Passing It On
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A site dedicated to preserving, celebrating and sharing family and personal history.en-US2021-06-25T13:25:11-05:00Everybody loved my maternal Grandpa, Jens C. Andersen
https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/passing_it_on/2021/06/i-wrote-my-first-story-while-in-kindergarten-i-dont-remember-it-but-my-mother-told-me-it-was-called-the-go-away-dog-despi.html
Ellen and Jens Andersen in their living room, 1965 I wrote my first story while in kindergarten. I don't remember it, but my mother told me it was called "The Go-Away Dog." Despite that sketchy information, I have a pretty...<div class="photo-wrap photo-xid-6a00d834516d4069e2026bdedae873200c" id="photo-xid-6a00d834516d4069e2026bdedae873200c" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 502px;"><a class="asset-img-link" href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e2026bdedae873200c-pi"><img alt="1965-12 Ellen Jens Andersen" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d834516d4069e2026bdedae873200c img-responsive" src="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e2026bdedae873200c-500wi" style="border: 1px #000000;" title="1965-12 Ellen Jens Andersen" /></a>
<div class="photo-caption caption-xid-6a00d834516d4069e2026bdedae873200c" id="caption-xid-6a00d834516d4069e2026bdedae873200c">Ellen and Jens Andersen in their living room, 1965</div>
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<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">I wrote my first story while in kindergarten. I don't remember it, but my mother told me it was called "The Go-Away Dog."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Despite that sketchy information, I have a pretty good idea of what it was about.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Around that time I had a dog named Skippy. I don't know much about Skippy, either, because, well, he was a go-away dog;. I was told repeatedly that Skippy was <em>my</em> dog, but I don't remember him ever living in our house. He stayed mostly with my Grandpa Andersen, who lived a few blocks away. I remember them leaving Skippy at our house a few times, but he always left, ending up at Grandpa's house. I don't blame Skippy, really. Everybody loved Grandpa.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Jens C. Andersen was a character, in the best sense of the word. He was an immigrant from Denmark, coming to America in August 1920, just a month after he married my grandmother. Both were from the tiny island of Ærø, one of the most picturesque and remote of Denmark's 443 named islands. Grandpa was born Dec. 3, 1898, in the small village of Leby in the northwest portion of Ærø; Grandma was born Ellen Lauritzen a few months earlier on a farm near Søby, where she tended geese and herded cows.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">At the age of 10, Ellen moved in with a seriously ill aunt and uncle to help with family chores. She left school after eighth grade and helped support her family by working in other people's homes.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">In her spare time, Ellen enjoyed bike riding with her friends, often to the nearby lighthouse where she would watch ships heading to and from port. On one of those trips, she met Jens. As she often said, "I rode to the lighthouse with my girl friend and rode away with my boyfriend!" Jens and Ellen were a couple throughout their teenage years. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">As Jens began a four-year apprenticeship to become a cabinetmaker, one of his duties was to help manage a herd of cows for his mentor. Ellen noticed.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"I was so crazy for Grandpa, I wouldn’t eat lunch," she later told a granddaughter, Sue Rushing. "I stood in our door at home and watched for that boy, that cabinet boy, go down to the dairy. ... When he was learning the trade he’d have to do those things and every day I saw him come with that bucket. ...  I’d stand there and wait for him, pretty soon he’d be back across the street. So I’d get to talk with him."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">During their courtship, Ellen continued to work for other families while Jens worked at learning his trade.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"He was a poor carpenter and I loved him," Ellen said, adding that she "paid for everything" in those years, including cigarettes and the rare nights out. Jens managed to scrape together enough money to buy Ellen a gift of a thimble. She responded by embroidering him some handkerchiefs.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">When World War 1 hit, Jens was obliged to protect his country despite Denmark's neutrality in the conflict. While he served, Ellen moved on to </span><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Copenhagen, where she worked as an "in-girl" maid in charge of silverware and glassware for a wealthy family. Jens often visited Ellen while in his service uniform, taking meals with the help in the basement, out of sight of the owner. Ellen soon moved to another home where she was nanny to two small children.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">After the youngest child died of a convulsion while in Ellen's care, the child's mother took on the extraordinary role of Ellen's comforter, steering her to several of the many churches in Copenhagen as she grappled with the guilt of losing someone else's child. There was plenty of work for Ellen, too, Beating carpets. Washing clothes, Hauling coal. Jens had taken work as a carpenter on another island and begged Ellen to join him.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"My mother was mad," Ellen said. "She said ‘What do you want to go running after him for?’"</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">When Ellen couldn't find work near Jens, he hinted that maybe they could do better in America. Two of his sisters had already made the move and raved about the opportunity. Well, Ellen said, if we're going to America, we'll have to get married first.  J</span><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">ens agreed and Ellen took the lead. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Jens' father died when he was a toddler and his mother was visiting her daughter, Johannes, in America when the decision was made to wed in Ellen's church. For three successive Sundays her preacher announced their intentions from the pulpit. There being no community objections, Ellen undertook the next phase of the process -- inviting guests. By Danish custom, this was an elaborate and cumbersome process. They retained a family friend who, nattily attired and brandishing a cane, accompanied an equally well-dressed Ellen to the homes of prospective guests to personally invite them to the service. <br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Ellen picked her bridesmaids and sternly warned Jens to be on time for their wedding, a caution necessitated by Jens' late arrival for the recent wedding of a friend.