Down in the Valley…

Neese2 Comments

 

Rock Valley was a great little town when I was a kid. Tucked in the northwest corner of Iowa, near the borders of South Dakota and Minnesota. In the 1950’s and ’60’s, Rock Valley boasted a population of maybe 1,500. Home to the world’s best soil for farming (still is). There were a couple of manufacturers that employed quite a few townies, Kooima’s and Roorda’s. I was a townie and never appreciated our farmers, black dirt, magnificent crops or Iowa’s beautiful landscape until I moved away decades later.

Iowa’s pitch black dirt, ideal for growing crops…

A predominately Dutch community, the majority attended one of our many churches every Sunday. That town could have been picked clean between the hours of 9 am and noon on any given Sunday. Most offering 2 services on Sunday, however the Netherland’s Reformed had 3-a-day. Their afternoon service was in Dutch. It was a quiet, safe, somewhat isolated community. Two good sized cities, Sioux Falls and Sioux City were 45-60 miles away thus Rock Valley’s Main Street boasted businesses to supply our needs and was home to the one and only “stoplight,” the reason for my blog’s name.

 Businesses including grocery, hardware, appliance, department, bakery, dime, men’s and women’s clothing, restaurants, bowling alley, even a movie theater when I was a kid. Movies weren’t on the “approved entertainment list” in our house. Mom and Dad’s idea of entertainment was driving around town on hot summer nights, going slow enough just to stir up a breeze, talking about houses, or the people in the houses. Boring, but usually I’d tag along, laying down in the backseat of the car, watching the trees and sky, singing made-up songs. Often they would stop “near” the theater, never parking too close thus avoiding being mistaken for actually “being” at a movie. I was allowed to jump out of the moving car, (just kidding) run into the theater lobby and buy us treats making the boring ride bearable. Dad always got popcorn, Mom an ice cream sandwich, me usually candy.

 Downtown Rock Valley where our one stoplight kept the heavy flow of traffic moving-hahaha…

 Mom thought Dad was too strict on many child-rearing techniques, so often I was allowed to do things on the sly he had deemed off limits. It was a kind of parenting tug-of-war I don’t think they ever talked about. One time this really backfired. There I was, thinking I had gotten away with this forbidden night out. I was in 5th grade during one of Iowa’s 2 seasons of weather, winter. We were having a massive blizzard. Dad had come home for supper and had gone right back to work (overtime, yay) plowing the highways. There would be no school tomorrow. I “zhanicked” (Dutch word for whined, pleaded, begged) to sneak to the movies, a mere block away. No way Dad was coming home for another couple hours, snow was already past my knees. Had no clue what movie was playing, it didn’t matter. I finally wore her down, which was normal. Although Mom was super-attentive about most-things-Neese, this minor battle wasn’t worth squabbling over. Besides I needed to get a bit older before the real battles began. My teens. Me rebellious, her over-protective. Mom not wanting me to grow up even a little. She said go, practically shoved me out the door. Man, I should have stayed home that night.

 There were about 10 people at the movie (who goes out on a night like this?) and the movie was–wait for it– Mr. Sardonicus. Set in the 1890’s, this was a story about a dad, his son and daughter-in-law. Older man buys a lottery ticket, dies. They have his funeral and he’s buried. The son realizes a couple weeks later the winning ticket is in the suit pocket of his recently departed dad. Yikes. Well, you knew it was gonna happen and someone had to do it. Daughter-in-law forces her husband, the son, to dig up the corpse. Horrors of horrors, Sonny sees his dad’s stretched, decaying skull in this gross smile/grimace. His features immediately go into that same frozen, gross face. Holy moly, I was 11. I begged a class-mate, Dave Suter, who was also there to walk me home. By now the snow was hip deep. And the walk home seemed much longer than a block. Then I had to fib to Mom, telling her the movie was great, or I’d never be allowed to sneak out to another one. Though I have been a movie buff my whole life, I don’t think I’ve seen another horror movie. At least not intentionally. Proud to be a kept-strunt (Dutch equivalent of a chicken-shit)…

 
Brave superhero Dave Suter…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ain’t no sunshine…

Neese2 Comments

It was a beautiful fall Saturday morning, October 11, 1958. Never one to sleep in, I was up, had breakfast and watching cartoons. Since it was the weekend Mom was home. For a kid, it was just another lazy weekend for this second grader. As the youngest member of our family of 5, my list of chores was short. Play outside, eat, play some more and take a bath. Tomorrow was Sunday, which meant church (morning and night) and everyone needed to get their baths done on Saturday. No shower in our house, so everyone took a bath. I’d squirt Ivory Liquid dish soap in the tub to get gobs of bubbles.

