Just one more

Joseph and Mary (Young) McMulin (my great-great-great-grandparents) were another of Monroe County, Iowa's, first families, fording the Des Moines River as soon as it was legal to do so and claiming land in Pleasant Township in May of 1843 (when Sac and Fox title to the territory expired). They had come directly to Van Buren County from Ohio with most of their 10 children (the three youngest at least were born in Iowa) during the mid-1830s, probably living in the vicinity of Iowaville.

Those other ancestors of mine, William and Miriam (Trescott) Miller, arrived at the same time and were their neighbors in Monroe County, so it was probably inevitable that some of their children would marry each other. Richard McMulin married Aurilla Miller on 26 February 1846 in Monroe County and Richard's sister, Elizabeth, married Aurilla's brother, Jeremiah Miller, on 6 September 1849.

The pasture always was greener just the other side of the fence, so most of the Millers and McMulins moved one county west to Lucas County during the 1850s and 1860s, although only Jeremiah and Elizabeth (my great-great-grandparents) made Lucas County their permanent home. Some went back to Monroe County, but most of the McMulin children just kept heading west.

In 1870, Richard and Aurilla and their eight children loaded up their wagons and headed for Sumner County, Kansas, landing near what became Anson, south of Wichita. The McMulin kids and my Miller aunts and uncles were double first cousins and my granddad always stayed in touch with them.

Most of the children of Richard and Aurilla stuck fairly close to Anson (and quite a few of their descendants still are in that area), but Joseph William (or William Joseph, according to his Kansas kin) was the exception.

Some time later in the 1870s, J.W. and his older brother, Albert, headed for Texas to find work as cowboys. They landed deep in Texas, in La Salle County, midway between San Antonio and Laredo.

Albert preferred Kansas and drove cattle up the Chisholm Trail to return home. But J.W. met and married about 1879 a Texas girl, Theresa Yecker, and settled down. He continued to work as a cowboy, served as sheriff of La Salle County from November 1890 until March of 1892 (his predecessor was killed in office, so this may not have been the safest of professions), then alighted in Encinal, where he and Theresa operated a hotel/boarding house for many years.

There was some sort of a disconnect here between the Texas and Kansas McMulins, but I don't know what it was. The Kansas family did develop some misconceptions about Theresa, so it seems unlikely any of them ever met her. A cousin wrote to my granddad that she was Hispanic (actually, she was full-blooded German); and that she had seven children before she married J.W. (she and J.W. had seven children --- but it was a joint undertaking).

Everybody in Kansas agreed that J.W. just never came home to Kansas after he married. Some said it was 50 years, but actually it was somewhere between 30 and 40 years. I have a letter from a McMulin cousin in Kansas to Granddad describing the reunion, shortly before Richard McMulin died in March of 1914. J.W. came up into Oklahoma to visit some siblings who lived there and other Kansas McMulins headed south to Oklahoma to join the reunion. Finally, J.W. made the trip from Oklahoma up to Anson to visit his dad --- at last.

So that's what I know about Joseph William and Theresa McMulin, whose joint tombstone in the Encinal Cemetery was thoughtfully placed on the Find A Grave Web site by a volunteer who, most likely, didn't know them from Adam.

Those of use who work in the far aisle at the office are starting to talk about waterboarding as appropriate therapy for annoying colleagues. This means it's time to take a break and readjust my attitude, so I plan to do just that --- heading south to the land of no Internet connection for a few days on Sunday. See ya!

Another tombstone tale ...

… and then I’ll get off this “Find A Grave” kick. These tales are related, remember, to tombstone photos I found last week while revisiting the Find A Grave Web site.

The water is going down in Iowa this week, leaving an awful and costly mess behind in places like Cedar Rapids that went under. The Mississippi was expected to crest today at Keokuk --- and that’s as far south as Iowa goes.

I’ve been looking at reports this morning from Sam and Frank Fiorella, whose Pendemonium is high and dry on Fort Madison’s main street, although Riverside Park has been (and probably still is) under water. You can find that coverage, if interested, by going to the Pendemonium Web site here.

Anyhow, back to the tombstones. Justin Hayes, M.D., is one of those interesting characters who turn up in obscure corners of family trees. I’ve always had trouble sticking to my own kind of boring direct lines when someone like Justin turns up --- and finally decided that’s just fine. I’m not out to prove anything with my genealogical pursuits, just having a little (lots) of fun.

Justin is a member of my vast Miller clan. His mother, Abigail (Miller) Hayes/Bell/Beebe, was a sister of my great-great-great-grandfather, William Miller II. Two of the Miller siblings of that generation, William II and George, spent some of the best years of their lives trekking around the countryside with Joseph Smith and his first Mormons, finally getting chased out Missouri with the Saints in the late 1830s. William and his wife, Miriam (Trescott) Miller, and their family landed first in Van Buren County, Iowa, then in 1843 jumped the Des Moines River and settled in Monroe County, out in the hills east of Albia, when it was opened for settlement. They were joined there first by the widow and children of William’s brother, Stephen, who had only a minimal relationship with the Mormons; then by George; and finally by Abigail, who acquired her third husband, Ira Beebe, in Monroe County before heading on west into Kansas with another of her sons, Horace Hayes. Justin’s and Horace’s father was Abigail’s first husband, Cephas Hayes.

