Congress sprung a leak

On January 19, 2026, “a broken sewer main poured more than 240 million gallons of waste into the Potomac River just outside of Washington, D.C.,” A month later, The New York Times headline read: “A sewage spill pollutes the D.C. area.” I couldn’t resist posting it on Facebook with the caption: “My Congress runneth over.” But it took a month to report this story? Wow! Slow news day, I guess. All of a sudden, I want to stop worrying about Iowa’s polluted waterways and have some empathy for those in our nation’s capital.

There are too many jokes to go with this unfortunate dilemma. It’s as if the Times invited jokesters and obscure writers to begin the flow of memes and gifs.

“Local officials have been working for weeks to stop the flow and assess the damage.” If this isn’t the epitome of government in action, I couldn’t describe what is. It has taken one month for the government to stop this “crap?”

But the highlight of this slow to do-nothing fiasco is another government example: “FEMA said today that it was monitoring the situation.”

The Times published another article on April 23 with the headline: A Huge Sewage Spill Is Over, but Contamination Lingers in the Potomac. Nowhere in the article was there a mention that Congress was the source of the contamination. However, what else could have been the cause?

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Crossing lines

Several years ago, I wrote about my first real job working at Marvin’s Provisions. I worked there from the time I was 14 until I graduated from high school. What I left out of that essay was the fact that I returned to work there in the summer of 1969.

In 1969, the employees of IBP (formerly known as Iowa Beef Processors (formerly known as Iowa Beef Packers)) went on strike at the facility in Dakota City, Nebraska. Marvin needed a load of meat from the plant. The striking workers had a reputation of violence toward anyone crossing the picket line, and the driver that usually went there to pick up a load refused to go. “Hell,” I said, “I used to work there and I know many of the union members. I have no problem getting a load of meat.” I was thinking that because they knew me, they would let me through.

I had worked on the kill floor from October 5,1968 until June of 1969. Big deal! What I didn’t take into consideration was that the bulk of the strikers were employed in the processing end of the plant, as if that made a difference.

I remember pulling the truck into the gate. BAM! A large black woman yelled at me and dented the front left fender of the truck with a baseball bat. She, and scores of others, were yelling at me as well. I have no idea what they were saying because my window was rolled up. No, I didn’t have air conditioning in the cab; I rolled the window up when I saw people throwing objects as I approached.

I backed the truck up to the dock and was loaded almost immediately. Most drivers were not naïve enough to risk what I did. Pulling out of the dock, I realized my brakes were not working. I called back to Marvin’s to get direction on what to do next. Marvin’s Provisions had an unwritten policy that collect calls were turned down, the caller (either a customer or a driver) would say that collect call was from ‘Jim’s Market’ or some other known location, and the sales person would call back on the outbound WATS line[i] knowing that the butcher at Jim’s wanted to place an order, or that the driver was at Jim’s and needed to talk to someone at Marvin’s. I tried calling collect several times, and the call was not accepted in all my attempts. I had to locate change for a pay phone and finally got through.

From there, Marvin instructed those answering the phone to accept a collect call from Marty. A few telephone calls revealed that the International Truck service in Sioux City would not look at the truck as long as it was on the other side of the picket line, but if I could use emergency brake (only) getting to their shop in Sioux City across the bridge, they would fix it there. Great!

The trip to the International dealer was hair-raising. The truck was loaded – no, the truck was overloaded. The brakes were repaired, a bill was sent to Marvin’s, and I was on my way. On my way, that is, until I reached the truck scales south of Sioux City on Interstate 29. As I mentioned, the truck was overloaded. It was also the first time I had heard the phrase reciprocity papers. “What the hell are those?” I asked.

Parking my truck in the back of the scale house and hoping the Thermo King® (refrigerating unit) would not shut off, I was transported to a house in Salix where a justice-of-the-peace lived. I was fined for not having reciprocity papers and a load far exceeding limitations. I told the JP I had no money. He told me to phone my employer. I did and no one would accept the collect call. He told me sit down at the kitchen table and have some dinner while he called Marvin. I don’t remember what was for dinner, but I recall that it was good. Marvin told him that a check was in the mail for the overload, and that I didn’t need to have reciprocity papers because we were not hauling for hire. That worked.

I was driven back to the truck scales and told to shift my load. I refused. It is a violation to cut a federal seal unless you are the owner of the load or an employee of the load at the employer’s place of business. The guy in charge said that for as much as I was overloaded it probably wouldn’t work, anyway. I got in the truck and drove back to Vail.

As I pulled into Vail, Dick Blair, a part owner, was waiting for me. He told me to back the truck into the loading door and “we’ll unload in the morning.” That was the end of my day. Or, was it?