Our dog Spitzy, Larry 11 and me 7, 1958…

Mom got a job once I started kindergarten. She worked at a hatchery, candling eggs. Odd job she had standing in a very dark room. There was a box about waist high that had a very bright light coming out of a small round hole in the front. Mom picked up 4 eggs, 2 in each hand, and examined the eggs in front of the light which showed her if there was a blemish or blood spot in the egg.

 Dad left at the crack of dawn that day. He did small jobs for folks after supper and on Saturdays (never on Sunday, the 7th day was to rest and worship God). Often it was the widows in town who needed storm/screen windows put on or removed, their house painted or new shingles. This was a different job though. He was taking down a building in Hawarden about 30 miles away. He either sold the used lumber or used it on a project at our house which was never ending. Plus he got paid to take it down. He took his thermos of coffee along, but I think he was planning to have lunch at a restaurant that day.

 Dad removing nails from used lumber during the 50’s…

Soon I would be outside playing, but who could pull themselves away from TV on Saturday morning? Out of the corner of my eye through the window I noticed my 12 year old brother Larry riding down our drive-way. He was riding my bike, not his. I flew out the front door yelling, “Larry what are you doing? Bring back my bike.” He had a beautiful Schwinn, mine was a smaller girls bike and not fancy, but then I was not yet 8. He kept peddling, turned around and yelled back, “I’m going to grandpa Gerritson’s and I need your bike to use the basket. I’ll give you a dime when I get home and bring you back a surprise.” Since most of my friends lived a house or 2 away it wasn’t a big deal, but he hadn’t asked before he took off.

 I went back to my cartoons. Mom was doing Saturday’s work (cleaning) which meant she would be inviting someone over for coffee and dessert after church Sunday night. She always cleaned, but when she baked on Saturday she’d invite a family by phone or after church tomorrow. Don’t remember what my 15 year old sister Mona was doing, most likely helping mom.

 Mona, Larry and me, 1957…

A little while later the phone rang in the kitchen. All of a sudden Mom started screaming and ran out of the house right into the street. Across 15th Street, Mrs. Klein ran out to my mom who was now running in circles hysterically. I started crying but didn’t know why. Just uneasy and scared watching mom. Larry had been hit by a car, riding my bike on Highway 18. He had been coming back from town to our grandparent’s house.

 Soon our house was filled with grown-ups, most from our small, close-knit church, Calvin Christian Reformed. A couple minutes later our minister Rev. Milton Doornbos walked through the door. No cell phones back then, someone had called a business in Hawarden. Giving them instructions to find dad and tell him there had been an accident. He needed to come home as quick as he could.

 By the time dad drove back from Hawarden, there were a dozen cars parked on our block. It must have been so hard for Dad to walk in our house. The most devastating news a parent can hear. His only son Larry was dead. What a nightmare. Should life go on? Soon we would hear conflicting stories about what happened. Some said that Larry got the bottom of his jean caught in the bike chain causing him to swerve into traffic. At that time Highway 18 had this little lip on the shoulder, almost like a curb. I grew up believing the car swerved up that lip and hit Larry. Either way, my beloved big brother was gone.

 Rev. & Mrs. Doornbos who visited us weekly for a year after we lost Larry…

 

This tragedy affected our family forever. We were never the same. Not a day goes by where I don’t think about Larry. My parents certainly never recovered. Their marriage would take a hit from this senseless accident. Mom definitely would have benefited from talking to a grief counselor or group therapy. But that did not happen in a small Iowa town in the late 50’s. The police later found a caramel apple near my bike that had flown out of the basket. My “treat” from Larry for borrowing his little sister’s bike…

 

 

Neese 2nd grade school picture, 1958…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Larry Wayne…

Neese4 Comments

 

His name was Larry. Born at the end of the Second World War, the middle child and only son of a mismatched, unhappy couple. Sandwiched between my older sister Mona, who was 3 years older than him and 7-1/2 years older than me. We lived in a small town in northwest Iowa called Rock Valley. Predominately Dutch, isolated and sheltered. Larry was all boy, who at 5, jumped off an old shed (‘haukee’ slang in Dutch) behind our house on a dare, bruised the side of his face and had to have his kindergarten picture taken of his “good” profile that year.