Justin remained behind in Ohio, where he became a physician; and then moved on to Chicago where he became quite a medical celebrity. For better or worse, he was a pioneer in the use of electricity to treat “nervous” disorders. OK, think shock treatments. His treatment center in Chicago was called the Medical and Electrical Institute for the Treatment of Nervous and Chronic Diseases (now that’s a mouthful) and his best known scholarly publication, entitled, "Electro-Thermal Bath, with History of Cases," was published in 1877.

He and his wife, Julia (Haven) Hayes, also named a son Plymmon Sanford Hayes --- one of my favorite names in the whole wide world. Lord only knows why they did that, but I’m glad they did.

Justin (26 October 1823-6 March 1892) died at Western Springs, Illinois, and was buried here in what is now known as Bronswood Cemetery, Oak Brook, near Chicago --- although the cemetery has had various names as the years have passed.

Julia and a daughter, Grace Justina, also are buried here, but from the looks of things their graves are unmarked. Death was kind of hard on the family as the century turned. Son Plymmon (buried elsewhere), also a physician, died 14 May 1894; daughter Grace, on 24 October 1902; and Julia, on 23 October 1903.

Although the big tombstone is quite nice, apparently the remaining family members couldn’t be bothered to place inscriptions for Julia and Grace on it.

In one of those odd genealogical twists, the Plymmon Hayes family Bible and some other related documents turned up in the attic of a Chicago-area house under renovation a couple of years ago --- and I was lucky enough to end up with copies. So I know much more about this branch of the family than I ever thought I would.

Gone fishing at "Find A Grave"

Nero, we've been told, fiddled while Rome burned; and last week as the flood waters rose in Iowa, I fiddled with (or fished at) "Find A Grave," a free Web site that promises access to 24 million tombstone inscriptions. I've not counted, but would guess that's close to accurate. You can find the site here and I recommend the search engine found under "Search 24 Million Graves Records" if you'd like to fish, too.

Find A Grave got started, I think, as a repository for photographs of and information about the gravesites of famous people (that feature is to your left on the home page), then like Topsy, it just growed. The tombstones have been added by volunteers --- in many cases entire cemeteries --- and many of the inscription pages that come up have photos of tombstones attached. It is in some ways a genealogist's dream come true.

Now you're not going to find everyone --- in fact you may not find anyone you're interested in at all. But it's worth a try. As is true in fishing, it helps to have a well-stocked pond --- lots of people whose graves you'd like to find. The more dead folk you have to look for and the wider geographical area you're interested in the better chance you have of landing, well, deceased kinfolk. It also helps to have relatives with distinctive names. There are a million Joseph Browns (one of my great-grandfathers) out there; fewer named Plymmon Sanford Hayes (although he's not listed, yet).

I'm going to talk today a little about two of my biggest catches last week, and maybe will share a couple of other tales from the crypt tomorrow. I've used "Find A Grave" for a long time, leaving it behind when something else bright and shiny attracts my attention, then going back. I'm always surprised at what's been added while I've been away.

Anyhow, someone tipped me off last week that all of Violet Hill Cemetery at Perry (Iowa) had been added to Find A Grave. I had known that a brother and sister of one of my great-great-grandmothers, Sarah I (Hunter) Dunlap --- William S. Hunter and Susan (Hunter) Ginn --- were buried there along with a number of their children, so decided to take a look since I didn't have dates of birth and death for them.

What I didn't know was that Susanna Hunter, my great-great-great-grandmother, was buried there, too. Her husband, John Hunter, had died a very long time ago in Jo Daviess County, Illinois, not far from Galena, and I'd lost track of Susanna after the 1870 federal census was taken. Finding her at Violet Hill was kind of accidental, since she shares a tombstone with a woman, Jennie C. Ford, and Jennie's infant son, Eddie. Eddie died 27 August 1881 and Jennie, 30 September of the same year. So the surname carved on the tombstone is "Ford" and that name had been attributed in the Find A Grave indexing system to Susanna,too, although her inscription reads, "Susanna Hunter, Died May 20, 1881, Aged 83y, 10m, 7d."

I am assuming that Jennie was a granddaughter of Susanna, but haven't quite got that sorted out --- but I will. And I was very pleased to land that big fish --- a great-great-great-grandmother.



Since I was in a Hunter mode, I decided to type the name of my great-great-grandmother (and Susanna's daughter), Sarah I (Hunter) Dunlap, into the search engine. Lo and behold, up came the tombstone she shares with daughter Linnie in the Santa Barbara Cemetery, Santa Barbara, California.

I knew that Linnie and Sarah (known in the family as the most widely traveled corpse west of the Mississippi) were buried at Santa Barbara, but wasn't even sure they had a tombstone. So finding that tombstone was a big fish, too.

Linnie, actually Melinda Belle Hunter, was the youngest child of Franklin and Sarah I. (Hunter) Dunlap, and grew up in Rock Rapids in extreme northwest Iowa where her dad (after whom I am indirectly named, minus the "lin") was a teacher. Tuberculosis ravaged two generations of the Dunlap family. Franklin lost at least two siblings to it (and another, Eugene, to the Civil War); and four of Franklin's and Sarah's children (including my great-grandmother, Susan Elizabeth Dunlap Dent) also died of "consumption."

