Cemetery tour No. 5: Capt. Helen Malony Talboy

Note: This is the fifth (and final) in a series of five scripts prepared for presenters during last Sunday's 14th annual Chariton Cemetery Heritage Tour, "Neighbors in Section E." The subject is Capt. Helen Malony Talboy, an heroic World War II U.S. Army nurse who came home after the war to serve as superintendent of the Iowa Women's Reformatory at Rockwell City. She was portrayed by Jeanne Taylor.

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The tombstone over there identifies me as "daughter" rather than as a nurse and there is no mention of my World War II service on it. Even the veteran flag holder once located at my grave was, until quite recently, among the missing. 

My name is Helen Malony Talboy, and I was indeed a daughter --- of Dr. John H. and Orpha Malony --- but I was a nurse, a decorated World War II veteran and a mother, too. Some have called me a hero, but I wonder about that. Most nurses are heroes at times and need not serve on the frontline in wartime, as I did, to deserve the designation. 

I was born during 1907 and moved to Chariton as a child with my parents and sister, Ruth. Dad was a dentist and we lived comfortably here. In 1927, I graduated from Chariton High School, then three years later my mother died too young and was buried here. 

I hadn’t quite decided to do with my life, but had been working in a doctor’s office before Mother died. After that, I enrolled at the Mercy Hospital School of Nursing in Burlington, graduating in 1934. 

The next year, I married a traveling salesman named Willis E. Talboy. That marriage turned out to be a mistake and we divorced, but I kept the surname as a souvenir and, if anyone asked, usually replied that Willis had died. It was simpler that way. 

When World War II broke out, I was working as a nurse in Des Moines and when the call went out for nurses there was no doubt that I would volunteer. I enlisted during November of 1942 and was deployed overseas during April of 1943, assigned to the 95th Evacuation Hospital, attached at various times to both the 5th and 7th armies. 

This was a 400-bed mobile hospital staffed with approximately 40 nurses, 40 doctors and more than 200 enlisted men. When the hospital landed in Italy on Sept. 9, 1943, it was the first U.S. hospital established in Europe during World War II. Another amphibious landing --- at Anzio --- followed. In both instances, I was there. 

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Maj. Gen. Norman T. Kirk, surgeon general of the U.S. Army, had this to say of my service before Anzio while writing about me after the war for The American Magazine: 

"When Lt. Helen Talboy went overseas, her convoy was attacked again and again by submarines. In the blistering or muddy days of the Tunisian campaign, she sometimes served within six miles of the front. 

"She landed with the infantry at a beach-head in Sicily, followed the battle to Palermo, and went on to Italy, only to have her ship bombed in Salerno bay. 

"Wet and bedraggled, wearing nothing but pajamas and tennis shoes, she was finally set ashore. Next day she was at work again in the surgical tent of her evacuation hospital unit, supervising the care of men upon whom the enemy's shrapnel and bullets had done all but their worst. It was enough to try the strongest men. 

"But weeks later, after all her hardships, Lt. Talboy was one of the first to volunteer to land with the infantry at Anzio, just south of Rome, a maneuver that proved to be one of the most perilous flanking movements our troops have undertaken in Italy. Everybody knows now the bitterness of that furiously contested fight at Anzio. None knows it better than that woman from Iowa who again offered her life for her country there."

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At Anzio, I ran into Associated Press correspondent Kenneth Dixon, the only U.S. civilian reporter there, who made me the centerpiece of a dispatch dated Feb. 8, 1944, and published nationwide on the following day. 

“If the courage of American nurses ever is questioned, the story of Helen Talboy of Des Moines, Iowa, and her gang of spunky girls on the Anzio beachhead will supply the answer,” he begam. 

Dixon went on to describe my exhaustion and occasional despair and to speculate that my nurses and I were near the breaking point. What would she do in a crisis, he asked. Events on Feb. 7 provided the answer: 

"When German bombs hit the hospital, killing 27 and wounding more than 60 --- including three nurses killed and three wounded --- Helen was on duty in the surgical section, which was punctured by hundreds of shrapnel holes. 

"Without a moment's hesitation she took charge. She collected the surviving nurses, gave them bandages and first aid equipment and started them caring for the wounded, lying crumpled and moaning over the bloody hospital area. 

"She supervised the first aid, and saw to it that the dead were covered as quickly as possible, bringing some merciful semblance of order to the whole nightmarish scene. 

"The same nurses who seemed so near breaking a week ago, were busy elsewhere. Late Monday night they were still working. Nurses from other units came up and volunteered to help, but these tired, stone-eyed veterans insisted on caring for their own. 

"Nearby, I saw some men weeping, standing in small shaken groups. Some of the nurses were crying, too, but soundlessly --- the tears on their cheeks in the pale moonlight were the only sign. 

"Eventually their grief would get the better of them, for these dead and dying were not strangers but their comrades of many months. And their fears would return. 

"But hundreds of soldiers who lay wounded in those tents never will forget how Helen Talboy and her gang of spunky girls discarded their fears, postponed their grief, and did their jobs when the chips were down."

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I received many awards and honors as a result my service, recorded in that true story which seemed to capture America’s imagination. The New York Herald-Tribune named me one its 10 outstanding women of 1944 nationwide. But I continued to serve, making numerous public appearances on behalf of the war cause after I returned stateside, until it ended and I was honorably discharged as a captain. 

After the war, I returned to Iowa and during 1946 was appointed superintendent of the Iowa Womens Reformatory at Rockwell City, a position I held until 1953. During that time, I was credited with many innovations that not only improved the lives of the women imprisoned there but also improved their chances of success when set free. 

During 1951, when I was 43, I was able to make a longtime dream of mine come true when I adopted a day-old boy with red hair who I named Richard Malony in honor of my brother, Richard, and my parents. When asked why I decided to adopt, I replied simply, “Because I wanted to.” 

In 1953, however, the pressures of my job and of full-time single parenting began to take their toll. So I retired from my position in Rockwell City and returned to Des Moines to live and work and raise my son. These were among the happiest days of my life. 

During May of 1969, when I was 62, I entered the Veterans Administration Hospital in Des Moines for what was expected to be routine surgery. But due to complications, I died there on May 25. 

My sister, Ruth, and my son found themselves unexpectedly making funeral arrangements, but there was little doubt that I would wish to be buried here with my parents. 

Few who remember me or my story remain, but when you think of the veterans who are buried here, remember the role that women like myself played in that great war, too.

Join us for a Harvest Festival Saturday morning!

This is going to be a busy weekend in Lucas and surrounding counties --- and we'd like to invite you to kick it off by joining us between 10 a.m. and noon on Saturday at the Lucas County Historical Society for our annual Harvest Festival. 

