A Different Kind Of Holiday Season

Posted on March 13, 2023 by Marty Ryan

Two of my favorite holidays are celebrated this week, Pie Day (3.14) and Saint Patrick’s Day (March 17th).

We began the week with corned beef, cabbage, potatoes and carrots. You can never start celebrating St. Patrick’s Day too soon.

Actually, we began celebrating last Sunday when we had to visit two different McDonald’s to get our annual Shamrock Shakes. After sitting in line at the one nearest for over twenty minutes, we finally got to the pay window and submitted a ten dollar bill for two small shakes. The woman at the window charged us a price that wasn’t the price on the sign at the drive-thru menu, but it was less costly. The menu quoted the price at $4.19 each. She charged $7.64. So, Stephanie gave her a ten. Before she handed back the change, $2.36 she said, “I was just informed that we have no Shamrock Shakes.” She became flustered because she wasn’t sure what to do. A manager came up and she explained the problem to him. He said to give back the ten-dollar bill. Now, you would think that would be simple, but it was a problem because she didn’t know how to work the till to reflect the fact that she rang it up but couldn’t deliver the goods. Before we could get our $10 returned it took several minutes for the manager to reach around her and punch buttons to get the cash drawer open. Meanwhile, two cars pulled out of the line. We got our ten bucks and headed out to a different McDonald’s.

We passed by another nearby McDonald’s, but we questioned whether it was open. There were no cars in the parking lot. When we got to the next McDonald’s we moved quickly through the line. This time the cost of two shakes were the same as on the menu – $4.19 each, or $8.38 for both. Stephanie started counting coins from the ash tray in the car. “You’re going to confuse her,” I predicted. Stephanie handed the cashier $10.38. Guess what? Yup, she confused the cashier. Once she figured out that all she had to was to return three dollars to us we traveled the fifteen feet to the next window where we actually saw an employee making our shakes. Fake whipped cream from a can on top of fake ice cream. You think they would have given us a real maraschino cherry, but nope, no cherry at all.

Sunday’s corned beef was delicious. We realized that in the past we had to buy two flats of corned beef because the first went with the vegetables, the second was always used for sandwiches. There was a time when I pickled my own corned beef. Thirty-five pounds of beef brisket layered in a crock, covered with brine and a cheesecloth bag of spiced buried in the middle. Leave it covered in the garage for six weeks to two months and the finished product is excellent. This won’t work in Florida, Arizona, or coastal California. The garage needs to remain cold.

I told a fellow lobbyist about this, and he wanted to make some for himself and others. Cal Hultman commissioned me to watch over his product of making his first batch of corned beef. The first thing I needed to do was trim several pounds of fat from the briskets he had bought. He said he got a good deal. After trimming fat for a long time and eyeing the mound of fat compared to trimmed brisket, he wasn’t so sure in the end. But on we went. I told him that in order to assure that our brine was salty enough we should float an egg. If the egg didn’t float we didn’t have enough salt in the brine. He went to the kitchen to get an egg. It sunk like a rock. I added more salt, and he tried the egg again. It sank just as fast as the first time. This was not working like it should have. I asked to see the egg. It was frozen solid. We worked some of the salt from the brine and tried it again, making sure that the egg he brought us was not frozen. After two months, we had more customers than we had corned beef. “Next,” Cal said, “I’m going to smoke my own bacon.” I told him he was on his own.

I make my own sauerkraut, so later this week we’re going to have Rueben sandwiches, but I may have to buy another chunk of corned beef. Be sure to buy a flat if you want to make sandwiches. A point is okay for a corned beef dinner, or corned beef hash, but a flat is always your best bet.

Stephanie is in charge of the pie. on Pie Day. Pecan.

The Ides of March will be celebrated in between the two big holidays, and we have no plans yet, but I guess it will be a cake day.

We’re not sending out cards this holiday season, we’re too busy baking and eating. They’ll be no present, either. They’ve been consumed.

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Off To The Races!