Franklin Dunlap died 18 July 1900 at Rock Rapids and shortly thereafter Linnie, also a teacher, developed symptoms. Determined to do everything she could to save her youngest child, Sarah left Rock Rapids with Linnie on a quest to find a place where the climate would prolong her life. They spent some time in Texas, then landed finally in Santa Barbara, where they had just completed and moved into a new home when Linnie died on 7 May 1903.

About a year later, Sarah's son, John W. Dunlap, an attorney, died at Flandreau, South Dakota, where he lived with his wife and son.

During the summer following, 1905, Sarah returned to northwest Iowa to visit her remaining children at Rock Rapids and in Flandreau. She died unexpectedly at Flandreau on 22 August 1905 and that presented a problem, since one of her final requests was to be buried beside Linnie in Santa Barbara. This was the height of summer, remember, and there was no practical way to transport a corpse no matter how carefully prepared a great distance without great unpleasantness.

So Sarah's body was brought back to Rock Rapids the day after her death (her son-in-law, Frank Wallace, was a Rock Rapdis undertaker/furniture store owner), and funeral services were held there. Her body then was taken to Cedar Rapids where it was placed in a receiving vault until winter. Then it was crated and placed aboard a train and transported to Santa Barbara for burial --- hence, the most widely traveled corpse in the West description.

There are a thousand tombstone tales out there, but I started the morning weeding flower beds at St. John's, followed that with composing this, and now I'm really way behind --- so had best move along for now.

Watch out downstream

My favorite cheap thrill at Burlington (on the Mississippi) is a fast ride --- observing the speed limit you bet --- down the U.S. 34 hill, then out across the Great River Bridge, which manages to look gracefully like a sailboat despite its giant size, to Illinois. I could do this again and again, like a kid with a new sled on a snowy Christmas morning, but resist the urge.

Wouldn’t be doing that this morning I see by the news, since Illinois is closing its approach to the bridge as the floodwaters that swamped Iowa last week move out and downriver.

I also like to sit on a bench just south of the Port of Burlington building, half under water here, and just watch the river flow by. Not this morning either, but maybe before summer‘s done.

The Burlington Northern and Santa Fe railyards and Amtrak depot are down the river, too, in Burlington --- and that makes a difference in Chariton where the Union Pacific and BNSF main lines cross. The UP is kind of pokey, but unless floods or other disasters divert them, BNSF trains carrying everything from coal to passengers speed through dozens of times a day. Some, especially folks who don’t live here, say the racket drives them nuts. But I like it and miss it when something’s wrong.

Wonder how Fort Madison will fare. I’ve spent time on it’s lovely riverfront, too, watching the water flow by. In addition to the state pen, my favorite pen (as in Sheaffer and other writing instruments) shop, Pendemonium, is there, too. And you gotta love that swing bridge across the Mississippi --- unless you’re in a hurry.

Elsewhere the water is going down. Poor Cedar Rapids. I heard yesterday from the relatives who live there and they were high and dry, although only two blocks from the flood. But I can’t even imagine what it’s going to take to get that all sorted out and on the road again.

University of Iowa buildings took a major hit in Iowa City, although the library --- on slightly higher ground at the base of the Pentacrest hill --- was spared. You can kind of understand why so many university buildings are down so close the river in Iowa City, and I’ve enjoyed many meals myself looking out through the big Iowa Memorial Union cafeteria windows to the west, but still.

The University of Iowa got its start in Old Capitol when the new Capitol was built in Des Moines, so the campus always has been hemmed in. And I suppose it’s been tempting to build by the river, where land and views and convenience were available, rather than knocking down another neighborhood or developing a satellite campus on the outskirts.

Buy why in the world would you build what appears to be an expensive community of townhomes and condos and a megachurch down there? I’ll stick to higher ground, than you very much.

I left Mason City about dawn Sunday anticipating a detour in Des Moines (I knew the Highway 65 loop around the east side was closed). But cruised straight through on Southeast Fourteenth, crossing the river down in the bottoms --- looking mean but confined by its levees.

Came back north Monday morning following the Red Rock Line (I’ll explain that another time) and crossed the long bridge that spans the Red Rock Reservoir between Knoxville and Monroe. The water was closer to the deck of that long, long bridge than I’ve ever seen it , and that’s not surprising since all the water released upstream above Des Moines at Saylorville, plus everything that comes down the Raccoon and a few other rivers, ends up here.

It does look like, though, that my favorite Des Moines downriver towns --- Eddyville, Chillicothe, Ottumwa, Eldon, Selma, Iowaville (were the original version still there), Douds-Leando, Keosauqua, Bentonspot, Bonaparte and Farmington --- won’t have too much trouble this time around. And for that, I’m grateful.

Good Lord, deliver us

We began compline at St. Johns Tuesday evening with The Great Litany, which I suppose could be described as the big gun for Episcopal prayer warriors --- if you can imagine such a thing --- covering as it does pleas for deliverance from just about every calamity that could befall us. The resonating petition here in Iowa this week:

"From lighting and tempest; from earthquake, fire, and flood; from plague, pestilence, and famine, Good Lord, deliver us."

