I always thought my Dad was pretty handy and a good carpenter. Don't know if it was out of necessity that he took care of stuff, but I rarely heard him complain about it. Think he really enjoyed working with his hands. First thing I remember he built was a playhouse. It was awesome. Real siding, windows, even a brick chimney. "Neese" in my playhouse when I was about 4 years old, 1955.
What's a budding pre-teen girl do when she finally wants some of her own spending money? It's the early 1960's and there's only so many job oportunities in Rock Valley, my small town in northwest Iowa. Let's see, there's life-guard, but I'm not old enough, and the season's too short. A new fad has finally hit northwest Iowa. Just 22 years after first being introduced in California. Think it got here by a covered wagon on 3 wheels. It's called a Drive-in. Girls wait on you in your car. Well, who doesn't want to eat in the cozy confines of their car? The eating part sounded good, but I don't want to wait on people. No, that's not a good fit either. If I were not totally-clueless-about-absolutely-everything-involving-farming, I could pick weeds, run along side a combine, cook sweetcorn or something.
 |
| Neese in my room, 1961... |
After Larry had been killed, Mom developed or acquired some irrational fears for and about me. I understand how that could happen, but back then it wasn't easy for a ten year old.
 |
| Holy spit-curls Batman! Neese about 10, 1960... |
When we moved to 15th street in 1955, I was almost 5. The house I was born in was on the outskirts of town with only a few places scattered nearby. Suddenly, we were in the middle of a huge neighborhood full of homes with lots of kids.
 |
| Neese in kindergarten, 1956... |
Rock Valley was a great little town to live in 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 2,500. 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 always lived in town and didn't appreciate farmers, black dirt, crops or the beautiful landscape of Iowa until I moved away decades later.
It was a beautiful fall Saturday morning, October 11, 1958. Never one to sleep in, I was up, had breakfast and was 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 in the family, my list of chores was very 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.
His name was Larry. Born at the end of the Second World War, he was the middle child, only son of an unhappy couple. Sandwiched between my older sister Mona who was 3 years older than him, 7-1/2 years older than me. We lived in a small town in northwest Iowa called Rock Valley. Predominately Dutch, safe, isolated, sheltered. Larry was all boy, who at 5, jumped off an old shed behind our house on a dare, hit his face pretty good, and had to have his first school picture taken of his "good" profile that year.