The event, geared for youngsters of all ages, begins at 10 a.m. Boy Scouts will raise the flags on the Bicentennial Flag Pole at 10:30 a.m. And at 11 a.m., we'll hold a brief but very special program on the patio to celebrate the official naming of the Bill Marner Blacksmith Shop.

Coffee cake and hot cider will be served in the Pioneer Barn throughout the event which also includes a petting zoo of small farm animals and face painting for youngsters. Boy Scouts will demonstrate campfire cooking techniques and, perhaps, serve up a few cookies. They'll also be selling popcorn.

Jerry Book will be on hand to provide blacksmithing demonstrations and most likely will punctuate the morning by firing off his miniature cannon now and then. Some miniature farm equipment will be on display. And, of course, all of the museum buildings will be open for tours.

The late Bill Marner (1936-2015) was a tireless worker for the historical society and a long-time president. Quite frankly, I still see him sometimes on his old tractor (with scoop attached) or in his vintage pickup handling whatever job needed handling on the museum campus.

When talking with Carol Marner about an appropriate memorial, we reached consensus that naming the blacksmith shop, one of the last major projects he worked on, in his honor would be appropriate. So we'll be unveiling new signage and a commemorative plaque on the blacksmith shop in his honor at 11 a.m.

Since Saturday's event means the end of our summer season is near, we'll also be hosting a luncheon for our volunteers, the Marner family and others in the Pioneer Barn after most guests have gone home.

There's also a lunch for veterans at Carpenters Hall at noon on Saturday and, for goodness sake, don't miss the Farm Crawl on Sunday. Good times for all!

The museum will be open regular hours, 1 to 4 p.m. Tuesday through Saturday, through October 7 --- encompassing Homecoming weekend. Then we'll curtail public hours until May 1 although the museum always is open by appointment.

Letters home from Vietnam 3: CDEC

Stamps with a Hanoi postmark, torn from an envelope at CDEC.

This is the third and for now final letter home from Vietnam, written during 1969-70, that I'll share. Maybe a few paragraphs sometime from later letters, maybe not. 

As my year in Vietnam continued, I was promoted to Specialist 5 and then made a team chief at CDEC. Because holders of the specialist rank in the odd military universe aren't supposed to be in charge of anyone, I was made an acting sergeant, wearing stripes.

My Vietnam experience was not typical; I have nothing to complain about. After a year, I made my way home via Tokyo, Seattle, Denver and Des Moines, dumped unceremoniously back into civilian life. It was like being dumped into a foreign country with limited language skills --- and to a point, still is.

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I'm grateful to my friend, Steve, for sharing the following comment elsewhere, via Facebook, referring to my description of the hotel where Co. A, 519th M.I., was housed. His experience was more typical:

"The life of luxury in Vietnam! No piss tubes, no outhouses and shit burning, cold anything or choices of food, a near impossibility for most of us.

"I was eighteen months in Vietnam before I saw my first flush toilet and that was at the Americal Division Officers Club that a Navy friend of mine and I sneaked into wearing Navy chief uniforms. (According to my friend, the Army had no idea about Navy rank, and, I guess since we didn't get arrested he was right!)

"I made a few trips to Saigon, I bought nomex flight gloves for our crew chief and door gunner on the company ship on the black market, the only place you could get them. 

"We suffered up country because of the GI's who would sell stuff on the black market. Vietnamese had a taste for menthol cigarettes and Kools and Salems were very marketable. Unfortunately the military supply system also responds to demand, and with thousands of cartons of menthol cigarettes going to the black market the system responded with thousands more cartons of menthol cigarettes, but less Winston and Marlboros. So after the places who got first pick fulfilled their needs they shipped us all the extra cigs that were menthol. Same for beer, soda, and everything else in high demand hundreds of miles away from places like Saigon. Ever try drinking ginger ale, even when cold, when it is 120 degrees out? Sort of like drinking cold acid, but with no other choices, that was it. 

"I'm not complaining (much); we had it a whole lot better than many. D troop, First of the First Cav, track people, never came in for stand down, and if they did, they were put on the bunker line in tents and had a mess hall set up for them. I am told they would celebrate with boilermakers mixed up and dumped into a human skull and would pass it around and drink from it. These are the kind of things that go on far removed from places like Saigon, places where the war's rubber meets the road, so to speak."

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Remember, if you read the following letter, that Saigon when it was written was a bubble and U.S. personnel like me who lived and worked there did so within smaller bubbles inside that bigger one. The war itself was a series of parallel universes. We had no idea ....

Wednesday evening, 17 December 1969

Dear Mom and Dad,

I just got home from work about an hour ago; have been  up to the club for a sandwich and am about to start sending Christmas cards.

I really enjoy the work. It's a good fit. As written before, I'm working as an editor in the Analysis Section of CDEC (Combined Document Exploitation Center).

As I also may have written before, CDEC processes documents captured across Vietnam. These documents range from unit reports on rice rations through personal letters and items removed from the bodies of Vietnamese KIA (sometimes stained with blood) to "secret" reports on enemy plans for attacks and offensives.

The documents arrive at Screening by helicopter, courier, truck, about every other means. They arrive in paper sacks, plastic bags, ammo boxes, sometimes by the truckload.

In screening, eight or so Vietnamese read and classify the documents, A B C  and D. Ds are worthless and are discarded. The others come to us in Analysis. There are about eight of us editors in Analysis. About 60 Vietnamese translators summarize, in English, the documents and then turn the summaries into us for editing. We in turn, publish three or four "hot" reports daily composed of these summaries. These reports are transmitted throughout Vietnam, to Washington, D.C., and elsewhere. If an item containing something of immediate interest --- a planned attack, for example --- is found a special report is prepared and we deliver that directly to MACV.

If someone, anywhere, ranging from top brass to field commanders, wants to study something further they ask and the Translation Department, also staffed largely by Vietnamese, translates and publishes the entire document.

We go down to CDEC by bus --- unless we miss it --- at 7 a.m. and return about 6:30 p.m. It's a long day but time goes quickly.

Finally, for tonight, this is the general layout of the area where CDEC is located. We share the compound with the Combined Intelligence Center Vietnam, a much larger building. We're south of the MACV Compound and near the South Vietnamese High Command. Coming in from the southwest from our quarters, you come to a big traffic island. The main drive into Tan Son Nhut is ahead, but take a right past Third Field Hospital. Medivac choppers bring the wounded into a pad located in the traffic island. There's a soccer field, fortified now, across the island from Third Field.

Although the entrance is not marked, you drive up a narrow lane alongside the soccer field, then past a small cemetery, to our main gate. The compound is not large and just beyond our wall to the north is a very large Vietnamese cemetery. Supposedly, our compound once was a cemetery, too. 