Cedar Rapids (the photo above) went under yesterday as the Cedar River swamped downtown and other low-lying areas, leaving thousands without homes in that city of 120,000. The drinking water supply there is in grave danger and the state is making plans to deal with a situation similar to, but far more critical than, the waterless state we faced here in Mason City this week (we still can't drink the water, by the way).

Iowa City, one of my old homes, is in grave danger from the Iowa River, and I've been thinking of all the University of Iowa assets right down there on or near its banks: The Iowa Memorial Union, University Library, Hancher Auditorium, the art center, the theater.

Des Moines seems to be holding its own against the Des Moines and Raccoon rivers --- so far. But it remains in danger. And of course everyone downstream from these beseiged cities on the Cedar, Iowa and Des Moines rivers faces great peril.

Good Lord, deliver us indeed.

These are very hectic days in newsrooms across the state --- especially in cities where flooding is occurring. Our colleagues at the Waterloo-Cedar Falls Courier waded into their downtown building earlier in the week as flood waters rose, then were evacuated.

But if you want to see the most timely and best coverage of the floods of 2008 right now, go to the exceptional Web sites of the Cedar Rapids Gazette, Des Moines Register and Iowa City Press-Citizen.

Everyone I think agrees now that these statewide floods are unprecedent in the collective memory of what we like to think of as civilized Iowa --- going back only to the first half of the 19th century. Even the great flood of 1851 seems to pale by comparison. But of course we don't know what earlier occupants of this good land experienced, or saw, as the millennia rolled along.

Sitting last night in the newsroom like spiders in the center of a vast web, trying to juggle, process, edit and present incoming reports from our own staff, those of our sister newspapers, The Associated Press, plus hundreds of great photographs and videos (when we have room for only a few), someone asked, "but why did they put these flooding cities right by the rivers anyway?"

Well, the answer is fairly simple. Before we had roads, railroads and airports, electricity, rivers were the principal transportation routes and sources of power. So our main (and many minor) cities were established right beside them. Their waters powered our mills. Out here on the prairie, in a smaller city like Mason City where the streams are not navigable, that water power was needed, too, as were the building materials provided by the trees and limestone bluffs along them.

And who could imagine in the 1830s, 1840s or 1850s that one day those ragtag collections of cabins would grow into comlex cities populated by thousands of people?

While most Iowans had great empathy for the people of New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina swamped it, I do recall a degree of smugness as we set up here high and then dry higher on the Mississippi. Why would they build in such a place? Isn't it kind of their own fault? Shouldn't it just be abandoned and rebuilt on higher ground?

Nature has a way of wiping smugness from the faces of those of us who engage in it, as we're now seeing. So far no lives have been lost to the flooding here, and that is a mercy. But Good Lord, deliver us.

Sacrilege! Sacrilege! But Fun

OK, for those who have been concerned about my sanity as the lyrics for a song about a concrete Jesus bounced around in my head without a source, without a clue as to who wrote or performed it and where among the gazillion CDs scattered from one end of the state to the other it might be, I present "800 Pound Jesus." I thought John Prine, Naaa. Greg Brown? Naaa again. It just had to be a country song. And sure nuff: Sawyer Brown.

I saw a garage sale
Pulled up in the yard
Found a statue of Jesus
It was eight feet tall

He held out his arms
And he seemed all alone
So I loaded him up
And I drove him home

Out by my driveway he
Looks down the street
With long hair and sandals made
Of rebar and concrete
I painted him white with a long purple robe
He's a rock of ages on our gravel road

He's an eight hundred pound Jesus
Standing taller than a tree
He's an eight hundred pound Jesus
A bigger man than you or me

I thought loosin' my job was
The end of the world
'Til my best pal ran off with my best girl
I felt suicidal with no real friends
So I walked outside with a rope in my hand

Out by that statue there's a big oak tree
So I stood on his shoulders
And I counted to three
I had every intention of buying the farm
But when I jumped off
He caught me in his arms

He's an eight hundred pound Jesus
Standing taller than a tree
He's an eight hundred pound Jesus
A bigger man than you or me

I wanted to return the favor to him
'Cause I never had a more solid friend
So I planted some flowers
All around his feet
And I bought him a flock
Of ceramic sheep.

He's an eight hundred pound Jesus
Standing taller than a tree
He's an eight hundred pound Jesus
A bigger man than you or me

He's a bigger man than you or me.

Golly, that's a relief

A city set on a hill

Iowa's weather-related disasters continue, last evening with a tornado in Harrison County (just northeast of Omaha) in the loess hills that struck the Little Sioux Scout Camp killing four and injuring more than 40. Among all the sorrow there, I suppose, is a reminder of how vulnerable we all are. If I'm counting correctly, 12 Iowans now have died in tornados within a month --- six at Parkersburg, two at New Hartford and now four at the scout camp.

More heavy rain in North Iowa overnight, but thankfully not on Sunday's scale. I happened to be awake when the cloudburst came this time and stopped the flow of water through the east bedroom window --- although I am beginning to think sandbags may be in order. The mighty Hoover, a wonderful machine that sucks water, shampoos carpet, cleans upholstery and bakes a loaf of bread while you're doing all of that (well not really) has restored the floor to its normal dry state.

Those of us who call Chariton home can be grateful for geography when the rain comes down in torrents --- there are advantages to being a city built on a hill.