Half the population of Vail, including me, were awoken in the middle of the night to an extremely large BOOM! I knew immediately what it was. I got dressed and ran down to Marvin’s, about two and half blocks away. Dick Blair was already in the building.

Apparently, someone threw some dynamite on to the roof of Marvin’s new addition to the business. It blew a huge hole in the roof and damaged rails hanging from the ceiling. The cooler was practically empty since we hadn’t unloaded the truck.

When Marvin showed up, he went right to the phone and called Senator Harold Hughes. I was amazed. He actually had the senator’s telephone number, and Hughes answered. Marvin was a significant Democratic Party donor. I remember Marvin telling Senator Hughes he wanted that strike to end. After that experience, I fail to retain anymore memories of the day’s (and night’s) events.

I was exhausted. But I learned “a lot” that day.

Related blogs: For what it’s worth and That first job

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[i] Wide Area Telephone Service (WATS) access to long-distance telephone lines for commercial use at reduced rates. Callers to an incoming WATS line dial 800 instead of a specific area code and are not charged for the service. Organizations who hold the WATS line are charged for incoming calls; costs of outgoing calls using a WATS line are generally less expensive per call than ordinary long-distance service.

 

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The big Vail fire

It was one of the strangest experiences in my life. I awoke for no obvious reason. Looking toward the window, I managed to believe that I ended up in the middle of the sun. The sky was the brightest orange anyone could imagine.

At once, it dawned on me. There’s a fire nearby, and it’s snowing. I got out of bed, put on my blue jeans, socks, grabbed my boots, coat, and hat and headed outside. The snow was blinding, and it seemed like the snow was bleeding.

I headed toward downtown. Yes! I spotted the fire. I think sirens helped me locate the source. I watched the firefight from any angle I could get. The Main Street was filled with hoses. Men shouting; ice developing on anything and everything. As much as I wanted to, I dared not ask anyone a question. We all knew what was going on. Like Rome; Vail was burning. But unlike Rome, it was burning in the middle of a raging blizzard. In the end, the fire consumed the weekly newspaper office, an empty building, a lawyer’s office (where the fire started), a bar and a bank.

Obviously, because of the blizzard, there was no school the following day, so I headed back downtown. The only thing I remember about the that day was running into Art Adams, who told me that he came to town to see if money in the bank’s vault burned.

On the Sunday after the big downtown fire, a few of us Marauders walked around the red picket snow fence to examine the remains of the fire. As with most Sundays in downtown Vail, there were no pedestrians, and very little vehicle traffic. The brick walls where the Lincoln Club used to be were now lying on the ground, and beer cans were mixed in with the red bricks and ash.

It didn’t take long to realize that some of the beer cans scattered throughout the debris were full. Most were Schlitz. The cans may have been slightly brown or black in a few places, but the cans that were full became salvage to us. We collected as many of the undamaged (but slightly singed) cans as we could and stashed them somewhere where my memory fails me.

However, the Sunday after accumulating damaged cans, we had a party at the McCoid’s home. We put ice in glasses and cups and poured the beer into the odd assortment of containers. We were having a blast until someone yelled: “They’re home!” That would have been Dale and Helen McCoid pulling up around back. Kids were trying to squeeze out of the front door so fast I’m not sure that a few were temporarily stuck.

Vail Boys! We were quick to open the door when opportunity knocked. Even after the doors burned down.

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This is bad: I know it!

In the year 2525, if man is still alive, will there be archeologists?

Tire tracks on the Trestle-to-Trestle recreational trail had me wondering, today. Will futuristic artifacts reveal that giant animals with feet consisting of rubberized synthetic material were out searching for prey in the form of black semisolid material obviously originating from petroleum that had been heated with elements from native deposits found plentifully in the Twenty-first Century?

Perhaps the monster was hunting for a similar victim that tracked along the lines of the material above. Maybe the monster was seeking a grey, flat quarry with white stripes or yellow lines down the middle of its back. You know, that stuff made from where humans buried their voided decompositions – cement tarries.

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Everyday People

I am no better and neither are you
We are the same, whatever we do
You love me, you hate me, you know me and then
You can’t figure out the bag I’m in
I am everyday people

Sly Stone, Sly and the Family Stone. 1968

Several years ago, I began writing what I thought would be a book about how different we are from each other. It’s still unfinished on my computer, and I hope to finish it someday with the title “There Are Two Kinds of People in This World: Me, and Everyone Else!” Meanwhile, I believe an essay on the gist of the book is in order during this tumultuous time of political indifference.