No one's supposed to know we're here. Shhhh!

Love, Frank

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The previous posts in this series are here: "Letters home from Vietnam 1: Arrival" and "Letters home from Vietnam 2: Home sweet home." Please consider reading, too, a letter written by the late Don Hawkins. You'll find it here: "Don Hawkins' letter home from Vietnam."

Cemetery tour 4: Templeton Percifield

Note: This is the fourth in a series of five scripts prepared for presenters during Sunday's 14th annual Chariton Cemetery Heritage Tour, "Neighbors in Section E." The subject is Templeton Percifield and the presenter, Doyle Smith.

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Maybe it was because I got off to such a rough start in life that for the rest of my days I just wanted to see people happy. My name is Templeton B. Percifield, but call me “Temp” --- everybody did. Compared to most of my neighbors here in Section E, I was of no importance. But I did make many of them laugh. 

So I’m going to start with a little story today because I’m still the only man who ever rode a goat while being initiated into membership in one of this town’s most venerable organizations, the Chariton Volunteer Fire Department. 

I don’t know how they do things uptown these days, but back in the 1880s an initiation ceremony was involved. There was an altar-like affair up to the front of the room with the chief behind it and me in front --- dressed in my best. I was expected to kneel with my forehead on the floor to take the oath. 

Now I smelled the goat beforehand and I heard the goat, but they told me there was no goat and that those were just hallucinations of my olfactory and auditory nerves. 

So there I was kneeling with my back end in the air when I started to take the oath. “I do most solemnly pledge that ….” WHAM! That goat got me squarely in the rear. I rolled forward, got partway up, stumbled, fell backwards, landed astraddle that blamed goat --- and split my brand new pants wide open. 

There was a lot of laughing, but the goat got the worst end of the deal and I got a new pair of pants, courtesy of my fellow firefighters. The goat was retired after that. 

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Like I said, I got off to a rough start. My folks, Missiner and Sally Percifield, had married in Indiana during 1845 and then my father went off to serve in the Mexican War. Sometime during the mid-1850s, they moved to Randolph County, Arkansas, on the Missouri state line way up in the northeast corner of the state. I was born there during May of 1861, just as the Civil War was beginning, the youngest of nine children. 

My folks were Union people in a part of the state where there were deep divisions between neighbors and lots of what you’d call terrorism. In 1866, after the war had ended, Confederate bushwhackers killed my dad. 

By that time, my oldest brother, Sam, had moved west into Indian Territory and my mother had watched all of her other children, except Sam and me, die --- some in infancy and some of disease, seven in all, including Link and Marlin, the ones I can kind of remember. 

After that, all my mother wanted to do was get me as far away from Arkansas as she could, so we headed north and finally landed in Lucas County, Iowa, where my dad’s sister, Aunt Sarah McClain and her husband, Robert, were living. 

In Chariton, my mother met and married a recently widowed boot and shoemaker named Evan Price Young. They married in 1867. He was about 15 years older than Mother, but was kind to me and I mourned him when he died in 1879. My mother lived 20 more years, until 1899, on little more than I could provide her with. 

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In 1882, when we both were 21, I married Anna Belle Boylan Fisher, left a widow with a young son when her first husband, Nathaniel, died during 1879. I always treated young Alfred Fisher like my own son and we went on to have four more boys of our own, Charley, Theodore, Robert and Ralph. Anna Belle longed for a daughter, so we adopted Rosamond, too. 

Other parents might have been distressed, but I was thrilled when Robert and Ralph turned into high-wire artists and ran away with the circus --- an occupation they followed all over the country for several years. 

We never struck it rich, but I worked hard at many jobs and provided a good living, including our own home, for the family. For many years I worked as a drayman, with my own wagon. For a time I was superintendent of the new city electrical plant down by Lake Como. And for 40 years, I was Chariton’s “stove man.” Nearly every house back in those days had two or more cast iron cooking or heating stoves. When owners wanted them to shine like new, they called me to come “black” them. When they broke, I fixed them. 

Back in 1903, the Knights of Pythias lodge built magnificent lodge rooms on the third floor of the new Temple-Lincoln Theater building on the south side of the square (Hammer Medical Supply is on that site today). You cannot imagine today just how grand those rooms were --- when not in use by the lodge, they were rented out as an events venue. I hired on as janitor, although “events coordinator” might be a more accurate description. In addition to seeing that the place was spotless, I arranged the food service, hired the bands and set up for everything from wedding receptions to a statewide gathering of newspaper publishers. And I was always there, seeing that things went smoothly. The young gents of the Pastime Club were so appreciative of my services in 1916 that they presented me with a gold signet ring. 

And I loved to entertain. When Chariton organized a giant celebration called the “Society Circus” back in 1906, I performed in the parade as the “wild man,” riding on top of my cage. The Patriot, in its report of the event, described me as “Chariton’s funny clown.” 

I was also the town’s leading “Spieler” --- or barker, much in demand on Saturdays when Chariton’s streets were jammed with folks from the country in town to do their trading. If someone wanted to attract a crowd, or sell something, they got in touch with me beforehand and I showed up with my megaphone and a non-stop line of gab. 

When the Nickeldom Theater opened on the west side in 1907, I was there every night on the sidewalk out front pulling in capacity crowds for the moving pictures at a nickel a head. 

And of course there was the Fire Department --- I was a volunteer for something like 40 years and, when I moved out here, was the department’s oldest active member. 

Anna Belle died during September of 1918 and I had a hard time adjusting to that, but adjust I did. In the end, it was stomach cancer that claimed me 11 years later --- on April 9, 1929, at the age of 68. 

“Temp was a genial fellow,” old Henry Gittinger wrote of me in The Leader, “liked by all who knew him, and was industrious and energetic. He was unsurpassed as a barker and with his megaphone was a familiar sight whenever his services were required for community affairs or other events. He was one of the early members of the Chariton Volunteer Fire Department and had given faithful service in that organization for over 30 years, being the oldest member of that useful order. He also had been a member of the Knights of Pythias order for many years. He will be greatly missed in this city.”

Letters home from Vietnam 2: Home sweet home

Home Sweet Home in Saigon. The odd contraption on the roof was the club. My room was to the left of the club on the third floor (anti-grenade screening ended below my balcony rail). The annex on the left housed some of our more secretive types.

This the second in a brief series of posts about a few of my letters home from Vietnam, read this week for the first time in the 47 years since I wrote them. Frankly, the content seems trivial and I'm a little sheepish about the whole thing. The first installment is here: "Letters home from Vietnam 1: Arrival."