In a way, Chariton is unique because it sits squarly at the crest of the ridge running northwesterly through parts of southeast and south central Iowa that divides the Mississippi and Missouri River drainages.

For the most part, rain that falls north of the courthouse (above) in Chariton flows north into the Whitebreast Creek, then to the Des Moines (near the red-rock bluffs that gave the former town, now Red Rock dam and lake, their names), then down through southeast Iowa to the Mississippi at Keokuk.

Rain that falls south of the courthouse (where I live) goes directly into the Chariton River, which meanders southeast to Centerville then plunges into Missouri, growing larger and larger as it approaches the Missouri River deep in that state.

Lucas Countyans always have known that the Chariton River can turn mean when heavy rains fall and for the most part have built a respectful distance above it, so while fields and roads may flood, homes rarely do.

That's no reason for complacency, however; and most of us keep a respectful eye on the western sky in spring and summer. Although we're unlikely to wash down the creek, there's not a reason in the world why a mighty wind one day won't decide to blow us right off our hilltop, scattering hopes and dreams and lives as it has so often this year in this land between two rivers.

Forty days and forty nights

Water is trickling from taps here in Mason City this morning, and that's the good news as Iowa deals with unprecedented flooding. The bad news: More heavy rain is in the forecast for today and Thursday after another night punctuated by thunderstorms, hail and tornado sightings to the northeast.

Overnight, levees held in Waterloo and Cedar Falls, protecting downtowns that were evacuated yesterday afternoon, as the Cedar River crested --- this time. Although water now is pouring over the emergency spillway at the massive Saylorville Dam above Des Moines on the Des Moines River, it looks like flood-control measures put into place after 1993 floods are working. Water also is going over spillways at the Coralville Dam on the Iowa River, threatening Iowa City; and mandatory evacuations have been announced in Cedar Rapids, next stop for the Cedar River.

Charles City, just to the east of Mason City, sustained far worse flooding than our own; and tiny New Hartford to the southeast, hit hard by a tornado that killed two two weeks ago, was inundated. Such a time!

Throughout all of this, Chariton has remained high and dry as southern Iowa escaped the worst of the weather --- so far. And I'm glad of that.

The trouble began here in River City (Meredith Willson's hometown you know) Saturday night as weather alerts set off emergency radios again and again and warning sirens sent us to the office basement a couple of times. Although very little rain fell in Mason City, the area to the north was deluged.

After 1 a.m. (by which time I was soundly sleeping), the rains started here. If I had not slept so soundly, I would have known that the rain had overwhelmed the roof draining system, creating a waterfall from the roof near my east bedroom window. The sill of that window is at ground level and invited the water in. So when I awoke about 6, arose and walked toward the window I walked from dry into squishy carpet.

But my problem was minor, so I got ready and went to 8 a.m. morning prayer at St. John's --- like my apartment building and the office on some of Mason City's highest ground. I really didn't know anything major was up until I drove west out of town toward the interstate about 9 a.m. and saw flooded streets and West Park entirely under water.

As I drove south the water continued to rise to unprecedented levels in Mason City along the Winnebago River and Willow Creek --- the two largest of the many streams that meander through town. As I was leaving, homes were flooding and before the day had ended, the Winnebago --- at unprecedented levels --- had topped levees protecting the water treatment plant forcing city workers to shut it down.

Shutting the water plant down prevented major damage, so after two days of inconvenience, bottled water and portable toilets the system is being repressurized and filled. That will get life back to normal for most of us, but not for those whose homes, farms and businesses were flooded, heavily damaged and/or destroyed.

Two thoughts come to mind, neither original. First, how ill-equipped we are to live as our pioneer ancestors did and how much we complain when a few of the conveniences are temporarily removed. And second, how often we forget that we do not control nature; that all those intricate processes into which we fit in a minor sort of way and sometimes try to affect roll on with or without us. If we build near a stream, what we build eventually will be washed down it. If we build on the prairie, we live always with the possibility a great cloud will move in from the west and blow what we build away.

A history lesson writ in stone

Iowa’s monument to its Korean War veterans --- the 85,314 who served and the 508 who died --- reportedly began with a letter to the governor written in November 1984 by students at Harding Junior High School in Des Moines asking why such a monument did not exist. That may be one reason why the memorial, dedicated by then-Gov. Terry E. Branstad on 28 May 1989, seems so academic, a history lesson writ in stone.



The Memorial consists of a 14-foot gray granite obelisk and eight matching 6-foot tablets containing inscriptions that when combined tell briefly the war’s causes and consequences, it’s progress and its cost.

It is cool and elegant in its way, but remote --- somehow humanity is absent. It is informative but not especially moving. I can‘t see the lives lived and lost reflected in it.

I’m glad it’s here, but wish that somehow it could have connected us more effectively to those young men and women who served honorably, often died; who if they lived came home quietly and lived honorably among us.

Fruit of the vine

The Southern Hills Winery is located just off Interstate 35 at Osceola. Take the Terrible’s Casino exit (you can’t miss it) and head east rather than west.

I’ve never been a successful consumer of alcoholic beverages. Now don’t get me wrong, some of my best friends have been highly successful consumers --- so I don‘t necessarily disapprove of the stuff; just don‘t much care for it. Beer? Give me a glass of lemonade please. Harder stuff --- well I guess you could gargle with it or clean a wound, but drink it?