Posted on March 6, 2023 by Dennis Mohatt

Growing up Vail meant fending for ourselves when it came to recreation.  As Marty has shared, often the fending for fun could edge toward activities parents today would find horrifying.  Hell, for all I know, our parents were horrified too.  We didn’t have a pool, as has been told, and our efforts to cool off with water in the hot Iowa summers ran the gamut from finding a swimming hole in the Boyer River, to hiking out to Tracy North’s pond, or hitchhiking 8 miles to Denison.  I, for one, knew Dr. Flood left his small primary care office in Vail shortly after noon, for his much more profitable practice in Denison, so being at the edge of town around that time was an easy ride.  Thumb out, and trunks rolled up in my towel, was a sure bet ride with Dr. Flood.  He also was a car nut, so it also meant copping a ride in a pretty new Camaro or Mustang.  Usually, a Camaro…Johnson’s Ford must not have like the care.  He’d always ask, “does your mom know you’re hitchhiking?”…”you bet Doc…”

We flirted with danger routinely, the Boyer was also the spot where all the town sewage for miles flowed in.  Until the sewage treatment lagoons went in during the 1970s, raw sewage flowed into the Boyer.  Vail’s flowed in about a mile west of town, we knew that from ice skating the same river during the winter.  I guess we figured the cholera risk from Westside, 5 miles to the east, was no big thing.  That river was filled with crap, both literally and figuratively.  Hell, the agricultural runoff alone was likely enough to cause skin to peel!  Tracy’s pond, as Marty has mentioned, had plenty of cattle dung in it’s shallows, as well as enough leeches to drain a small kid’s blood.  So yeah, we roamed the area looking for anything to break the monotony.

You’ll recall Marty mentioning we’d trespass across a few places on the way to Tracy’s Pond.  I don’t think anyone of us ever considered it trespassing, but perhaps some of the owners did.  We owned Vail, and the older generation was keenly aware that their actual control was shaky.  On the way to the pond, there was a mostly abandoned farmstead called the Doogan Forty.  There were the government grain storage bins just inside the property, then a long low machine shed stacked full of old lumber, and finally an abandoned farmhouse.  The machine shed filled with lumber was our own personal hobby shop.  I think Tracy North, who owned damn near every abandoned place in town, also owned the machine shed of lumber.  As he’d demolish some of the abandoned buildings, he’s salvage usable lumber and store it in the machine shed.

The lumber, old full dimension planks, became the chassis for our go-carts.  Not motorized, we let gravity and the same Presbyterian Church hill take care of the speed.  There was a blacksmith in town, I can’t remember his name, but his shop was out behind this house a block north of our house and the Ryan’s.  He’d help us craft axles from scrap pieces of iron bar.  The wheels would usually come from the dump, where we’d salvage from discarded wagon wheels, rear wheels from kid’s trikes, and my best score ever, wheels from a hand truck!  They were a larger diameter, put them on back, and had hubs with ball bearings.  Because they were larger, I put them on back and it gave my cart a jacked-up look!

So picture this.  We were not sneaking around scavenging for our lumber.  These planks we about 1” x 12” siding planks and ran 10 foot long or so.  Doogan’s-Forty was on the southwest edge of town, and small scrums of us kids would trek on over, pick out our desired piece of lumber, and then carry these for blocks across town to our backyards where we would construct our racing machines.  As if that wasn’t blatant enough, we’d then buy our necessary nails and bolts from the local hardware, have our axles made (usually for penny’s or free) by the blacksmith, and even get some design suggestions from an adult or two who’d stop to check out our projects.  This was soap-box derby racing season, Vail Style, fueled by boredom, stolen lumber, and trespassing!  To top it off, the local town maintenance worker would install the signage at the intersections along Church Street used during sledding season, STOP CHILDREN SLEDDING!!!  I kid you not, our racing season would go for a few weeks until we busted all our go-carts up or just moved on to a new larceny fueled activity, and the adults would actually come out and cheer us on!  Growing up Vail had some flexible rules!

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Missing In Action

Posted on February 26, 2023 by Marty Ryan

Upon being drafted by the U.S. Army in 1970, I figured that after two years, if was still alive, I would be discharged from military service and be done with the government’s intrusion into my life. But no, I hadn’t given a thought to the fact that I was discharged from “active” military duty; that I had an obligation as a reserve a few years later.

I read the notice that said I was report to Camp McCoy on a Monday morning. It was a camp at that time; it has since been promoted to a fort – Fort McCoy.