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">On July 4, 1920, family and friends gathered for coffee and lunch before walking to the church for Jens and Ellen's wedding. After the ceremony, they all walked back to a local hall for the reception. A band strolled among the guests as they ate dinner, then took their posts to provide music for a marathon night of dancing, food and beer. A donation box was set up to pay for the band as celebrants carried on throughout the night.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"They eat all night," Ellen recalled. "And drink. They drink until they get so drunk. Grandpa and I … we didn’t come home. We had to go out in the field and milk the cows. They were out at night, so we have to go very early in the morning, about 6 o’clock. We didn’t get to bed until we milked the cows."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">The newlyweds faced one major hurdle if they were to fulfill their dream of emigrating to America: they didn't have any money. Fortunately, Jens' journeyman status was enough to justify a small bank loan, just enough for steerage class on a 10-day trip by steamer to the United States.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">On Aug. 5, 1920, they joined dozens of other Danish emigres as they boarded Frederick VIII of the Scandinavian American Line. It was a relatively new ship, having been built in 1913 at the A/G Vulcan Shipyard in Stettin, Germany. Its steam triple expansion twin-screw engines allowed it to cruise at 17 knots on its Atlantic crossing. It was built for a diverse range of passengers, too. It could accommodate 100 first-class passengers and 300 more in its second-class cabins. Jens and Ellen, however, would spend their trip in the bowels of the vessel, with about 950 fellow third-class travelers.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"We were so sick the first day," Ellen recalled. "We couldn’t get out of bed, we were so sick. Both of us. And everybody was sick. There wasn’t hardly anyone up to eat, at the table to eat. … You know the Danes they cook so much fat. On that boat they were feeding us some fat cabbage soup. No wonder we got sick. Grandpa always said, 'You know that they did that because they knew we wouldn’t eat the rest of the way'.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Food wasn't the only issue. Lice were everywhere. Steerage passengers were perpetually seasick from the constant rolling of the ship. Plus, the ship's crew went on strike during the trip.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Before leaving for America, Jens quizzed his sister, Johannes, about what to bring. Johannes, who came to the U.S.in 1913 and married John Madsen of Audubon, Iowa, two years later, suggested that he bring plenty of warm clothes to help cope with the harsh Iowa winters. Fortunately, Jens had some toasty wool underpants.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"But we had no room for them in the suitcase, so he wore them," Ellen said. "It was so hot. ,,, He suffered so with those underpants."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Despite the austere conditions, the Danish contingent (which included several musicians) found more pleasant ways to pass the time on the tedious trip.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"We danced a lot on the ship," Jens said. "Oh, that was a good time! We danced to the Missouri Waltz and a Danish tune called Dukhe leis Waltz ... One of the games we played was this: One guy had to bend over with his head against the wall, then, everyone would try to hit his ass. If the guy caught who hit his ass then that guy had to put his head up against the wall."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">When the ship finally arrived at Ellis Island, Jens and Ellen, who spoke no English, were especially apprehensive. Admission to the U.S. was far from a sure thing.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"We landed on an island by New York," Jens explained "It was near the New York stockyard. There were cattle all over the place. The inspector looked us all over after we had gotten off the boat. They checked our eyes, ears, nose and mouth...everything. They checked us for any little defects." </span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"That was the worse place ever," Ellen said. "All the immigrants have to go there and they just put them in like cattle. We were in there with one doctor, then another doctor and so on. [We were scared].  But we didn’t care. We had each other, you know?"</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Apparently, they passed muster. They were given sardines and crackers and put on a train headed for Iowa.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"It was the slowest train," Ellen remembered. "There were no nice seats. We were used to third class anyhow. We were immigrants. And then they came around on the train to sell fruit. At that time they were bananas for a dollar. That was lots of money, but we didn’t know. We were thinking of dollars like Kroners."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">After finally arriving in Audubon, Iowa, they stayed for two months with Jens' sister and family before moving to Shelby, Iowa, where Jens worked for the school system making cabinets and window frames. They started a family; my Mom, Elsie, came first in 1922 followed 18 months later by Ruth. When Jens landed a carpenter's job with Omaha Fixture and Supply, he and Ellen moved to Council Bluffs where they became American homeowners for the first time, buying two lots on the west side of town so Jens could eventually have his own small vineyard, a few apple trees and fire pit plus space for a replica windmill like those that graced the area around his picturesque Danish home.<br /></span></p>
<div class="photo-wrap photo-xid-6a00d834516d4069e20282e10b3944200b" id="photo-xid-6a00d834516d4069e20282e10b3944200b" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 502px;"><a class="asset-img-link" href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e20282e10b3944200b-pi"><img alt="1930 Mom Ruth Avenue F" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d834516d4069e20282e10b3944200b img-responsive" src="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e20282e10b3944200b-500wi" style="border: 1px #000000;" title="1930 Mom Ruth Avenue F" /></a>
<div class="photo-caption caption-xid-6a00d834516d4069e20282e10b3944200b" id="caption-xid-6a00d834516d4069e20282e10b3944200b">Jens Andersen's first house at 2520 Avenue F, Council Bluffs, Iowa</div>