Lord knows I’ve tried. There was the graduate school party in Iowa City, shortly after I’d been drafted, when I came home drunk, threw up in the bushes, crawled upstairs and went to bed --- then awoke with a terrible headache as everything in the bedroom vibrated and a few things flew off shelves and other flat surfaces. Thought there for a while it was death rattling the doorknob; came to find out later it was just a mild Midwest earthquake --- one of the few actually felt here in the heartland.

Then that time in Saigon, sent to convince some MP buddies they should join us for a party on the roof, I inadvertently kicked their door in --- and subsequently paid for a new one. Not pretty.

Now they’re telling us that wine is good --- sip a glass now and then and you’ll lower your blood pressure or something. So I’m trying to like the stuff again, now and then, mostly by buying Iowa-produced wine, taking it home, refrigerating it, drinking a glass with supper --- then forgetting it’s there until a month or so later when I pour the remainder down the drain.

Most of my meager purchases during the last year have been at the new Southern Hills Winery at Osceola, parked on the east side of Interstate 35 just across from Terrible’s Casino. Golly. Who’d have thunk there’d ever be (a) a casino at Osceola and (b) a winery just across four lanes of north-south traffic?

Now don’t hold anything I write here against the winery. It’s an interesting place to visit , the wine’s fine (OK, I don’t really know enough about wine to be a judge of that) and it’s full of all sorts of gifty wine-related stuff you can buy to convince your friends you’re becoming a connoisseur in a rattletrap redneck sort of way. Go! Buy something! Lord knows we need the money down here. And the winery might as well get some of whatever you’d otherwise drop at the casino across the way.

So I started out Tuesday morning on one of my long errand-filled loops --- south through Corydon, Allerton and Clio to Lineville, then west to Pleasanton and south to Cainsville, Missouri. Across the Thompson River valley west to Blythedale and Eagleville, then back up I-35 to Osceola and home to Chariton. One of the prettiest southern Iowa/northern Missouri drives you’ll ever take.

Picked up a little information along the route. Found out in Lamoni that Graceland College has acquired the big visitor center (also antique, arts and craft mall plus outlet for Old Order Amish families in the neighborhood who have stuff to sell) previously operated by the city and might even add a restaurant of some sort. When I said to the ladies at the front desk I sure hoped it was a Maid-Rite, they told me sure enough that the license plates on the car that brought the prospective restaurateurs to the visitor center not long before had been emblazoned “Maid-Rite.” Yes! I love Maid-Rite --- still cross about the fact that Chariton’s vanished under concrete when the big new truck stop was built at the west end of Court.

Then up the interstate to Osceola for lunch at, you guessed it, the Maid-Rite, installed by the casino folks at their gas station/convenience store. Then, since I was in Osceola anyway, over to the winery to try again.

Southern Hills, by the way, is Iowa’s only wine cooperative (according to its Web site here), owned by 134 shareholders including other wineries (Summerset, for example) and grape growers, although it bottles under its own label.

Now keep in mind, wine heathen that I am, I know mostly what I don’t like: Dry wine (I’ll gargle with Listerine, thank you very much) and sweet wine (yuk). Give me something in the Iowa middle and I’ll be as wine-content as I get. Don’t care what color; don’t much care what it’s supposed to be consumed with (by the time I sip my way through a bottle over let’s say a month it won’t make any difference anyway).

Southern Hills goes in for cute and meaningless titles --- A Kick and A Pat, for example; Blanket on a Hill. You get the idea. So you pick up a bottle of something and get out your flashlight to read the label (it’s very dim in there): “This sweet wine is our top selling white wine. It is made from Niagara, Brianna, and Diamond grapes. The Niagara is very floral and perfumed reminiscent of fresh crushed grapes. Diamond and Brianna were added to the blend to create a more complex and smooth finish with apricot and peach flavors.” Huh?

Hmmm. Guess it doesn’t sound that bad. Take it over to bar (along with a bottle of Summerset’s Summer Blush, which I’ve had before and know I can tolerate) and the attendant says, “you know, this is very sweet; you’ll need to cut it with club soda.” Club soda? Think I’ll try another.

Anyhow, I made it home; and now there are two bottles of wine in the refrigerator; and when I remember they’re there, I’ll give this wine business another try.

How about that casino? Don’t know that much about it. My aunt and I went over one time when her son-in-law, Randy’s, Aunt Kitty Wells was performing there and toured the joint. Kind of reassuring to see how much initiative southern Iowans have, aided by walkers and attached to oxygen tanks, as they struggled mightily up and down the dizzying ramp to the casino floor to spend their Social Security checks, bless their hearts.

These absent friends ...

The Iowa Vietnam Veterans Memorial, dedicated on Memorial Day, 1984, is to my mind the most effective and moving of the various war memorials grouped south and southwest of the Capitol, although the fact this was my war undoubtedly colors that feeling --- and it is more of a feeling than an opinion.

The towering Soldiers and Sailors Monument nearby, commemorating Civil War sacrifice, is an amazing work --- generally acknowledged as among the best from that era in the nation. But it inspires awe, as it was intended to do, and somehow the humanity of those it honors is obscured.