Larry 5, 1951…

He played marbles, shooting steelies, cats eyes and agates. He went pigeon hunting at night, Larry and the pigeons flitting among the high rafters in old barns with Dad and never showing fear. He had a slight speech impediment with his r’s, which sounded like, “moth-tha, can I have a qua-ta?” In grade school he was slipped out of class for speech therapy. He was well liked and had many friends. Plus me, his little sister, who worshiped the ground he walked on. I can’t remember him ever getting mad at me. Trust me, I was a nuisance but he always protected me.

 Larry and I got along. My nickname was Neese. We had their own friends, but in our early childhoods lived on the fringe of town. If Larry was playing with Glen, I was probably playing with Glen’s little sister Pam. Much of the play was inter-mingled. Outside was the place to be unless it was dinner time (noon meal) or supper. Couldn’t get enough of outside during the summer. Hot, humid, blacktop that shimmered in the heat. We rarely wore shoes but could high-tail it across those streets, our feet toughened by scrub yards, empty lots and hot pavement.

Denise itching a skeeter bite, Glen, Larry & Pam, Anthony in front, Rock Valley, 1953…

The year was 1955. The folks had been saving money, (both good savers) and plunked a down-payment on a house in TOWN, which included a huge yard (or so it seemed to this 8 and 4 year old at the time), was 2 blocks from school, and ONE block from Main Street. Who could believe our luck? Now we had close neighbors, homes with lots of kids of all ages. AND STORES WERE A BLOCK AWAY.

Look at my dirty feet from playing outside…

The house was primitive. Dad was handy and started remodeling. A long-standing endeavor that would entail 50 years of his life. That house ended up with more add-ons than pizza toppings. First job was the kitchen which was void of cupboards. Dad built, painted, installed them, then moved the sink. He and some helpers were glueing the linoleum, wrong side up, ready to flip, when I came flying in the house. Slid like a major-leaguer across that black tarry glue. No one got mad though, everyone laughed. Mom took me outside to hose off the goo.

 Neese sitting on Mona’s boyfriend’s car in front of our house on 15th, 1957…

 The dining room was huge, but was rarely used for meals. We all crowded around a kitchen table, gangly legs and elbows bumping each other. Supper was a daily occurrence. Mom was very young when she and dad got married. Don’t know how she learned to cook, but there never was a night when a home cooked, decent supper meal wasn’t on the table.

Dad worked for the Iowa State Highway Commission. Road work which consisted of basically 2 seasons. Summers, mowing shoulders and ditches, and fixing highway blow-ups. Blow-ups occur when highway’s 18 or 75 would get so hot, the road would buckle upwards. Someone driving on the road would call it in. These blowups happened during the peak heat of the day, right after dad got off work, cleaned up, and was sitting down for supper. Never heard him complain if he had to return to work, because it was OVERTIME.

 Dad plowing highway 18 east of Rock Valley…

Iowa’s other season was a very long winter, which meant snow, lots of snow. Dad would be driving one of the state plows, slithering down highway 18 to Sheldon, up and over a dangerous bridge between Boyden and Sheldon, or slinking his way to the South Dakota border near Canton. People said they knew right where the state line was because Iowa took such good care of their highways in both seasons. South Dakota, not so much. Dad swelled with pride when someone told him this.

 Larry had a tiny bedroom on the main floor of our 2 story house. I wouldn’t have dared to sleep down there by myself but he was not scared and took pride of having a room to himself. The rest of us slept upstairs, stairs so steep, it was more like a ladder. Mom and dad’s room was a sharp right as you topped the stairs, Mona’s and my bedrooms were to the left. I had to walk through her door to get to my room. My room was as tiny as Larry’s and without a closet. The ceiling had this opening to the attic, not plaster, but white boards that could be lifted easily and set aside.

 Larry & Mona in 1948…

Soon after we moved in, I woke up from a nightmare and imagined I saw a man climbing down a rope ladder from the attic to get me. It was so real. He had a knife between his teeth. I remain convinced he’s still up there. Gives me the shivers. My nights of sleeping in that haunted room were over. Thus began an unhappy relationship sharing a bedroom with Mona. In her defense she probably wasn’t thrilled to share her space with a little brat either. She listened to country music, talked about boys, hogged the bed and wrote in her diary late into the night. We had little in common. I would lay in the far corner of the double bed, kicking her with my little feet, pleading with her to turn off the radio and light so I could go to sleep…