Some of the reticence has to do with the fact every Vietnam veteran I've met lives with the dead. The same would be true for veterans of any war, especially for combatants, but also for those of us who lived and worked in relatively safe places like Saigon.

I wrote home about a steep midnight dive in complete darkness aboard a big jet toward the Bien Hoa airstrip where runway lights flashed on, then off again as soon as we were down. I've thought of that many times, always wondering how many of the 250-plus men I shared that flight with ended up in metal cases at the mortuary just over the fence from my battalion headquarters, shipped home as freight.

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The photo at the top here was my home for a year in Saigon. I've seen it referred to as the Stackhouse BEQ, but I'm not sure it actually had a name. It was supposed to be a secret; no one was supposed to know what those of us who lived there did for a living. There were no signs. But of course there were no secrets in Vietnam.

I came across an online anecdote about the 525th headquarters, also written about in these letters and located in a compound closer to downtown Saigon known as the Ponderosa. It was supposed to be a secret, too. According to the story, a M.I.-type newbie arrived in Saigon and hired a cab to take him there. He did his best to describe his destination to the driver until finally it clicked --- "Oh you mean the James Bond place," the driver said, then drove to the compound gate and dropped him off.

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Saturday noon, 6 December 1969

Dear Mom and Dad,

Greetings again from Saigon. We are still at 525th Group headquarters in downtown Saigon, but will go tomorrow morning to our next unit --- the 519th Military Intelligence Battalion about five miles down the street at Tan Son Nhut Airfield, the busiest airport in the world. From the 519th we will be assigned to our field units and in a few days I should be able to send you a permanent address. I have no idea what that will be.

The compound here at group headquarters is a nice place, composed of several Oriental-style, French colonial and more modern buildings inside heavily defended walls. There are about eight major buildings in all with lots of green space, courtyards, flowers, etc., interspersed --- a picturesque place suffering somewhat from U.S. occupation. We are staying in a decrepit old-fashioned French colonial house with porches all around and shuttered openings where there would be windows stateside. We are on the second floor, so there's a good cross breeze inside.

We have electricity (produced by a generator in the compound) and running water (cold) that dribbles; and lizards in the latrine, but it's pleasant.

The food is good and there is a good club across the courtyard where you can get pop, beer, hot sandwiches, etc., and it's air conditioned, so that's where we spend a lot of time. There is a big staff of Vietnamese cooks, waitresses, maids., etc., who do everything within the compound.

Those of us passing through haven't done anything except process now and then, but we're finished now at HQ and so have the afternoon free until we ship out tomorrow.

The climate is tropical --- very hot and humid, but I'm getting used to it. Just like Iowa at its summer worst.

To go back a little bit --- we touched down at Bien Hoa around midnight and then about 2 a.m. went about seven miles by convoy to the Ninth Replacement at Long Binh. They were expecting trouble, so it was kind of a tense ride. Long Binh is a pit, but we were lucky to spend only about eight hours there --- then we were brought here to Saigon --- to Tan Son Nhut --- about noon and picked up by our unit. Our unit (First MIBARS) didn't have a place for us so they sent us up the street to the 525th and we've been here ever since.

One minor problem here is to keep from being eaten alive by mosquiotes. My mosquito net must have a hole in it cuz I've got quite a few bites.

Three Holabird classmates and myself still are together, but will most likely be broken up at the 519th.  Right now, there are five us here together in the room writing, reading and sleeping and it is hot! Guess we'll go over to the club a little later and maybe go back to the movie tonight. And then get a good night's sleep so we'll be ready to run around some more tomorrow and hopefully in a few days I'll have a bed I can call my own and an address you can write to.

I wish I could tell you more about the 525th Combat Evaluation Group and what its job is, but they tell us that's classified and we shouldn't write home about it.

I hope things are OK at home. It sure doesn't seem like Christmas around here. As I said Saigon is quite a city and I can't begin to describe it. So many people, sights and sounds, unlike anything I've ever seen before. And since there is a lull in terrorist activity at the moment, the war could be a million miles away. So don't worry. I'm doing just fine.

Love, Frank

Monday morning, 8 December 1969

Dear Mom & Dad,

Well, I have arrived I think; or at least I sure hope so. We left the 525th HQ Sunday morning and after getting involved in a Vietnamese funeral procession, arrived at the 519th Support (Military Intelligence) Battalion. We spent the day there getting processed and given what I hope will be our final assignments. The 519th is located out in back of Tan Son Nhut Airbase, about 10 minutes from where I am now. Graves Registration, where all the KIA are processed and boxed to be sent home, is just across the fence --- not the most encouraging view.

My three Holabird friends were assigned to the 45th, which staffs CICV (Combined Intelligence Center Vietnam). I was assigned to Company A and understand that I will be doing journalism-oriented intelligence work rather than I.I. work, which is fine with me.

Unless things get messed up, I'll be working for the Combined Document Exploitation Center, again in the city of Saigon. Company A, compared with many troop quarters is a palace. it is a converted French hotel on a cul de sac just off Plantation Road. Two men are assigned per room and each room has a bath. There is no mess hall, but we will be paid separate rations and getting our meals on the economy, from one of the military cafeterias or at an NCO/EM club --- there's one of those on the 4th floor of the hotel.

I am hoping that all goes smoothly because this is where I want to stay, but I guess the next couple of days will let me know for sure. I'll let you know how things are going later in the day.

Monday evening

Well, I am finally settled. Just got back from Finance and learned a little more. I'll be working at CDEC, not as an I.I. but as an editor of translated documents, which is fine with me. The 519th sergeant major noticed my journalism degree when it came time to assign me and decided I was what he needed. CDEC is located in Saigon and we'll go to work every morning about 6:45 by bus, jeep or cyclo, depending on when we get up and what's available. My first day will be tomorrow and I am looking forward to starting work.

Again, about the hotel. It's fairly new and modern --- our bathrooms are quite nice. Two men to a room and we have the original hotel furniture --- shabby but OK.

Our weapons are kept in an arms room and I understand there are monthly practice alerts.

There is a club on the 4th floor. That's where I am going now to get a cold drink. We have plenty of water (hot and cold) but you cannot drink it. Our water coolers don't work, so it looks like I'm going to be drinking a lot of beer. Before I forget, here is my address. Write!

Sp. 4 Frank D. Myers

(Social Security number)

Co. A, 519th Spt. Bn. (CDEC)

APO San Francisco 96307

Cemetery Tour 3: Freda Simon Oppenheimer

Note: This is the third in a series of five scripts prepared for presenters during Sunday's 14th annual Chariton Cemetery Heritage Tour, "Neighbors in Section E." The subject is Freda Simon Oppenheimer, matriarch of what may have been Chariton's most widely known family at a time when nearly everyone in Lucas County shopped at Oppenheimer's. The presenter is Suse Daniels Cohen, who like Freda herself has deep roots in the Reform Jewish tradition.