The names of Iowa’s 869 war dead inscribed on the Vietnam monument are the repositories of its power, as is the case at the national monument (58,256 names) after which it was patterned. That power is magnified by the reflections among the dead of the living faces of those who draw near, thrown back and intermingled by polished black granite, the living connected to the dead.

The national Vietnam Veterans Memorial, or The Wall, designed by Maya Lin, a young Yale University architecture student, was dedicated in Washington, D.C., on Nov. 13, 1982, after considerable controversy. It did not, after all, look like other memorials and many took offense at that even though it has since been recognized as perhaps the nation’s greatest, more effectively mending the torn fabric of the nation than any other.

It’s often said the Iowa memorial is similar to The Wall, but that is not exactly the case. It is more of a reflection expressed in the Iowa vernacular. The mirror surface of polished black granite is the same, as are the names (although here they are arranged alphabetically rather than chronologically by date of death as is the case in Washington). The form is very Iowa --- more conventional, more recognizable, more approachable for those seeking a specific name.

Sometimes the memorial is criticized for its Iowa-ness, but that’s unfair I think. Maya Lin’s Wall has power that cannot be replicated, and its designers recognized that.

Jacqueline Day of Des Moines, whose son had been seriously wounded in Vietnam, was the prime mover in lobbying for and in conjunction with the Iowa Vietnam Veterans Memorial Commission, raising private funds to build the Iowa memorial. Day (1918-2002) is most frequently identified as confidential secretary to Iowa Govs. Norman Erbe and Robert D. Ray, but she was far more than that. More about her achievements may be found on the Iowa Women’s Hall of Fame Web site, here.

I’ve found the design attributed to Mary Jane Long of Des Moines and Tim Salisbury of Evanston, Ill., but cannot confirm that.

Although the place of honor on the memorial is given to those who died, it was and is intended to honor all Iowans who served during Vietnam. The inscription preceding the names reads, “A Reflection of Hope: A Monument Established by the Citizens of Iowa to Honor Iowans Who Served During the Vietnam War. These Absent Friends Will Never Be Forgotten.”

On April 19, 2005, 30 years after the end of the Vietnam War and 20 years after the memorial was dedicated, the Iowa House and Senate approved a resolution that thanked the veterans for their service. It was the first time the Iowa Legislature had officially recognized Iowa Vietnam War veterans.



Each name on the Iowa memorial has a story behind it. What follows is an attempt to tell a little of the stories of the young men from Lucas and Wayne counties whose names are inscribed there. This is a tricky proposition, since it is based on homes of record at time of death. If I’ve overlooked someone, kindly let me know via e-mail or comment.

The homes of record of three Vietnam KIA, Dennis William Bingham, Leonard Dean Cooper and Dennis Richard Levis, were in Lucas County.

U.S. Army Spec. 4 Dennis William Bingham (12 November 1947-17 July 1969), a Green Beret, was the first Lucas Countyan killed in action in Vietnam and so far as I know the only Vietnam KIA buried in Lucas County --- in the Chariton Cemetery. He was shot to death by hostile forces in Laos while assigned to Spike Recon Team Hawaii, Command and Control Central (CCC), MACV Studies & Observation Group (MACVSOG). He was a member of the U.S. Army's 5th Special Forces Group, a son of Sebird M. (Bill) and Marjorie Bingham and a 1965 honors graduate of Chariton High School who also had attended Centerville Community College (now Indian Hills Community College) for two years.

Marine PFC Leonard Dean Cooper. The Chariton Herald Patriot of 23 October 1969 carried the following report under the headline, “Lucas Soldier is Victim of Vietnam Mine”: A 23-year-old Marine, the son of Mr. and Mrs. W. R. Whitis of rural Lucas, has been killed in action in Vietnam. The Defense Department notified Mr. and Mrs. Whitis that their son, Pfc. Leonard D. Cooper was killed Saturday. They said that he was returning from a road-building detail in Quang Nam Province when his jeep hit an anti-personnel mine. He was born in Oskaloosa and attended schools there and in New Sharon. He had gone to Vietnam in August.” No further reports were carried in Chariton newspapers. Online sources give Leonard’s date of birth as 7 June 1946, his date of death as 18 October 1969 and the names of his parents as Robert Cooper and Leona Holt.

U.S. Army Sgt. Dennis Richard Levis, assigned to the 196th Light Infantry Brigade, Americal Division, died 20 July 1970, when struck by mortar fire while serving at the Kahm Duk air strip near Dan Nang. Son of Delrein and Gweniverre Levis, he was born 23 August 1946 at Chariton, was a 1964 graduate of Seymour High School, attended Centerville (Indian Hills) Community College and received his B.S. degree in accounting during 1968 at Drake University. In addition to his parents, he was survived by his wife, nee Linda Bellomo, of Center Line, Mich., and a sister, Mrs. Nancy Drake of Chariton. Funeral services were held in Allerton and burial was in the Allerton Cemetery.

The homes of record of six Vietnam KIA --- Richard Allen Cesar, Larry Gene Gosch, Jerry Warner Hickerson, Terry Franklin Leazer, Roger McClatchy and Gary Moore --- were in Wayne County. A seventh, Albert Crouch, lived in neighboring Appanoose County but was a resident of the Seymour community and attended school there.