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<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">He built his first home at the back of the property and Ellen assumed landscaping duties, filling the area in front of the home with flowering shrubs and colorful climbers that made the home the envy of the neighborhood. As the family grew (there would eventually be five children), the house grew, too. With help from his Danish Brotherhood friends, Jens had a foundation dug at the front of the property, turned his house 90 degrees and had it moved forward atop the new basement before adding height to the second story. He would remain in that house for the rest of his days.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Although Jens had served his native Denmark in World War I, he stepped forward to help his adopted country after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. In 1942, he joined a construction crew of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers as they built the Alaska Highway. Jens helped build barracks for workers along the 1,700 mile route, a monumental task that took just eight months to complete. He returned home with a souvenir -- a small fir tree that he planted in the yard in front of his house.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">While Jens was in Canada at work on the highway, his daughter, Elsie, was in a serious relationship with Walter B. "Jack" Lehmer, a Union Pacific railroad worker.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"By the time we started going together, I’d sold my car because as soon as the war broke out, as soon as they attacked Pearl Harbor, I was 21 years old and I knew I was bye-bye,"  Jack Lehmer explained. "I sold my car so I wouldn’t have to mess with it later. The railroad union came and told us that we were working for an essential industry and we weren’t going to get drafted. That’s when we went ahead and got married."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">At the time, Lehmer had never met his father-in-law.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"I never met him until after I was married," Lehmer said. By the time they met in the fall of 1942, Jack Lehmer had, contrary to his union's advice, received a draft notice but hastily enlisted in the Navy instead.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Three years later, I met my Grandpa Jens, the first of many grandchildren Jens and Ellen would welcome in those baby boom postwar years.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"> <a class="asset-img-link" href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e2026bdedae99b200c-pi"><img alt="1960 Christmas" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d834516d4069e2026bdedae99b200c img-responsive" src="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e2026bdedae99b200c-500wi" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="1960 Christmas" /></a><br />My earliest memories of my grandfather are of watching wrestling, boxing, Uncle Miltie and the Voice of Firestone with him on a small television while lying on the floor of his compact living room. Christmas was the biggest unifying event for my mother's side of the family. Grandma fondly spoke of Christmas in Denmark, where her parents decorated the Christmas tree on Christmas Eve in a room separate from the children, only allowing them in to see it once the candles were lit. Grandma's mother divided up a bag of hard candy among her eight children, and each child also received an orange, a gift so precious that Grandma would sleep with hers for fear of losing it.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">For years, the Andersen family gathered at Grandma and Grandpa'</span><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">s house for Christmas, where a small decorated tree protected gifts in a small unheated front porch and the dining-room table was filled with aebleskiver and applecake topped with whipped cream. Every Christmas there was also a party at the Danish Hall, home base of Chapter 10 of the Danish Brotherhood. While Grandpa and his Danish friends were drinking beer and swapping tales of the old country, we kids were loading up on pop and Danish pastries and racing across the dance floor, careful to avoid dancing couples before launching into lengthy slides on our knees on the freshly waved hardwood floors.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Their house was something of a refuge for me as a young child. We played hide and seek in the rows of Concord grapes that sat next to Grandpa's garage. The apple trees that dominated the extra lot were productive, with the sweet smell of bushels of ripe apples filling the back porch each fall. As far as I know, Grandpa only used his barbecue pit for burning trash, making it a swell place to roast marshmallows.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">For reasons I don't remember, there was a time when I was in second or third grade and had to go to their house after school. Each morning my mother would tie a nickel in the corner of a handkerchief so I wouldn't lose the bus fare for the trip to their house. It was on one of those days that I was introduced to sour cream, mistaking it for mayonnaise as I was making a sandwich. It was pretty awful stuff, I decided.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Grandpa was a fascinating character to me. Watching him work in his basement workshop was a rare treat. He had planers, shapers, drill presses, band saws, circular saws and all sort of tools that looked excitingly dangerous. He had one area of his basement that looked like a walk-in cooler or freezer. Mom told me that he used that area to make beer and wine. She used to help cap the bottles and was paid as a young child to roll cigarettes for Grandpa.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">One of my fondest childhood memories of Grandpa was when he'd take me on a root beer run. The Thomas Jefferson high school football coach also owned an A & W root beer stand across the street from the football field. Naturally, it was a hangout for T.J. students. Grandpa would park on the edge of the stand's gravel parking lot and saunter up to the service window where he'd order a large root beer. With the sleeves of his signature plaid shirt rolled up past his wrists, he'd grab the mug, hold it high for all to see, then drink it down in one long gulp. The teenage crowd would burst out in cheers and applause and Grandpa would proceed to wipe his grinning mouth with his sleeve while soaking in the adulation.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">There was a time when my brothers and I were obsessively gathering up scrap copper after hearing it was worth something like 30 cents a pound. We found that by keeping our eyes peeled while walking the railroad tracks between home and church on Sunday mornings, we could fill our pockets with coppery-looking objects. But, alas, much of it was fake copper, apparently, so we turned our ambitions elsewhere. Like our own basement.