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Freda Simon Oppenheimer

Back in 1902, the editor of The Chariton Herald asked dozens of us who were widely known in Chariton to submit favorite quotes for publication in a special edition. I chose this --- “What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?” --- written by Mary Anne Evans, a novelist who published under the male pen name George Eliot, she said, so that people would take her seriously. Women always were taken seriously in my own family, however. 

I am Freda Simon Oppenheimer and Mary Anne’s philosophy governed my life as well as those of my immediate family, who rest here in the Chariton Cemetery with me. It also was and remains a guiding principle of the Reform Judaism movement of which we were a part and which helped to shape us. 

My husband, Simon, was invited to address this gathering 11 years ago and he spoke a good deal then about the commercial success of the Oppenheimer brand in Chariton. But it’s my turn now and I intend to speak of other things. 

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I was born Freda Simon, the eldest of Joseph and Henrietta (Loeb) Simon’s four children, on Oct. 9, 1864, in the village of Altleiningen, located in a region of western Germany sometimes called the Palatinate. I had two brothers, Jacob and Morris, and a baby sister, Sadie. 

Life for us in Altleiningen when I was a child was not especially difficult. Jews had been “emancipated” in the Palatinate during 1848-50 and few of the old restrictions on our lives and livelihoods remained. But there was an undercurrent of anti-semitism there and the future always seemed to be bordered by uncertainty. 

For those reasons, many families encouraged their children to go to America --- filled with unrestricted opportunity. So by 1890, only my parents remained in Germany. 

As was the case with most immigrant groups, some led the way then reached back with helping hands to assist others. 

In our family, my mother’s cousin, Max Loeb, offered the hand. By 1882, when I was 18, Max and married Bertha Oppenheimer and settled at Albia, Iowa, where he was operating a clothing store. They invited me to join them, and so I did. 

While living with Uncle Max and Aunt Bertha, I was introduced to Bertha’s brother, Simon Oppenheimer, then working at his brother-in-law’s store. We were married in Albia on August 25, 1883. 

Simon and I lived and worked for a year in Red Oak, then in 1884 moved to Chariton --- a more promising town --- and established what became southern Iowa’s leading retail outlet for men’s clothing. 

And once established here, Simon and I began to extend our hands to help others, too. My sister, Sadie, came from Germany to join us in the late 1880s; then Simon’s niece, Josie Berman, also from Germany; and later still, my niece, Josie Simon, after her mother died in Texas. Any stray member of either of our families in need of a job or a bed always could find one at Oppenheimer’s. Our only child, Jerome, who would carry the family business forward for a second generation, was born in 1885. 

My sister, Sadie, was introduced in Chariton to Simon’s nephew, Eli Oppenheimer, and they married during 1891. Some years later, Eli joined Simon in the operation of Oppenheimer’s. One of the greatest joys of my life was the fact that my sister and I, separated by my immigration, were reunited in Chariton and thus able to spend our lives together. Eli and Sadie are buried here, too. 

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AS A FAMILY, we were woven into the civic and social fabric of Chariton. Simon served on the City Council and once, while serving as mayor pro tem, joked that Chariton had just become the first Iowa city to have a Jewish mayor. Sadie and I were active in Eastern Star, P.E.O., the Chariton Improvement Association and the Chariton Woman’s Club. We were too far from Des Moines to participate in temple sisterhood, so I joined the St. Andrew’s Guild; Sadie, the Presbyterian Ladies Aid. 

As a hostess, I was a legend --- even if I do say so myself. During January of 1898, The Herald reported that “Mrs. Oppenheimer has added new laurels to her already wide reputation as a thoughtful and resourceful hostess” after a three-day marathon of afternoon receptions for ladies and evening sociables for mixed company. 

If I had a weakness, it probably would be the fact that I was house proud. At my urging, Simon and I built a fine new home two blocks south of the Square on Grand during 1895, then 20 years later, a large and fashionable replacement on South Eighth, which we shared with son Jerome and his family. Following Simon’s death in 1930, I designed a new home for myself at 822 Woodlawn and moved there, turning the South 8th Street house over to Jerome, Florance and my only granddaughter, Jerry. 

And travel, my goodness did we travel --- by carriage and train at first, then by automobile. We had relatives all over Iowa, including Albia, Knoxville and Webster City, and either traveled to visit or hosted them frequently. Many summer weeks were spent at Lake Okoboji. Simon often was in Chicago or New York on business, and I enjoyed accompanying him when duties here allowed. During 1913, we spent April to October in Europe, including visits to the villages of our childhoods in Germany. 

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Temple B’nai Jeshurun in Des Moines, Iowa’s first Reform congregation, was the focus of our spiritual lives and we often were there for holy days and on other occasions. But because we were a considerable distance from Des Moines, like Iowa’s other small-town Jewish families --- and there were many of us at that time --- we developed our own ways of observing Shabbat and other occasions at home. 

Eugene Mannheimer, Temple B’nai Jeshurun rabbi from 1905-1945 and a giant among Iowa’s ecumenism pioneers, became a close friend of our family and often visited with us and others in Chariton. During May of 1927, Rabbi Mannheimer was selected to deliver the commencement address during graduation ceremonies for the Chariton High School graduating class. 

I should mention, too, that many other Jewish families made their homes and operated businesses in Chariton during those years prior to World War II. So we also have the distinction of giving one notable rabbi his start. Rabbi Everett Gendler, son of Max and Sara, who operated a grocery store on the southeast corner of the square, was born in Chariton during 1928. Known sometimes as the father of Jewish environmentalism, Rabbi Gendler has credited his early years here in rural Iowa with giving birth to his interest in that field. 

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My husband, Simon, died unexpectedly at age 77 on Jan. 10, 1930, and I made the decision to bury him here, his home for nearly 50 years, rather than at B’nai Jeshurun’s Emanuel Cemetery, part of the Woodlawn complex in Des Moines, where many members of his family rest. Rabbi Mannheimer was unavailable at the time, so I called upon the rector of St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church to conduct the funeral. 

I continued an active life in Chariton for a number of years after that, dividing my time toward the end between Lucas County and a second home in California. I became ill late in 1942, however, and returned to Chariton to spend my final days with Jerome and his family. I died at the family home on South 8th street on Friday, Sept. 10, 1943. Rabbi Mannheimer, then nearing retirement himself, conducted my funeral service on the Sunday afternoon following at the Beardsley Funeral Home and I was laid to rest here beside Simon. 