Often, I want to respond to a posting on Facebook where I disagree with a “friend’s” position. I pause, but not always. I may respond if someone has posted an untruth that I can correct with simple impartial research, but most of the time, I leave it alone. Even fact-checking these days is questioned by anyone who might have a different opinion than anyone else. A younger me never thought this possible. And you may have heard many times; ‘you are entitled to your own opinion, but you are not entitled to your own facts.’

Sometimes I’m right and I can be wrong
My own beliefs are in my song
The butcher, the banker, the drummer and then
Makes no difference what group I’m in

Upon seeing a posting in which the author pointed out the huge differences between products purchased in January of 2020 to the products bought in January of 2024, I conducted research of my own. Surprisingly, I discovered the margin between orange juice from both years was larger than portrayed in the meme. There was no need for me to respond. And, it surprised me.

A year or two ago, my nephew brought me a jar of his homemade salsa. As I opened it, I could smell cumin. I do not like cumin, curry, coconut, cilantro, or coriander. Do you see a pattern here? I do, however, like cinnamon, celery, and particularly cherry anything. But the cumin in the salsa was a turn off for me. I feel bad that I hurt his feelings by telling him I didn’t like the salsa. But I ate the salsa and cumin is beginning to grow on me. The point is that, although we are all equal, we are all different. We have our personal likes and dislikes. Step aside and open your mind.

There is a blue one
Who can’t accept the green one
For living with a fat one
Trying to be a skinny one
Different strokes
For different folks


Letters to the editor display various slants toward or against political policies. I agree with some, and disagree with others. I have penned many LTEs myself, but I never attacked another writer personally. At least, not that the editor published. More than once, I did have someone write an LTE responding to what I had written. It made me feel good, knowing that someone cared enough to emote their own tilt toward the issue.

I am no better and neither are you
We are the same, whatever we do
You love me, you hate me, you know me and then
You can’t figure out the bag I’m in
 

And so on and so on
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Poverty vs. Poor

Johanna Scanlon has been on my mind, lately. I’ve been thinking of her because I have been diagnosed with osteopenia, “a condition characterized by lower-than-normal bone density, which can increase the risk of fractures and may progress to osteoporosis if not managed.” I believe Johanna suffered from osteoporosis.

I felt sorry for Johanna all the while we lived next door. She was more than poor; she lived in poverty. She would leave her back door and walk down her yard with a cane. She was so hunched over that I was often wondering if she might fall forward. She left her house only to get her mail at the Post Office and pick up a few groceries, no more than she could carry three blocks.

Her back yard sloped toward the alley, and I could figure out that the path down the middle of her backyard was raised and separated what had to have been two gardens at one time. When I mowed our yard, I mowed her front yard, but the backyard had turned to what some would call weeds. I viewed it as prairie.

One very cold winter day, Johanna summoned me from her back door. She was standing on the platform at the top of her outdoor stairs to the yard. I walked over to see what she needed. She handed me a pail and asked if I could drain some heating oil from a 50-gallon drum on its side from below the platform and bring it into her home. I had never done this before, and I had never seen anyone else perform the task.

I brought the heating oil up the steps and, as she opened the door, asked me to set it by the small old oil burning stove in the middle of the room. The house was cold! The oil burning stove was in what I would label as the kitchen, but I saw no refrigerator, no stove – not even a cook stove, but only a small table with two white chairs abutting the window in the back side of the house. I could see her sitting at the window day after day reading. However, the only thing to read in that room was a stack of papers; shoppers – not newspapers. I have to assume that she used them to burn in the oil burning stove.

The kitchen was cut off from the rest of the house with a blanket hanging over what had to be a doorway to another room, most likely the living room. When I think about it, I had never noticed lights on in her home.

Johanna was a sweet old woman. She often had a smile on her face, even though it must have been difficult for her. She was not poor; she was living in poverty.

As I get older, I notice that there is a huge difference between being poor and living in poverty. Sadly, not everyone understands the difference.

Poor is not having a good enough credit score to finance the purchase a used car. Poverty is not having a credit score, a credit card, a car, or a house.

Poor is when you are in college and you have to eat tuna, like candidate Willard Mitt Romney’s claimed when he ran for President in 2012. Or, poor is when you ran out of beer and payday isn’t for another day or two. Poor is temporary; poverty is a lifetime.

Former Iowa State Representative Wayne Ford told me that poverty is a constant struggle to move up, rarely making it.

There is a cliché that goes: “Pull yourself up by your bootstraps.” It’s meant to encourage poor people to strive for success. However, people living in poverty have no bootstraps; they have no boots; some barely have decent socks. Some people have nothing but a half-gallon of heating oil, some old shoppers, and cold solitude.

Related blog: https://iowappa.com/?p=1977

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