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"Hey," my brother Ron said, pointing to a small knob-like thing on our unfinished basement ceiling while exploring when our parents were out. "That looks like copper."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">So, one of us climbed up on a stool for a closer look. A little twisting worked it loose. Soon it was free, followed immediately by a blast of cold water that soon had all three of us drenched. The water wouldn't stop, even when holding a towel tightly over the opening.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"Hold on. I'll call Grandpa," I said.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">It took only a few minutes, but it seemed like an eternity before Grandpa arrived. He could barely contain himself at the sight of three soaked ragamuffins holding a towel against a free-flowing water line. He turned off the water and, still laughing, sat down to get the story of what happened.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"I think I'll stick around while you boys dry off," he said.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">When my parents got home, he was still laughing when he talked to Mom.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"Now don't you go punishing those boys," he told her. "They were just being curious."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">That was Grandpa. For the entire time I knew him, he was pretty much a kid himself.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">When I was in high school, I got the shortwave listening bug. Listening to radio stations from around the world had great appeal to me. Grandpa had put together a music system from a kit, so I decided to give kit-building a try. I bought my first shortwave radio from Heathkit in Benton Harbor, Michigan. After putting the radio together, it didn't work right so, naturally, I took it to Grandpa, who showed me the proper way to solder electronics. It worked fine after that.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">I soon decided that a tape recorder would be helpful in my radio hobby, plus it would give me a chance to record music off the radio instead of spending my money on expensive records. I bought a $50 Mayfair reel-to-reel at an Omaha pawn shop and soon found that it wouldn't maintain a steady speed, making for warbly recordings. Again, I went to Grandpa and we diagnosed the problem as an improperly lubricated capstan. We never got the Mayfair to work properly, but we both learned a lot about tape recorders in the process.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">I progressed through several shortwave radios and dozens of tape recorders over the years, but Grandpa was always a step ahead of me. In his later years, he used a top-of-the-line war-surplus Hammarlund shortwave radio to tune in his beloved Danish music programs and an equally impressive Sony stereo reel-to-reel to record them for his own enjoyment.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Grandpa spent most of his professional career in the U.S. hanging doors. That's a much more difficult task than it sounds, but it's not that challenging for a journeyman cabinetmaker from Denmark. A true artisan, Grandpa made most of the furniture in his home, almost all of it of Iowa walnut, his wood of choice. In my career as a personal historian, I often told the story of how Grandpa got his wood.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"He'd go for a ride in the country," I explained, "looking for a fence or barn in need of repair. If the barn was made of walnut (which was pretty common at one time), he'd knock at the door and tell the farmer, 'You know, your barn is in rough shape. If you give me some of the wood from it, I'll build your wife a nice set of kitchen cabinets'."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">The tactic apparently worked. His basement was full of weathered wood that he'd magically turn into something beautiful with a pass or two through his planer.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">The first piece of furniture I commissioned from home, though, was much less grand. For $15, he built me a plywood record cabinet with additional storage space. It's still used in my basement today. When he heard that wife Linda and I played chess, he built us a nifty chess table. When we were shopping for a hutch to store our dishes, we were torn between two Ethan Allen creations, preferring the base of one and the top of another. No problem, said, Grandpa. I'll make one that matches what you want. I think it cost us $200 plus finding the handle hardware ourselves.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"> <a class="asset-img-link" href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e2026bdedae9ea200c-pi"><img alt="1968-04-18 Ellen Jens Andersen with clocks" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d834516d4069e2026bdedae9ea200c img-responsive" src="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e2026bdedae9ea200c-500wi" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="1968-04-18 Ellen Jens Andersen with clocks" /></a><br />But our most prized piece of Grandpa-built furniture is our grandfather</span><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"> clock. Grandpa started making them in the 1960s, first for his own children, then for the next generation. Each clock was constructed primarily of walnut veneer created by Grandpa himself. He was proud of the fact that he didn't use a single nail in the clock body's construction. In all, he made about 40 of these beauties. He built ours when I was in California in the Air Force. For a year or so it resided in my in-laws' house in Omaha. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Grandpa bought the German-made works for his clocks from DeCovnick's, a clock company with a showroom in Concord, California, not far from where I was stationed in the early 1970s. The works cost $250 at the time. Grandpa charged just $400 for the entire clock ("I made about 10 cents an hour on those clocks," Grandpa said.) Linda and I made a visit to DeCovnick's and the owner checked his books and said "Yes. Jens Andersen, We've done quite a lot of business with him." The DeCovnick showroom had lots of grandfather clocks, most in the $1,200-1,500 range.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">I asked the owner, "What if I could get a hand-crafted clock like one of those, built by a Danish cabinetmaker, for $400?"</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"I'd buy a dozen of them," he replied.