Sneak Peek

Posted on July 11, 2023 by Marty Ryan

There was no better rite of passage from childhood innocence to arrogant adolescence in the 1960s than to see how many kids you could stuff into the trunk of a car and sneak into the drive-in movies.

Bub had a car in which several guys got stuffed into his trunk about a half mile from the entrance to the Denison Drive-In Theater. Bub drove and I sat in the passenger seat. The trunk was so full of bodies that the bumper was bouncing off the ground as he drove up the dirt lane to the ticket booth. As Bub and I paid to enter the movie, I could tell that the owner suspected we were sneaking in a few. Just how many, she didn’t know.

The idiots in the trunk were fighting, farting, and fidgeting as we approached the gate. Bub and I tried to tell them to shut up, but I can’t say we were very successful. At last, we pulled into the parking space and opened the trunk. The movie was irrelevant. I doubt any of us watched it.

Once the movie was over, we jammed everyone into the front and back seats and drove into Denison. At the time, the Holiday convenience store had this brilliant idea to rent Honda S90 motorcycles. A Honda S90 was about the smallest motorbike ever made. It might be able to go 60 mph down a level stretch of highway if the wind was behind you. Holiday had two available Hondas for rent that evening.

Besides Bub, Honcho and Hot Dog were the only two of our group that had drivers’ licenses. In the mid-sixties, you didn’t need a motorcycle license to drive one. Quite frankly, we didn’t even have probationary drivers’ licenses back then. Any license worked. It may have cost an insurance fee of $25 to rent the Honda, and it was refunded if the bike came back in original form. There was also a nonrefundable fee for renting the bike for an hour. Gas was no problem; you could drive for hours on a quarter’s worth of leaded gas.

Honcho and Hot Dog rented the two bikes and took off up the hill with a bit of difficulty. If you have ever been to Denison, you would know that the streets north of Highway 30 were almost 45 degrees, and these little motorbikes struggled to make it to the top.

The rest of us waited, doing whatever bored teenagers do in a gas station parking lot on a warm summer night. While we were standing around Bub’s car, the drive-in owner and a sheriff’s deputy pulled into the Holiday lot. She got out of the car, mad as hell. She started yelling at us before the deputy calmed her down.

“I know you snuck a bunch into the movie in the trunk of the car. But I’m going to turn you in to this deputy unless you give me back the speaker you broke off as you left, and also, you are going to have to go back and clean up your mess!”

About that time, Honcho and Hot Dog came down the hill, saw what was going on, and turned around to go back up the hill. The rest of us got into Bub’s car and drove back out to the drive-in, followed by the deputy. We didn’t know about the speaker. We found it a few yards from where we had parked during the movie. I’m not even sure it was our group that tore it off. I couldn’t believe the mess we made. There must have been a garbage scow of litter within several feet of where we had parked during the movie. It was obvious to the owner that we spent a considerable amount of money on hot dogs, hamburgers, popcorn, candy, drinks, etc. at the concession stand.

We cleaned up the mess, handed the speaker over to whomever, and headed back into town to the Holiday station. Honcho and Hot Dog were laughing their butts off. They thought it was funny. It wasn’t. Especially for me. I was in the front seat of the car and had to pay with my own money to get into the fleapit.

The lesson learned: Next time I should be in the trunk. But I never got the chance.

*************************

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Posted in General | Tagged Denison Iowa, Holiday Convenience Store, Honda S90 | Leave a comment

The Cost of Doing Business

Posted on June 22, 2023 by Marty Ryan

“The punishment should fit the crime” is a cliché that was popular years ago, but seems to have disappeared from today’s conversations on justice.

Usually, a penalty is attached to the creation of a new law, but occasionally it’s either ignored or set so low that it becomes a gnat in the cost of doing business.

The Iowa Department of Natural Resources fined an Eastern Iowa farmer $5,000 because he changed his swine Concentrated Animal Feeding Operation (CAFO) from pigs to a cattle feedlot operation without first obtaining a permit to do so. His excuse – he “didn’t know” he needed a new permit. The farmer agreed to pay the $5,000 penalty and to apply for a construction permit amendment. Be assured that the construction permit will be approved by the DNR. If the $5,000 fine had been a deterrent, the farmer would have ditched the plan to convert.