I arrived in Sparta, WI, on a Sunday night and rented a motel room. The following morning, I reported to where I was supposed to be, and they told me I was late.

“What do you mean – late?”

That is when I discovered that I was supposed to report on Sunday evening. I couldn’t find it on the letter I had with me, and neither could the person who told me I was late.

“Did you bring your boots, uniform, etc.?” The guy asked.

“No, I thought I was done with that stuff.” I responded.

I can only imagine the look of disgust on the guy’s face since I can no longer remember much more of the exchange. I do recall that he looked at my MOS (Military Occupational Skill) and it showed that I was a 94C10. “What’s 94C?” He asked.

“Meat cutter,” I said, stoically.

“We don’t have meat cutters in the Army.” He smirked like ‘I gotcha.’

“Yeah, I know,” without saying another word.

“So, what did you do while you were in?”

“I had a primary MOS of 94C, which I never did; a secondary MOS of 94b [cook]; and a duty MOS of 70A [clerk].” I rattled those number and letters off like a military lifer.

“You were a cook?” I could tell he was thinking of something.

“Yeah, I was a cook for a few months. I became a mess hall clerk after that.”

He handed me a set of military cook whites and told me to report to the mess hall after I found my barracks and located a bunk.

Once I got to the mess hall and reported to the mess sergeant, he told me they had too many cooks as it was. They were all tripping over each other. So, he suggested I do what I really did toward the end of military career – Hide! Get lost! That was easy. The military had no MOS for that function, but I was experienced.

One day they needed extras to fall out for some brass that was coming on to the camp. I was one of the people recruited for that duty, since I was lying on my bunk reading a book. I was to show up with my uniform. I showed up with my cook whites and they sent me back to the barracks. I needed a new place to read a book. I found solace in the barracks of the Iowa National Guard’s 34th Army Band out of Fairfield. No one bothered the band.

Another day, I was in my jeans and a T-shirt, and I was asked if I want to go on a helicopter ride. Sure, it sounded like fun. A bunch of us walked into the back of a Chinook and took a seat, strapped ourselves in and waited for the door to shut. What happened next was not what I had expected. The damned thing began to shake like a carnival ride and an officer came from the front to tell us that the pilot was earning time to obtain his pilot’s license, or some crazy stuff like that. It was too late to back out.

Actually, the copter ride was fairly smooth. Once in the air the ride became much more tolerable. That is, until a couple of them came from the front and opened up a hatch that looked the size of a kitchen cabinet. They were pulling out maps, looking at them, and peering out the windows. There was nothing below us but trees. Nothing!

We did manage to get back to the camp without incident.

Finally, a guy from Des Moines asked me what my favorite band was. When I told him Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young his eyes lit up like a blue light on a police vehicle. He told me that CSN&Y were playing that weekend at Milwaukee County Stadium on the other end of the state. Because I came up in a car, and all the others there rode up in some form of military vehicle, the guy convinced me to drive the two of us to Milwaukee if he could get concert tickets. Hell, yes! He had family relations in Milwaukee, and he called them. We could stay at their house, and they would get tickets for us.

We headed out that Friday afternoon and went to Milwaukee. His relatives were fantastic. We ate a really good breakfast the following morning and three of us headed to the baseball field. The concert was called “A Day On The Green.” Couldn’t find a good parking space so I parked on a residential street near the stadium, and we walked in. We found a space right around second base (the stage was in center field). The concert began shortly after noon with Jesse Colin Young. The Beach Boys followed him. They were booed when they tried to get us excited about tunes they wrote in Germany. Once they got back to Little Deuce Coupe and other oldies they were cheered again. Finally, CSN&Y came on. By that time we had passed a few joints back and forth and never knew where they came from nor where they were going.

CSN&Y sang a few songs and then each one took a turn on the stage performing their individual songs. They came back together for an encore. What a beautiful day!

When we got to the car, an old man working in his yard caught our attention and let us know that we had received a parking ticket. However, some kid came by and ripped it off the windshield. But that’s okay, he let us know. “I called the police and they’re coming back to give you a new one.”

I told him that we would save them the time and just stop at the police station and pick up another one. He seemed to be okay with that.