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"> <a class="asset-img-link" href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e202788032cd6c200d-pi"><img alt="1977 GM & GP at Norma's" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d834516d4069e202788032cd6c200d img-responsive" src="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e202788032cd6c200d-500wi" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="1977 GM & GP at Norma's" /></a><br />We reclaimed our clock after my discharge and return to Iowa, but I saw Grandpa only occasionally throughout the 1970s. There were family gatherings every July 4 to mark my grandparents' anniversary and the Christmas Eve gatherings had long since moved to my aunt Norma Jean's farm, but that was about it. Grandpa, of course, was the same old Grandpa, with his hearty laugh and inappropriate pawing of Grandma, whose response was to curl into a ball, fending off Grandpa's advances with her own hands while uttering something like, "Suh, suh, Daddy. Suh, suh."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">This went on for years before my brother, Ron, finally asked Grandpa: "What does suh, suh mean?"</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Grandpa, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, didn't miss a beat while answering, "More, more."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Grandpa was not shy about showing his affection for Grandma, usually in a ribald manner. But my brother, David, once witnessed a gentler, more intimate, side of their relationship.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"There was a time when Grandma had her "spells" (whatever that meant)," David explained. "[Brother] Ron and I were at their house one day when Grandma called out for Grandpa. She was lying on the bed in the north bedroom and her voice sounded desperate. "Daddy !!" (she always called him Daddy). "Ya'  Mama"  (he always called her Mama). "Get in here" (rich Danish accents - both of them). Grandpa's rough and tough exterior was betrayed when he heard beautiful music and tears formed in his eyes ... he was also reduced to a mere mortal when Grandma had one of her "spells."  When he got to her she was trembling and in a panic.  He extended his carpenter-rough hand and held her until she settled down. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"I was about 20 years old and it was the most affirming display of true love I had seen.  I don’t think I can ever forget it. Ron was there and I'm sure it impacted him as well."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"> <a class="asset-img-link" href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e202788032cd75200d-pi"><img alt="1981 GP's rehab 2" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d834516d4069e202788032cd75200d img-responsive" src="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e202788032cd75200d-500wi" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="1981 GP's rehab 2" /></a><br />Grandpa's child-like nature was challenged in his later years. Diabetes led to amputation of both legs below the knees in 1981. While hospitalized, doctors told him that he would have to cough more and do deep breathing exercises now that his mobility would be even more limited. When I saw him for the last time that Christmas, he was in good spirits, "dancing" in his wheelchair and showing off his new, prosthetic legs.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">But deep breathing and good spirits weren't enough. On the morning of Nov. 22, 1982 -- my Dad's 62nd birthday -- he was rushed to Jennie Edmundson hospital in Council Bluffs where his heart gave out at the age of 82 years, 11 months and 19 days.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Grandma soon sold the house Grandpa built and lived out the rest of her years in a succession of care facilities, without her beloved Daddy. She developed a serious fondness for pizza, lost her youngest daughter to cancer and survived breast cancer herself before dying at the age of 97 on April 17, 1996.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">A cousin delivered the eulogy at Grandma's funeral:</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"Ellen's favorite time of year is Christmas because her family has kept many of the Danish traditions. In our family celebrations everyone gathers at Norma Jean's home, on Christmas Eve. Everyone brings a favorite dish which is enough food to feed an army. And it is almost that..... There are 70 and that number continues to grow. After plenty of good food, much of it Danish, the children join hands and dance around and sing Christmas carols.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"The evening is finished off with a visit from St. Nick himself. Ellen always gets to sit on Santa's knee and tell him what she wanted for Christmas. She would always say she just wanted to have all her family around her. I personally feel her fondest wish for the last 14 years was to be back with Grandpa."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Wouldn't we all.</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em> <a class="asset-img-link" href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e202788032cdce200d-pi"><img alt="1980 GM GP their kids on 60th ann." class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d834516d4069e202788032cdce200d img-responsive" src="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e202788032cdce200d-500wi" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="1980 GM GP their kids on 60th ann." /></a><br />Ellen and Jens Andersen with their children: Richard, Elsie, Harold, Norma Jean and Ruth on their 60th wedding anniversary.</em></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">Author Larry Lehmer's book about Dick Clark and American Bandstand --</span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">  </span></span></span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">Bandstandland: How Dancing Teenagers Took Over America and Dick Clark Took Over Rock & Roll </span></span></span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">-</span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">-</span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">is </span>available from <a href="https://www.sunburypressstore.com/Bandstandland-9781620060131.htm">Sunbury Press</a></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. His book about the last tour of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens -- </span></span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Day the Music Died </span></span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">-- </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">is available at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Day-Music-Died-Bopper-Richie/dp/0825672872/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Amazon</a>.</span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>Larry Lehmer2021-06-25T13:25:11-05:00Super-sizing your expectations: Has it happened to you?