The Iowa Ethics and Campaign Disclosure Board is attempting to reel in thousands of dollars in fines levied against candidates that have gone unpaid. Candidates’ responses include: “I didn’t know” or “the process of filing” reports is “riddled with technical difficulties.” However, media reports seem not to follow up on whether candidates are ponying up their financial responsibilities, making the value of a potential deterrent nothing more than political capital.

Fareway Stores refuse to accept can and bottles for redemption “to minimize potential harm to the communities we serve.” Never mind that the law specifically requires the corporation to accept redeemable containers. But according to Iowa’s former Attorney General, there is no penalty for flouting the law on bottle and can redemption. Moreover, the company does not have to employ another person to maintain bottle and can redemption services, the purchase or rental of automatic recycling machines, nor provide space for redeemed recyclables. Each of those factors add up to a windfall for Fareway. As it is with many corporate decisions, the spin is in front, the reality is in the rear. Savings is the bottom line.

POET Bioprocessing, a bioethanol company based in South Dakota, has been fined the maximum administrative penalty of $10,000 by the Iowa Department of Natural Resources for ongoing violations involving failure to maintain equipment that has led to air pollution at its Iowa Falls plant, resulting in “repeatedly” emitting harmful chemicals. Recently, POET has reported $8 billion in annual revenue. The fine amounts to one-tenth of a one percent bite into the company’s profit. That’s comparable to a person earning $50,000 a year being fined two-tenths of one cent for a speeding violation. Is it any wonder why POET didn’t appeal the fine? It’s the cost of doing business.

Some penalties exist for the pure political posturing of elected officials. House File 595 increases the penalties for certain crimes involving fentanyl, sometimes doubling the prison term. Although fentanyl can be a dangerous street drug, increasing penalties to combat the manufacture, sale, and distribution of the drug is a politically practical solution that has extraordinarily little value as a deterrent. The real autocracy in the governor signing the bill is her statement where she “blamed the Biden administration’s handling of the U.S.-Mexico border for the influx of fentanyl-laced pills.”

Anyone who believes fentanyl is being smuggled into the U.S. by individuals stashing pills into their pockets does not have a perception of reality. According to the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration, fentanyl is “smuggled through official border crossings, often in vehicles driven by U.S. citizens.” But Iowa’s governor wants you to believe that it is Hispanic immigrants that are to blame for the infusion of dangerous drugs in America, and especially Iowa.

Some laws fail to provide any sort of penalty. For instance, State Representative Bobby Kaufmann (R-Wilton) introduced a bill (House File 716) as Chair of the House Ways and Means Committee that requires a person participating in the political caucus to be physically present at the caucus. So, the question arises, what will the penalty be if the Iowa Democratic Party proceeds with its plan to retain “the mail-in provision in its new plan” for the 2024 caucuses? Since there is no penalty at the state level, the otherwise brilliant political tactic created by Rep. Kaufmann becomes moot.

It all comes down to this. Deterrence does not work in all cases. If money is involved, the deterrent value is equal to the cost of doing business. A decision to comply with a penalty is recommended by the legal department of a corporation discussing the potential results with the accounting department and submitting the exhortation to upper-level management to decide as to whether “the punishment fits the crime.”

Sort of makes you wonder if the slight penalties in statutes that affect the wealthy and corporations are soft on white collar crime.

*** This article first appeared in The Prairie Progressive‘s Summer edition ***

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Posted in Fairness, Issues | Tagged Bobby Kaufmann, deterrence, Fareway, fentanyl, Iowa DNR, Iowa Ethics & Campaign Disclosure Board, POET, Prairie Progressive | Leave a comment

Everyone’s Best Friend – Jim Malloy

Posted on June 15, 2023 by Marty Ryan

June 3^rd 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 3^rd 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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Posted in General | Tagged Boyer River, Iowa Veterans Home, Jim Malloy, June 3rd, King Creek | 1 Comment

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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Posted in General | Tagged Farmland Foods, Negotiations, Sewell Couch, The Savoy | Leave a comment

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 10^th, 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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Posted in General | Tagged Fort Lewis, Norman Greenbaum, Spirit in the Sky, WA | Leave a comment

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 30^th, 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 10^th, 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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