This was one of the best two weeks of paid vacation a guy could want. I enjoyed it much better than my time on active duty.

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Legislative Liver

Posted on February 19, 2023 by Marty Ryan

I spent ten years as a sausage maker at Farmland Foods in Denison, Iowa. I spent twenty-seven years as a lobbyist at the Iowa Capitol.

“Laws are like sausages, it is better not to see them being made,” quipped Otto von Bismarck (1815-1898), the famous Prussian statesman and architect of German unification.

Alas, I do believe that von Bismarck may have been referring to liverwurst, sometimes known as Braunschweiger. I never ate it until I made it. Once I no longer made it, I quit eating it. But the process of making Braunschweiger was messy and an undesirable process to observe, but tolerable.

Watching legislation being made can be gut-wrenching. When I began lobbying in 1992, I was told that the occupation was not at all like the good old days. There was a time that lobbyists could sit on the benches in the back of the chamber. Not in 1992. We had to stay in the rotunda and send a note in to have the legislator come out of the chamber to talk to us. I didn’t seem to think it was so bad. Of course, it was almost an impossible feat for some lawmakers to make that trip from their desk to the rotunda. It was obvious that many didn’t want to talk to lobbyists.

At least legislators communicated with their constituents. They wrote letters back and forth to each other, and if you were lucky, they returned your calls. Then, email came along, and some legislators didn’t want to be bothered with letters anymore. A few went so far as to stop returning phone calls. You needed their cell phone number in order to contact them. Good luck on that effort. Many kept that information to themselves. But several lawmakers did post their cell numbers, and the ones that did were often in the minority and couldn’t do much about the legislation as it was. Because, you see, the majority party no longer thought amendments from the minority were worth considering.

Prior to my arrival in the Iowa Capitol, there was no such thing as an open subcommittee meeting. Beginning in the House, a few legislators began the practice of open subcommittee meetings in an effort to hear from lobbyists and the general public. I witnessed some very productive meetings during that time. But on the other hand, the outcome of some of those meetings was decided in the chamber before the meeting started. That was the old way of passing legislation out of a subcommittee – the subcommittee chair walked to the desk of at least one other subcommittee member in order to get two signatures on the approval form. You never knew what was coming up on the agenda in a committee meeting.

Now that agendas are sent out and posted online in advance you would think it to be an improvement. Not necessarily so. Prior to a committee meeting, Democrats and Republicans go to separate rooms to caucus and decide the outcome of the ‘open’ committee meeting.

At one time, legislators on a committee discussed a bill in committee. As time moved on, Republicans and Democrats caucused alone to determine whether a bill was thumbs up or thumbs down. There was no individualism, anymore. No surprise votes. As legislation proceeded to the floor, sitting through hours of debate could give you an upset stomach if you listened to a few bad speeches, some misinformation, and terrible grammar. What if a bill might be unconstitutional? “No problem, the other chamber will fix it.” Quipped a lawmaker. Often, the other chamber made it worse. “And don’t be bringing your fancy syntax, properly positioned prepositions or commas into the building. Leave them things for the media,” a stubborn old white male legislator might shout.

Media? Having media report on the business under the dome is like having a PETA[1] supporter obtaining information about an Iowa CAFO[2].

After several years of avoiding the toxic atmosphere at the Iowa Capitol, I returned this past week. The only good thing about returning was meeting a few of my favorite people, some lobbyists, and some legislators, as well as staff. The truly enjoyable part of returning was that I managed to get a parking place near the entrance. Before I return again, I would prefer to go back and make a batch of Braunschweiger.

[1] People for the ethical treatment of animals

[2] Concentrated animal feeding operation

 

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Death Penalty Bill Moving in Iowa

Posted on February 13, 2023 by Marty Ryan

Update on Senate File 14

 A subcommittee meeting on Iowa Senate File 14 will be held this week on Wednesday, February 15, at 1:00 pm in Room 315 of the Iowa Capitol.

Senate File 14, if enacted the bill would create a “capital murder offense by establishing the penalty of death for murder in the first-degree offenses involving kidnapping and sexual abuse offenses against the same victim who is a minor.”

The Senate Subcommittee consists of Sen. Julian Garrett (R-Indianola); Sen. Tony Bisignano (D-Des Moines); and Sen. Jason Schultz (R-Schleswig). Sen. Garrett is the subcommittee chair and floor manager.