U.S. Marine Corporal Richard Allen Cesar, born 21 December 1944 at Boone, a son of John T. and Betty Cesar, moved with his family to Rockford, Ill., where he lived for 14 years before coming to Russell to live with his uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Harold Kastner. When his parents moved to Corydon from Rockford, he transferred to Corydon High School for his senior year, graduating with the class of 1963. He had enlisted in the U.S. Marines while still in high school and entered the active service on 11 June 1963. By the spring of 1965, now a gunner, he was on Okinawa and a member of Weapons Platoon, Alpha Company, 1st Battalion, 9th Marines. The 9th Marines were among the first into Vietnam that spring, and Richard was among them. On 1 September, he received a battlefield promotion to corporal. Not long after, he was assigned with a few buddies to Alpha Company, 1st Battalion, 1st Marines, to add combat depth to an inexperienced unit. A few days later, on 30 October 1965, he died on Hill 22 near Da Nang — not yet 21. While Richard was in the service, his parents had moved back to Rockford. Funeral services took place there and he was buried in Rockford's Willwood Cemetery. More about Richard may be found here.

U.S. Army Sgt. Larry Gene Gosch is one of two young men from Lineville who died in Vietnam. The other is U.S. Marine Lance Corporal Gary Lee Moore. Gary died during September of 1967; and Larry, in June of 1969. The two are buried a few paces apart in Evergreen Cemetery on Lineville’s north edge and perhaps a mile away, to the northeast, Moore-Gosch Memorial Park, a Wayne County conservation area, commemorates them jointly.

Born 1 April 1946, Larry was a 1964 graduate of Allerton-Clio-Lineville High School who attended Indian Hills Community College in Centerville before transferring to Northeast Missouri State University (now Truman) in Kirksville. He wanted to be a history teacher, but circumstance conspired against him and he was drafted into the U.S. Army. Assigned to Co. B, 4th Battalion, 23rd Infantry, 25th Infantry Division, he was killed in a firefight on 6 June 1969. The commendation that accompanied the Bronze Star Medal he received posthumously describes his final moments: “While on a reconnaissance in force mission, Company B came in contact with a large enemy force. Immediately, Sergeant Gosch exposed himself to the hail of hostile fire as he placed a devastating barrage of .50 caliber machine gun fire on the insurgents. As Sergeant Gosch fearlessly continued his relentless fire on the enemy, he was fatally wounded by the intense fire.” Larry was survived by his father, Ervin; his stepmother, Naida (his mother, Elsie, had died in 1966) and two sisters, Eloise and Jackie.

U.S. Marine PFC Jerry Warner Hickerson, buried in Seymour’s South Lawn Cemetery, was born 23 February 1948 in Centerville to Wendell Ray Hickerson and Ann (McClain) Clubb, but from the age of 7 made his home in Wayne County with his grandparents, Ray and Icle Hickerson. He was a student in the Corydon schools from second grade until his graduation with the class of 1966 and was active in athletics. Following graduation, he attended Centerville Community College (now Indian Hills Community College) for two years, then enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps. He arrived in Vietnam on 11 August 1969. Assigned to B Company, 1st Battalion, 7th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division, he had been in Vietnam less than a month when he died. Accounts of his death, published in both Corydon and Seymour newspapers, state that he died on Saturday, 6 September 1969, of head and body grenade fragmentation wounds sustained "while in contact with hostile forces at an ambush site." Casualty reports state that he was a possible victim of friendly fire.

Jerry was one of four young men with ties to Seymour who died in Vietnam: The first was U.S. Navy FN Terry Franklin Leazer on 24 May 1967; the second, Jerry; the third, Warrant Officer 1 Albert Crouch on 18 May 1970; and the fourth, U.S. Army Sgt. Dennis Richard Levis, on 20 July 1970.

U.S. Navy FN Terry Franklin Leazer was born 2 December 1946 in Corydon, but moved to the Seymour community when he was 6. He graduated from Seymour Community High School with the class of 1965 and enlisted in the U.S. Navy during July of 1966. He had been in Vietnam only two weeks when he was killed on 24 May 1967 while serving as midships gunner aboard PBR 101 patrolling the Cho Chien (or Ham Luong) River about 60 miles south of Saigon.

Terry’s friend, Randy Stafford of Albia, provided this account of the attack at Terry’s site on The Virtual Wall: “While on patrol on the Cho Chien River, 60 miles south of Saigon at 07:30 on 24 May 1967 PBR 101 came under fire from the right bank from an ambush cleverly set by the Viet Cong. The first RPG round hit the forward .50 mount and exploded killing Lt. Charles Don Witt, and crewmen Roy L. Castleberry and Michael Courtney Quinn. ENFN Terry Franklin Leazer, the midships gunner, returned machine gun fire on the enemy, before being felled by enemy machine gun fire. The boat was drifting into the right bank, and into enemy hands, when Micheal James Devlin (the lone survivor) reversed the engines, and was able to get the boat out of the kill zone.” (Note that other sources identify the river as the Ham Luong.)

Funeral services were held May 31 in Seymour and Terry was buried at Shriver Cemetery, a few miles west of town. He was survived by his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Gene Leazer; his mother, Goldie McCarty; a sister, Jean Arriga; two stepbrothers and three stepsisters.


More to come ...