Our immediate family was very small and as the years passed Eli and Sadie, Jerome and Florance and our son-in-law, Kenneth Hoxton, joined us here. Happily, my granddaughter, Jerry, is alive and well and living in Florida, having attained an age unimaginable to those of us who, when it’s time, will welcome her home.

Letters home from Vietnam 1: Arrival

My buddy Schleifer and me --- out on the town (Saigon).

This series of posts is self-indulgent, but I've been thinking a good deal about Vietnam lately and decided this morning to dig out and read the letters I'd sent home from Saigon during the year I was stationed there. My late mother had saved them all; I'd never read them.

Everyone who is a non-combat veteran of Vietnam needs to make that clear early in the game so I'll start there. I was what some called a Saigon warrior, rarely if ever in danger, rarely leaving a fascinating city then suspended in an odd time warp between the Tet Offensive and its eventual fall. 

I'd graduated basic at Fort Polk, Louisiana, then completed training at the U.S. Army Intelligence School at Fort Holabird, in a Baltimore suburb, before alighting at Fort Leslie McNair, in Washington, D.C., for a brief stay. Then home on leave and off to Vietnam. My prospects were good. By this time I had a high security clearance and a high probability of coming down in a safe place. But still ...

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Tuesday, 2 December 1969, 1:30 p.m., airborne between Sacramento and Anchorage, 31,000 feet

Dear Mom and Dad,

Well, this flight is barely three hours old and already we're getting tired of it. We left Oakland at about 8:40 a.m. and got to Travis AFB, outside of Sacramento, about 10 a.m. The terminal there is much like any large airport. It is a big air terminal for military personnel. We flew out of Travis at 10:30 and are due in Anchorage about 2:30 p.m. We have all had a pretty good chicken dinner and are looking forward to stretching in Anchorage. I am passing the time by writing letters to everyone under the sun. This will be a start-stop type of letter and I'll try to give you a fair account of the trip.

Our plane is by far the largest I've been on. It seats 251. It is a commercial charter jet and is identical to regular commercial jets, except for size, down to the eight or so stewardesses. I'll continue on the way to Japan.

4 p.m. Pacific Time, 6 p.m. your time, 2 p.m. Alaska time

We just took off from Anchorage, headed west toward Japan. This leg of the trip should take about seven and a half hours. It was getting dark in Anchorage as we left (the sun does strange things in this part of the world). We're climbing to 27,000 feet now and the sun is coming out again. We'll be following the sun west, so heaven only knows what shape the day will be in by the time we get there --- they just told us we'll be landing on Japan at 4 or 5 Wednesday afternoon (seven or so hours from now, Tuesday afternoon at about the time indicated at the top of the sheet). We will cross the International Date Line in two or so hours. That will put us in Bien Hoa at about 1 a.m. Thursday. They will be serving dinner in about two hours, so I'm going to try to get a little sleep.

10 p.m. Tuesday and/or early Wednesday afternoon

As you can tell from my writing we're in some rough weather right now. We're flying about a mile lower than we were from California to Alaska, so we go a little faster and hit a little rougher weather. We still have about two and a half hours before we get to Japan and everyone, including the sewardesses, is getting tired. The crew will change in Tokyo, but after a stop of about an hour and a half, we will have about six more hours. It sure will be good to get on the ground again and stretch a little.

3:20 Wednesday morning your time, about 5:20 Wednesday evening here, I think

Well, we just took off from Tokyo for the last leg of our journey. We're a more subdued group than we were earlier. I guess everyone dreads that last landing, but once we get settled in in Vietnam it will be  a relief. They will be serving breakfast soon, so I'm going to try to get a little sleep. I'll finish this in Vietnam.

9:35 a.m. Wednesday in Iowa; about midnight, or 11:35 p.m here.

Just landed in Vietnam. We had a fighter escort from Japan and came in here completely blacked out and in a steep dive. We are waiting in a big open tin terminal right now. After getting our luggage we will go by bus convoy to the 90th Replacement Detachment about seven miles away at Long Binh. It's hot here, but at least it isn't raining. We're all scared.

Friday morn, 9:20 a.m.

Well good morning. I still don't know where I am going to be yet, but will be in one of the 525th Military Intelligence sections. Right now we are staying at 525th headquarters in Saigon --- an old fashioned compound in the city. We just got back from taking jeep driving tests in downtown Saigon --- what an experience. This is a wild city; sure would like to be stationed here, but will probably be at a field unit somewhere else. We are going downtown to personnel at 10:30 to get things straightened out and should reach our units by tomorrow. I'm getting anxious to get to work. Right now, I'm satisfied with how things are going. So take care and don't worry. Don't write to this address as I'll send you my permanent one in a few days.

Love, Frank

Cemetery Tour 2: Pvt. Forrest D. Youtsey

Note: This is the second in a series of five scripts prepared for presenters during Sunday's 14th annual Chariton Cemetery Heritage Tour, "Neighbors in Section E." The subject is Pvt. Forrest Dean Youtsey, one of the 26 young men from Lucas County who gave up their lives during World War I, which began 100 years ago, during 1917. The presenter is Trae Hall, in his third year as a cemetery tour re-enactor and a perfect fit for the World War I uniform from the Lucas County Historical Society which he is wearing. Of course it was his acting ability, not his measurements, that caused him to be offered the role.

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My Gold Star Buddies and I did roll call the other day, since it’s been a hundred years since the United States entered what you call World War I (We called it the Great War; sometimes the War to End All Wars, although obviously it didn’t). 

Twenty-six among the hundreds of us who went to war from Lucas County died during 1917 and 1918 and 10 of us are present and accounted for here today in the Chariton Cemetery.

They called us Gold Star Buddies because when we were alive our families displayed cloth banners in their homes, each with a blue star sewn onto it. Sometimes churches had these up front, too. When one of us died, the blue star that represented us was replaced with a star of gold.

So here’s a shout out to my Gold Star Buddies buried here on other Chariton Cemetery hilltops --- Pvt. Carl L. Caviness, the first Lucas County man to die in combat, shot down by a sniper; and Pvt. Gerald Bowen, Pvt. Kenneth McCoy and Pvt. Rudolph Sandahl, all killed in the Argonne Offensive. 

The rest of us died of the Spanish flu, as did thousands of other American troops who lost their lives during that war. Pvt. Raymond Cain, PFC Lawrence Gookin, Pvt. Henry R. Johnson, Pvt. Robert Thomas, Pvt. Walter West --- and myself --- are buried here. In all, eight Lucas County men were killed in combat; 18 of us died of influenza.

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My name is Forrest Dean Youtsey and I was a very fortunate son. My parents were Frank and Annie Belle Youtsey and I was born during January of 1893 on the home farm five miles southeast of Chariton on the Blue Grass Road. 