How to help

You don’t have to attend the subcommittee meeting in person. You can join via Zoom.

Room 315 is inviting you to a scheduled Zoom meeting.

Join Zoom Meeting

https://us06web.zoom.us/j/81634608917?pwd=dll1SUR4eFJlU3dLRHdrY3lIQlkxdz09

Meeting ID: 816 3460 8917

Passcode: 269320

Find your local number: https://us06web.zoom.us/u/kegCIulCIV

In any case, we ask that you send an email to the subcommittee members and your own senator, if different from the subcommittee, and present your views in opposition in no more than 100 words. Anything longer may be disregarded. When you do submit your email, please cc us at: info@iowansagainstthedeathpenalty.org Please be respectable and professional or you may damage our cause!

Also, contact your senator and representative and ask each if they oppose the death penalty.  Then, we ask you share that information with us.  info@iowansagainstthedeathpenalty.com or mrtyryn@gmail.com

Contact information for your senator and representative should be located on their legislative website page.  For senators, locate the name of you senator and click on the senator’s name.  Information on the senator’s committees, legislation introduced, email address, physical address, cell phone and Senate phone will come up on the senator’s page.  For representatives, follow the same procedure as previously outlined for senators. Representatives.

 Helpful Hints

 You may ask your legislator(s) if he/she would vote to oppose any death penalty bill. If your legislator responds with “I don’t think there will be a death penalty bill debate this year,” or some similar reply, let them know that that is not the question you asked. Ask again: “Would you oppose any bill in the Iowa Legislature that reinstated the death penalty?”

You are the constituent; you are the legislator’s boss; the person to whom the legislator is elected to represent. You have every right to expect a definitive answer. Be respectful nice, but firm.

More information

Iowans Against the Death Penalty is a single-issue organization established in 1962. We were instrumental in the repeal of the state’s death penalty law in 1965, and IADP has worked vigilantly to resist efforts to reinstate it over the years.

Funds are necessary to run any organization. While IADP operates entirely with volunteers, it costs money to maintain a website, to print and mail materials, and to organize events.

IADP is dedicated to expanding its presence in Iowa.  If you are affiliated with a community college, university, youth group, high school, church, or any other group that would be interested in hosting a meaningful discussion, we would love to hear from you.  Please let us know and we will respond accordingly as soon as possible.

Your membership in IADP

Membership in Iowans Against the Death Penalty is $15 annually.  If you cannot recall the last time you paid yearly dues, your membership has most likely lapsed.  We encourage you to join us by submitting a check for $15, along with your name, address, zip code, and email address to:

IADP

PO Box 782

Des Moines, IA 50303

Or, by joining online at:  http://www.iowansagainstthedeathpenalty.org/join-our-mailing-list

IADP is a section 501(c)(4) organization which uses some of its funds for lobbying.  Membership contributions to IADP are NOT tax deductible.

Iowans Against the Death Penalty FUND is an IADP sister organization which can accept tax deductible gifts and grants since it is a section 501(c)(3) organization with the Internal Revenue Service.  Making a tax-deductible gift to the IADP FUND does not mean you are an IADP member.

***

FYI

This is a poem written by Carl Sandburg in the 1920s.

Killers

C. Sandburg

I AM put high over all others in the city today.

I am the killer who kills for those who wish a killing today.

Here is a strong young man who killed.

There was a driving wind of city dust and horse dung blowing and he stood at an intersection of five sewers and there pumped the bullets of an automatic pistol into another man, a fellow citizen.

Therefore, the prosecuting attorneys, fellow citizens, and a jury of his peers, also fellow citizens, listened to the testimony of other fellow citizens, policemen, doctors, and after a verdict of guilty, the judge, a fellow citizen, said: I sentence you to be hanged by the neck till you are dead.

So there is a killer to be killed and I am the killer of the killer for today.

I don’t know why it beats in my head in the lines I read once in an old school reader: I’m to be queen of the May, mother, I’m to be queen of the May.

Anyhow it comes back in language just like that today.

I am the high honorable killer today.

There are five million people in the state, five million killers for whom I kill.

