet off the ground. I had never seen her this way.

As I opened the door she raced into the house, running in circles and vacillating between a high-pitched bark and a scary growl. Something was wrong. Without thinking, I somehow directed her down the steps into the basement and closed the door. For the first time since I brought her home months ago, I was afraid of her, and afraid for her. I didn’t hesitate to call the nearest veterinarian.

The vet told me to stay away from her until he could get there. His office was five miles away, but he guaranteed me that he would leave immediately. I was relieved and comforted when he arrived at our house within ten minutes. Nevertheless, I hadn’t heard Mari bark, growl, yelp, or whimper for the past five minutes.

When the vet arrived, he told me to go down the steps into the basement ahead of him. I was disinclined to do so, but he assured me that the dog would cause no harm to me, only to him. It made very little difference; I had a hunch that Mari was dead.

My worst fear became reality as I walked into a room around the corner of the steps to see Mari lying motionless in a puddle of bright pink blood. I ran to her side only to discover that life had exited her body with the warm, sticky body fluid. The vet never entered the room but stood near the doorway and told me that it looked like the dog had been poisoned. He hastily diagnosed the situation. “It’s strychnine poisoning.”

I was rapidly entering the first stage of the grief process when the vet noticed a small collection of assembled model cars on a distant table. He asked me if I had any model train parts. It was known to many area residents that his hobby was the collection of an impressive set of model trains and railroads.

I couldn’t believe it. My devoted pet had just suffered a tragic death, and I was significantly suffering myself, and he thought I would be interested in discussing trains and railroads. Is the term “bed-side manner” limited to medical doctors? I was furious! I rudely escorted him to the door and instructed him to send me a bill.

After the vet had left, I gently placed Mari in a cardboard box, cleaned the blood off the floor, and put the rags and other cleaning materials into the box alongside of her now cold carcass.

I drove out into the country and stopped along the road, about one mile from where I had found her only months ago. I carried the box from my car and sat it down in the middle of a barren, recently plowed field. After soaking the box with gasoline, I stood in silence for a few moments, tears clouding my vision. Eventually, I drew the courage to throw a lit wooden match into the pile of defunct memories.

I remained in that field for quite some time watching the pyre dwindle to a flicker, releasing every tear I had left in me. She was gone now. I had to get over it. But it was difficult to get over the circumstances surrounding her death.

Sometime later I discovered through the grapevine who was responsible for the poisoning of Mari. Though I could never prove it, and never confronted him, every clue pointed toward implicating a certain old man who lived a few houses from ours.

The vet and the man I believe responsible for Mari’s poisoning have been dead for years. It is only now that I can forgive them for their insensitive actions. Death is inevitable. I know that. Mari’s death was too drastic and sudden.

Maybe I don’t want a dog after all. I’m content to live with the memory.

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