My parents were prosperous farmers and when I was a kid, they built what was then and remained until it was torn down and replaced the biggest house in the neighborhood. Had I lived, that farm would have been mine.

As it was, my sister, Mae, and her husband, Frank Aton, inherited the farm and they were the last family members to live on the old Youtsey place. Some of you might still remember Mae and Frank.

I attended school through the eighth grade at Ragtown, then went into Russell for high school and, after that, into Chariton to attend Commercial College. 

My goal in life was not to be a farmer, although that was my parents’ wish. I loved engines and fast cars and was a born mechanic. So it seemed to me that I should gain experience as a mechanic, maybe parlay that someday into my own dealership.

Nor did I really want to spend my life in Lucas County, but we were a close-knit family and my parents held on tight. I tried to make a break for it during early 1912, accepting a job as an auto mechanic in Des Moines. But then my dad made an offer I couldn’t refuse. He bought the Schreiber Garage on North Main Street and the Lemley Garage in Russell and I came home to run them. We called both Blue Grass Auto Stations and sold and serviced Chalmers, Overland, Buick, Ford and Zimmeman automobiles.

What Dad still really wanted me to do, however, was farm --- and late in 1912 he had an attack of what we called nerves that required lengthy treatment and visits to resorts in the South and elsewhere that offered cures. So we sold the Auto Stations and I took up farming full-time, although reluctantly.

We had a big operation --- grazing sheep and cattle, raising hogs and putting up enough hay in season to sell freight cars full. I was a good, but as I said reluctant, farmer and businessman.

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Congress declared war on Germany on April 6, 1917, and within weeks --- when it became clear that President Wilson’s hope of building a volunteer military was impractical --- the draft began. I registered on June 5 and was among the first Lucas County men called. 

Although I didn’t want to, my folks insisted that I apply for a farming deferment. That, however, was denied and I reported to Camp Dodge on Sept. 19.

At 24, I was older and had more business experience than most draftees, so was assigned to the Supply Company of the 339th Field Artillery. Once again, I was good at the job I was asked to do and, during December, was promoted to sergeant.

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During January of 1918, the first wave of what became known as the Great Spanish Flu Epidemic of 1918 started spreading without warning from densely populated military base to military base across the country, arriving at Camp Dodge most likely with personnel transferred from Camp Riley. There was no defense against it or useful treatment for it.

Dozens of us became ill that winter and early spring although the second and most deadly wave of the epidemic, involving thousands, wouldn’t begin until late summer. 

I was visiting my folks in Lucas County on Sunday, March 24, when I started coming down with what we thought was a bad cold. It got worse after I returned to Camp Dodge Sunday evening and by Tuesday, I was in the camp hospital, barely able to breathe. On Thursday, the 28th, I died of pneumonia as Mother held my hand.

By some estimates, 1,500 friends, neighbors and fellow soldiers attended my funeral at noon Sunday on the lawn of my parents’ home southeast of town. My remains then were escorted here for burial.

My father had scheduled his closing out farm sale for Thursday, April 11, and that went on as scheduled. Six months later, he dropped dead while helping his old friend and neighbor, J.W. May, on a nearby farm. Some said he died of a broken heart.

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Members of Trae's fan club, including grandparents Bev and Francis Snook, were on hand to take a few photographs before and after his performance.

Cemetery Tour 1: William Martin aka Ben Alexander

Note: This is the first in a series of five scripts prepared for presenters during Sunday's 14th annual Chariton Cemetery Heritage Tour, "Neighbors in Section E." As it happened, I ended up presenting the script myself, so there is no presenter photo. A photo of the tombstone of William Martin, aka Benjamin Alexander, will have to suffice. See the end note for more information about the tombstone and some of the misinformation surrounding it.

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Ladies and gentlemen, dozens of men and women born into slavery are buried in this beautiful cemetery, scattered from one end to the other. But I have the proud distinction of being the only one among them who was able to enlist as a Union soldier during the Civil War and join the fight that freed us. That is why my grave over there is marked by a veteran’s stone, like those first installed in 1873 at Arlington.

My name is William Benjamin Martin, but if you look at my tombstone you’ll see the name Benjamin Alexander upon it. Although my mother named me William Martin and I died as William Martin, I lived my first 16 years as Ben Alexander, a slave, and then enlisted and served, too, under the name assigned by the man who owned me. 

I was born June 22, maybe in 1846, on the plantation of James Rice Alexander near Huntsville in the heart of an area of north Missouri known as “Little Dixie.” The Alexanders had moved from Kentucky to Missouri in the 1820s bringing my kinfolks with them as slaves. 

The Alexanders prospered, growing tobacco and hemp, and by 1860, just before the Civil War began, owned an even dozen of us. My parents, my brothers and sisters and I worked the fields and kept the house for them.

Although my mother remembered the day I was born, she could neither read nor write --- slaves were not allowed to --- and so she kept no family record. But I was about 16 when I ran away, that much I know.

In January of 1863, we heard by the grapevine that Mr. Lincoln and signed the Emancipation Proclamation. But our hopes for freedom were dashed when we learned it did not apply in states that had not seceded, including Missouri, and that we still were slaves.

But we also heard that black men were being recruited by the Union at St. Louis to join the fight. So I ran away one night and walked to Benton Barracks where I enlisted as a private in the 1st Missouri Regiment of Colored Infantry. Black men were not allowed to serve with whites, of course, so our unit was segregated. But our officers all were white. Even in the North, black men were not considered fit to lead.

We spent our first year on picket duty across Louisiana and then were transferred to Brazos Santiago, a Texas barrier island where we blocked Confederates from resupplying themselves through Matamoros and Brownsville.

Our only battle, indeed the last pitched battle of the Civil War, came more than a month after Lee’s surrender at Appomattox. On May 11, 1865, we were among Union troops who attacked the Confederate encampment in Brownsville and launched a three-day battle known as Palminto Ranch.

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After my honorable discharge in 1866, I came home to northeast Missouri and found day jobs in Moberly, Macon and Kirksville. It was in Kirksville that I met Miss Tiney Root and we were married there on May 25, 1877, and started our family of nine children. Of that number, only little Clara died young.

In 1881, Tiney’s half-brother --- Abe Prather --- got word from a friend of his, John C. Johnson, that there was work to be had at Chariton, Iowa. John was a single man --- always would be --- and a master gardener. He had saved enough money by 1875 to buy five acres on the south edge of Chariton and by 1881 was keeping the town supplied with fresh vegetables and fruit and, during the winter, canned goods.

So the four of us loaded all we had --- and our children --- in wagons and headed for Lucas County. When we arrived, there were only about 30 black people in Chariton --- including John --- so we were pioneers. 