https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/passing_it_on/2020/02/today-is-monday-but-to-call-it-that-seems-awfully-mundane-coming-right-after-super-bowl-sunday-shouldnt-it-at-least-be-c.html
Today is Monday but to call it that seems awfully mundane, coming right after Super Bowl Sunday. Shouldn’t it at least be called Super Monday? We Americans are super at using the word super. We have our Superman, Super 8s...<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"> <a class="asset-img-link" href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e20240a4e38eb0200d-pi" style="float: right;"><img alt="Pioneers" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d834516d4069e20240a4e38eb0200d img-responsive" height="229" src="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e20240a4e38eb0200d-320wi" style="margin: 0px 0px 5px 5px;" title="Pioneers" width="229" /></a>Today is Monday but to call it that seems awfully mundane, coming right after Super Bowl Sunday. Shouldn’t it at least be called Super Monday?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">We Americans are super at using the word super. We have our Superman, Super 8s and Super Mario, not to mention our propensity to super-size our fast food. By choosing to use the word, we create a parallel set of expectations. We raise the bar when we levy the super tag.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">The trouble with many Super Bowls is that they’ve fallen far short of the expectation. This year’s game lived up to the hype, but what about the rest of the production? The game has come a long way in the 54 years since $12 would get you a seat at the game. Many people watch the game for its commercials, widely touted as the most creative (and expensive) you’ll see all year. </span><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Frankly, I thought very few of this year’s ads were exceptional. <br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Expectations are a huge part of your family history. We gauge much of our success or failure by plotting our results against our expectations. Or the expectations of others.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">As children, our goals frequently are created by parents, teachers and others of influence in our lives. I had friends whose parents paid them a sliding scale for grades that met or exceeded expectations. Other friends were motivated by the fear of what would happen to them if they fell short.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">In many families, children are expected to follow in their parents’ footsteps, whether that be operating the family farm, taking over the family business or carrying on the family tradition in a particular occupation, such as law or medicine. Perhaps you know of offspring who rebelled at this notion for a while, yet ultimately slipped back into the familial pattern.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">In my era, many young women were dissuaded from attending college, partly because so many occupations were largely closed to them at that time but more likely because previous generations truly believed that women were destined to be wives and mothers exclusively.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Look over your family history and identify those people whose successes exceeded the known expectations of that time. These are among the true pioneers of your family.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">Author Larry Lehmer's book about Dick Clark and American Bandstand --</span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">  </span></span></span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">Bandstandland: How Dancing Teenagers Took Over America and Dick Clark Took Over Rock & Roll </span></span></span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">-</span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">-</span></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">is </span>available from <a href="https://www.sunburypressstore.com/Bandstandland-9781620060131.htm">Sunbury Press</a></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. His book about the last tour of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens -- </span></span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Day the Music Died </span></span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">-- </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">is available at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Day-Music-Died-Bopper-Richie/dp/0825672872/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Amazon</a>.</span></span></span></p>Larry Lehmer2020-02-03T14:04:11-06:00Cemeteries: Where records of our collective histories live
https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/passing_it_on/2020/01/cemeteries-where-records-of-our-collective-histories-live.html
"Once More Around the Crypt" That was the headline on a story I wrote in my sportswriting days about a high school track team which, since it didn't have an all-weather track at the school, did its early spring training...<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; margin-top: 0px; font-family: times new roman, times;"> </span></div>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"> <a class="asset-img-link" href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e20240a4e0a243200d-pi" style="float: right;"><img alt="Holly grave" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d834516d4069e20240a4e0a243200d img-responsive" height="180" src="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e20240a4e0a243200d-320wi" style="margin: 0px 0px 5px 5px;" title="Holly grave" width="267" /></a>"Once More Around the Crypt"</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">That was the headline on a story I wrote in my sportswriting days about a high school track team which, since it didn't have an all-weather track at the school, did its early spring training in a couple of nearby cemeteries.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">I found it ironic that young, healthy athletes would prepare their bodies for grueling athletic competitions by winding their way through the final resting places of many of their community's founders and civic leaders. Cemeteries truly are fascinating places.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">When I was doing research for my book on the last tour of singers Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens, I used cemetery records to track down the family of one of the long-lost musicians from that tour.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">As I prepared to visit Holly's grave in Lubbock, Texas, I was told that fans often showed reverence for their fallen hero by leaving guitar picks stuck in the ground surrounding his modest grave marker. What I found instead were shards of broken beer bottles, which I had to carefully remove before shooting the photo with this post. Such is the nature of many celebrity graves.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">For most of us, cemeteries are more than tributes to our personal pasts. They offer an enduring record of our collective histories as well.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">It's possible to do some cemetery research online, but many of us prefer to stand on the ground of our ancestors. If a personal visit is in your future, here are a few tips from genealogist Annita Zalenski of Totowa, N.J.:</span></p>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Make your visit in the afternoon. Many cemetery staffers are busy with funerals in the morning.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Bring a spray bottle to help you see fading inscriptions on tombstones.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Bring garden clippers to remove overgrown weeds.</span></li>