I am the killer who kills today for five million killers who wish a killing.

 

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A Brief Tale

Posted on February 7, 2023 by Marty Ryan

Have you ever gone skinny dipping? If you were a boy living in Vail, Iowa, during the 1950s and 1960s there was just about no way to avoid the practice of diving into a farm pond sans clothing or swim trunks.

Before the tiny town of Vail, Iowa, had a swimming pool for the town’s residents, kids cooled off by running through the hose, as it was called, seeking out anyplace that had air conditioning, like Marvin’s Market or the Vail Café, playing in the Boyer River, or some of Vail’s idiot boys (myself included) went out to Tracy’s Pond. Tracy’s Pond was owned by Tracy North, an elderly gentleman who owned and rented out many homes in Vail, often forgetting to collect rent from his tenants. Many of those houses were on their last stage of livability.

Tracy’s Pond was located less than a mile from the west end of town. The kids’ way of getting there was to 1) trespass over the Walsh acreage; 2) meander through a piece of land owned by the government that held corn in several grain bins, and finally; 3) cut a path through a couple of fields of corn or pasture, depending upon what route a kid should take. Most of us knew how to get there through corn fields. Some walked along a fencerow until they saw the inlet of the pond.

The pond took up a little over two acres on farmland that has tillable soil on the east side that was often seeded in corn; pasture on the west and north sides with ravines on the west side; and a dam with a spillway on the south side. Along the dam on the south side, but beyond it by several feet was a small forest of cottonwoods, elms, and oaks. The north side? It usually had a few Hereford calves wading in the shallow waters of the inlet. Not one of us ever saw a heifer or steer urinate or defecate in the water, but we weren’t looking, either.

A huge raft sat docked on the southwest corner of the pond. I can’t believe it ever floated. The buoyant base consisted of cottonwood tree trunks. The platform was constructed using various sizes and types of board – no two alike. The raft had no type of propulsion or steering, it must have been built on the spot where it sat and had never moved. It was monstrous; the dimensions were close to twelve feet wide and twenty-five feet long. When I first saw it, I thought I would have to learn what a cubit was.

In the 1960s, the pond was stocked with bluegill and crappie. However, like any good fishing spot, it wasn’t long before the bullhead took over as the prominent aquatic life in the mudhole. Fish hooks left behind by throw lines didn’t seem to be an issue. I can’t recall any kid having been bit by a rusty fish hook, and they were scattered about on the raft, the ground, and most likely, in the water.

The spillway was approximately twenty feet or more from its top to the outlet below. Assuming the depth of the pond was a few feet short of the outlet, it could have been over fifteen feet deep in front of the spillway. But the depth of the water off the east end of the raft was closer to six feet deep. I know because I couldn’t touch the bottom while treading water, but I could hold my breath and dive to the bottom and pick up a chunk of mud. And that brings up the mud fight that would get out of hand on more than one instance.

I got mud in my eye after a few of us had a silly mud fight. I had mud in my eye all the way home. I had to tell my mom. What else was I going to do. Some kid must have told me that I would lose my eye if I didn’t have a doctor look at it. Events like this always had mom calling the local resident doctor. She wasn’t a doctor, but Kate Malloy, a registered nurse, handled more medical hysterics in the neighborhood (or at least, our house) than any medical doctor who may have resided in town before her. Kate came over to our house and removed any remaining mud and cleansed the eye, which hurt at the time, but became normal in no time at all.

A fisherman or two would occasionally drive onto the property from a dirt road south of the pond. When one of us saw a vehicle up on the ridge we would yell to warn anyone in the water to get out, grab clothes, and head into the woods. Hindsight tells me the angler always knew who we were, but none of us wanted to have him get close enough to readily identify any of us. We could always deny it.

Vail boys learned to swim at the Denison Swimming Pool, but we honed our skills at Tracy’s Pond. It was against a mother’s law to swim in that pond, so we had to skinny dip in order to keep our underwear from turning brown. Yes, you read that right. If a fisherman should tattle to one of our mothers that he saw us out there we could always lean on the fact that “it couldn’t have been me, check my underwear. If I was out there the briefs would be brown.”

Previously posted essays on the same subject matter:

“Thank you, sir”

Midnight Savings Time

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