This all would change in 1883, however, when the White Breast Coal Co. brought in maybe 200 black miners and their families from Virginia to work in the mines at Cleveland and for a time after that, Lucas County’s back population numbered several hundred.

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I found work as a drayman soon after we arrived in Chariton and followed that that trade for more than 40 years, loading, driving and unloading wagons first for Daniel Eikenberry and then for the George J. Stewart Lumber and Fuel Co. Whatever needed to be transported, I transported.

Tiney and I bought our own home at the intersection of West Linden Avenue and South 15th Street and raised our children there. I never learned to read or write, although Tiney could so she made sure the children attended the Chariton schools.

We helped organize Ebenezer Baptist Church --- I was ordained a deacon there --- but we were outnumbered by Methodists, so our little congregation faded. The African Methodist Episcopal Church was just down the hill from our house --- where what you call Carpenter’s Hall is today --- and we shifted our allegiance there.

All in all, Tiney and I had a good life in Chariton, but there were no good jobs for young black people here, so most of our children moved elsewhere. 

Tiney took sick and died during August of 1916, just before her 70th birthday, and I buried her over there next to where I would eventually rest, not far from her brother and sister-in-law, Abe and Priscilla Prather. I followed Tiney to the grave 13 years later, on Oct. 20, 1929, aged about 82.

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I never could afford a tombstone for Tiney, so her grave still is unmarked. My grave might have been unmarked, too, but in 1934 Mr. Charles E. Lewis, himself a veteran of both the Spanish American War and World War I, undertook on behalf of Carl L. Caviness American Legion Post 102 the task of ensuring that all veteran graves in the Chariton Cemetery were marked. It was he who ordered the stone that I now rest under, but regulations required that I be buried under the name I served as --- Benjamin Alexander --- even though no one in Chariton ever had known me as that. So in the end, I could not escape that final reminder of slavery.

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End note: Some years ago, it was noted that the flag holder at the William Martin/Benjamin Alexander gravesite was a Confederate one. While three Confederate veterans --- George W. Alexander, Napoleon Bonaparte Branner and Isaac Fain --- are buried in the Chariton Cemetery, it seemed remarkably inappropriate that the grave site of a black man born into slavery who served in the Union Army should be marked by a symbol of the Confederacy.

So I obtained a new Grand Army of the Republic flag holder for the gravesite and turned the Confederate marker over to the Lucas County Department of Veteran Affairs.

At some point during the last year or so, the Confederate flag holder reappeared at the gravesite and the G.A.R. marker disappeared. So I've traded it out again for a G.A.R. marker and will turn the Confederate flag holder in again.

I'm sure this has been done with the best of intentions and there are a couple of possible explanations. The inscription on the government-issue stone reads, "Co. C, 62, U.S.C." That translates as "Co. C, 62nd Regiment, U.S. Colored Infantry." Remember that black soldiers were not allowed to enlist in white Union units during the Civil War. Someone may be misinterpreting the "C" in "U.S.C." here as "Confederate." 

The other possible explanation is that someone is confusing the grave of William Martin/Benjamin Alexander with that of George W. Alexander, some distance across the cemetery to the east, who was indeed a Confederate veteran. Although George W. Alexander's surname and William Martin's slave surname were the same, there was no relationship between the men other than the fact they would have known each other in Chariton.

George W. Alexander's grave is marked with a Confederate stone --- distinctive as all Confederate stones are by its pointed top. The tops of all Union markers are rounded. Nor do Confederate tombstones bear the initials "U.S."

Sunday afternoon with our neighbors in "Section E"

We had a good crowd Sunday, great performers and a beautiful afternoon in the shade near the Chariton Cemetery Shelter House for the 14th annual cemetery heritage tour, sponsored by the Chariton Historic Preservation Commission. So thanks to all who participated!

I'll post the five scripts from the tour here as the week progresses, but wanted to start this morning with photos of four of the presenters who brought these interesting women and men from Lucas County's past to life. So in order of appearance here they are:

Trae Hall (top), who braved the heat to wear a World War I uniform from the Historical Society collection while portraying Pvt. Forrest D. Youtsey, one of the 26 young men from Lucas County who gave up their lives a century ago during World War I service.

Suse Daniels Cohen, who did a terrific job as she told the story of Freda Simon Oppenheimer, the matriarch of an immigrant family who came to America seeking opportunity and freedom from oppression in their native Germany and become deeply woven into the fabric of Lucas County.

Doyle Smith, who portrayed Templeton Percifield, brought to Chariton as a child after his father was killed in Arkansas just after the Civil War, who became one of the city's best-known (and most entertaining) residents, a firefighter who specialized in brightening the lives of others.

Jeanne Taylor, who told the story of Helen Maloney Talboy, an heroic World War II U.S. Army nurse who turned her talents after the war, as superintendent of the Iowa Women's Reformatory at Rockwell City, to revolutionizing the way the women incarcerated there were rehabilitated.

As it turned out, I was the fifth presenter, reading the script prepared for William Martin (aka Benjamin Alexander), born into slavery and Lucas County's only black veteran of Union military service during the Civil War. We had two excellent candidates to portray William, but one ended up with a conflict and the other could not rearrange his work schedule to be with us. So ....

Everyone seemed to enjoy the afternoon and most remained to socialize and enjoy apple crisp, pumpkin bars and other treats, served on the front porch of the Shelter House.

It really was a great afternoon, and the commission is grateful to everyone who helped to make it a success. The cost of admission will be applied toward paying for an appropriate monument at Potters Field, where last year's tour was held. Hopefully, it will be in place by this time next year. Although the commission is a city agency it is an "unfunded" one --- the tour is our only source of income.

Chariton Cemetery Heritage Tour is today!

Among the questions of the day --- Will Trae Hall, who is portraying Pvt. Forrest D. Youtsey in today's 14th annual Chariton Cemetery Heritage Tour, pass out while wearing a full World War I-era uniform --- 100 percent wool --- during his presentation?

I doubt it seriously --- he's a sturdy young man and by 4 p.m. there should be a good breeze in the shade in front of the Chariton Cemetery Shelter House.

We're really looking forward to this year's tour and to sharing the stories of five fascinating people whose mortal remains rest in Section E --- the area east and north of the Shelter House. See the poster above. Many thanks to the brave souls who have volunteered to portray them.

Seating will be provided in front of the shelter house and refreshments will be served therein when the program is complete.

There is an admission charge, $5 payable at the cemetery gate or elsewhere. This is the only fund-raising project of the Chariton Historic Preservation Commission and this year we hope to finish gathering sufficient funds to pay for a suitable marker at Potters Field, where last year's tour was held.

Hope to see you this afternoon!