</ul>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">Author Larry Lehmer's book about Dick Clark and American Bandstand --</span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">  Bandstandland: How Dancing Teenagers Took Over America and Dick Clark Took Over Rock & Roll --</span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">is </span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> now</span> <span style="font-size: 12pt;">available from <a href="https://www.sunburypressstore.com/Bandstandland-9781620060131.htm">Sunbury Press</a></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. His book about the last tour of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens -- </span></span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Day the Music Died -- </span></span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">is available at </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Day-Music-Died-Bopper-Richie/dp/0825672872/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Amazon</a>.</span></span> </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 12pt; margin-top: 0px; font-family: times new roman, times;"> </span></p>Larry Lehmer2020-01-27T14:20:03-06:00My brief attempt at a career as a rock music columnist
https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/passing_it_on/2019/11/it-was-just-46-years-ago-well-it-seems-like-yesterday-but-it-was-indeed-november-1973-when-i-tried-to-launch-a-career.html
It was just 46 years ago ... It seems like yesterday but it was, indeed, November 1973 when I tried to launch a career as a rock music syndicated columnist. I was just a couple months on the job as...<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"> <a class="asset-img-link" href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e20240a4eb3530200b-pi" style="float: right;"><img alt="Tablet" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d834516d4069e20240a4eb3530200b img-responsive" height="134" src="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e20240a4eb3530200b-320wi" style="margin: 0px 0px 5px 5px;" title="Tablet" width="232" /></a>It was just 46 years ago ...</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">It seems like yesterday but it was, indeed, November 1973 when I tried to launch a career as a rock music syndicated columnist. I was just a couple months on the job as a swing reporter at my hometown newspaper, <em>The Council Bluffs (Iowa) Daily Nonpareil</em>. It was my second stint at the <em>Nonpareil</em>, where I started my newspaper career five years earlier before entering the Air Force. I had no idea where my newspaper carer was headed since my job included covering the police and courthouse beats a couple days a week, plus three days covering sports.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">I did know, however, that this was my opportunity to try my hand at writing about rock music. In my first, pre-service go-round, I had reviewed a few concerts and albums for the paper and offered to do it again. I sweetened the offer by telling my bosses that I was planning to self-syndicate an oldies column and I'd give it to the <em>Nonpareil</em> for free. They accepted.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">I created a name for my company, rented a post office box to handle the flood of mail I expected and placed an ad in <em>Editor & Publisher</em> magazine, the meeting place for journalists in those pre-Internet days. The flood of mail never came, but I did land one paying client, <em>The Tablet</em>, a Catholic newspaper in Brooklyn, N.Y. <em>Tablet</em> editors went big, buying two of the three items I offered -- the main <em>Rockback </em>column plus the three-question quiz filler (they passed on <em>Oldies Answered</em>, a 250-word column answering readers' questions).</span></p>
<p><em><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">The Tablet </span></em><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">was much larger than the <em>Nonpareil</em> with a circulation of more than 100,000 subscribers. This placed them at the top of my pricing structure, which was, in my estimation, unbelievably reasonable. The check at the top of this post reflects the total cost for a month's worth of material. There were four <em>Rockback</em> columns at $1.85 each and four quiz fillers at 75 cents apiece. With a 10 percent discount for ordering more than one item, the total was a mere $9.36.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Unfortunately, this arrangement lasted less than a year. <em>The Tablet</em> abandoned its youth section in 1974 and my quest for syndicated rock stardom ended, although I began research into what would eventually become my book, <em>The Day the Music Died: The Last tour of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens</em>.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Here is a sample of what I was writing about in those days:</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"> <a class="asset-img-link" href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e20240a4eb734b200b-pi"><img alt="Rockback" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d834516d4069e20240a4eb734b200b img-responsive" height="1160" src="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e20240a4eb734b200b-320wi" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Rockback" width="449" /></a><br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">Author Larry Lehmer's book about Dick Clark and American Bandstand --</span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">  Bandstandland: How Dancing Teenagers Took Over America and Dick Clark Took Over Rock & Roll --</span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">is </span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> now</span> <span style="font-size: 12pt;">available from <a href="https://www.sunburypressstore.com/Bandstandland-9781620060131.htm">Sunbury Press</a></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. His book about the last tour of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens -- </span></span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Day the Music Died -- </span></span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">is available at </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Day-Music-Died-Bopper-Richie/dp/0825672872/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Amazon</a>.</span></span></span></p>Larry Lehmer2019-11-16T10:23:20-06:00Tragedy has the cruelly ironic capacity for instantly transforming a young person's ephemera into their legacy
https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/passing_it_on/2019/11/one-tennis-racket-jack-kramer-modelone-tennis-racket-pancho-gonzalez-modelseven-tennis-balls-twenty-six-years-and-this-i.html
One tennis racket (Jack Kramer model) One tennis racket (Pancho Gonzalez model) Seven tennis balls Twenty six years and this is it? The sporting legacy of a young American male? Apparently so. They were the only athletic items among the...<p><em><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"> <a class="asset-img-link" href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e20240a4c19f52200d-pi" style="float: right;"><img alt="Boxes" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d834516d4069e20240a4c19f52200d img-responsive" height="307" src="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e20240a4c19f52200d-320wi" style="margin: 0px 0px 5px 5px;" title="Boxes" width="195" /></a>One tennis racket (Jack Kramer model)</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">One tennis racket (Pancho Gonzalez model)</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Seven tennis balls</span></em></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Twenty six years and this is it? The sporting legacy of a young American male? Apparently so. They were the only athletic items among the dozens of personal effects I helped pack while settling the estate of an apparently troubled Airman First Class following his suicide. A young man's life shipped to a grieving mother. Four cartons, 13 items in all. A life's accumulation.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">It wasn't a job I sought. Just one of those extra duties of an Air Force officer. For one month I was appointed Summary Court Officer to deal with the unpleasantness. I didn't know the airman, but we were roughly the same age. We were both scheduled to leave the Air Force, too; me on an early out program, him on a medical discharge. I wonder if he knew that as he wrapped the venetian blind cord tightly around his neck in the darkness of his hospital room?</span></p>
<p><em><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">One $20 bill</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Eighty-three cents in coins</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Two packages, Pall Mall cigarettes</span></em></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Twenty six years and this is it? These were among the items recovered from the Airman's hospital room. There was more. Clothing, keys and a wallet full of IDs and a meal card. The keys were for a car that sat disabled in a local garage because the airman couldn't afford repairs. That $333 an E-3 got every month didn't go far, even if the Air Force was providing room and board.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">This was the Airman's first duty station following tech training. His anxious behavior was apparently obvious as he worked the over night shift. He spent months in outpatient therapy before he was hospitalized. I wonder how much he shared with loved ones in the letters he wrote in response to the 63 we found in his room after he died?</span></p>
<p><em><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">83 LP records</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">30 45 rpm records</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">One 78 rpm record</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">One Motorola phonograph</span></em></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">He, obviously, liked his music. He apparently played, too. We also found two violins, a guitar and a five-string banjo among his effects. There were 16 musical instruction books, too. I wonder what he thought about as he listened or played his music? The lone 78 was by Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys: "Never No More Hard Time Blues." Did the music brighten his mood or did it depress him? Did he play along with his instruments? Was he any good? Was his voice on any of the five tape cassettes he left behind?<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Where did he go in his brown cowboy boots and brown cowboy hat? Did he read either of the two hardback books he posssessed -- <em>The Man and the Mask</em> by Henrik Ibsen or Aristotle's <em>On Man and the Universe</em>? How about his Bible? He had five pair of socks, three underwear briefs, eight t-shirts and a laundry bag. One roll of masking tape, a flashlight and a jar for crushing nuts. A young man's life in four shipping cartons. So sad.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">Author Larry Lehmer's book about Dick Clark and American Bandstand --</span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">  Bandstandland: How Dancing Teenagers Took Over America and Dick Clark Took Over Rock & Roll --</span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">is </span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> now</span> <span style="font-size: 12pt;">available from <a href="https://www.sunburypressstore.com/Bandstandland-9781620060131.htm">Sunbury Press</a></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. His book about the last tour of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens -- </span></span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Day the Music Died -- </span></span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">is available at </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Day-Music-Died-Bopper-Richie/dp/0825672872/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Amazon</a>.</span></span></p>Larry Lehmer2019-11-01T10:51:55-05:00Dear kids, your dad wishes you a happy future
https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/passing_it_on/2019/04/dear-kids-your.html
Dear Aaron, Meghan and Bret, Today, instead of teaching others how to write a legacy letter, I’m writing one of my own. On this day before Earth Day 2008, I want to share with you some of my wishes for...<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/7313625@N08/1287822731/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1072/1287822731_36db640825_m.jpg" style="border: 2px solid #000000;" /></a></div>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Dear Aaron, Meghan and Bret,</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Today, instead of teaching others how to write a legacy letter, I’m writing one of my own. On this day before Earth Day 2008, I want to share with you some of my wishes for your futures.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">For me, Earth Day is a time of reflection, a chance to look back at what we’ve learned about our fragile ecosystem since the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yMFILFijFb0">first Earth Day</a> in 1970 and how we’ve done in the years since in making our planet more hospitable for all of its creatures. Since our very existence is intimately intertwined with our stewardship of Earth, I’m hoping that your generation and those that follow will manage our planet’s resources better than mine has.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Frankly, I don’t remember much about that first Earth Day on April 22, 1970. Your mother and I had been married less than three weeks, I was reporting to my first regular duty station in the Air Force and we were struggling to figure out how we could manage to live in Northern California on a second lieutenant’s salary. Although we were relocating to a hotbed of environmental activism, our contribution at the time was pretty much limited to not buying colored toilet paper.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">As a family, we’ve grown to be more responsible over the past 38 years. But even with our relatively modest lifestyle, we would need more than one Earth if everyone lived as we do. And, as more people worldwide attempt to do just that, the strain is showing.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">It is cruelly ironic that U.S. oil production peaked in the same year that Earth Day was born. Up to that point, the United States was the world’s leading oil producer and exporter. In 1970, 93 percent of the world’s energy came from fossil fuels. Although that percentage has dropped to 85 percent today (due mostly to increased use of nuclear power), the world consumes nearly twice as much fossil fuel-based energy than it did in 1970.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Given that fossil fuels are a finite resource in increasing demand and that their carbon dioxide emissions are responsible for many of the world’s environmental problems, it is clear that there is trouble ahead. Considering, too, that the modern global economy was built on cheap oil, international manufacturers that raced to the bottom line in the “boom years,” may find themselves foundering as a new world economy emerges. Despite the obvious, there are some who still view the cost of fuel as the problem rather than a symptom of a far greater problem.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">The 20 million Americans who took to the streets in 1970 got the attention of federal politicians who went on to pass the Clean Air Act and form the Environmental Protection Agency. But government action has been slow and erratic, falling well behind the relentless pace of change of natural forces.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">I’m proud with how each of you has positioned yourself for the challenges that lie ahead. You’re all sensible, responsible, productive members of your communities. I believe that no matter what awaits you, you’ll come up with creative, thoughtful solutions.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">I regret that my generation hasn’t done a better job of managing the precious resources of our planet. Certainly our parents did their part, surviving the Great Depression and turning back the tyrants that threatened global stability in World War II. The world our parents turned over to us was one full of promise and hope. And, although we lived many years with the fear of world nuclear annihilation just the push of a button away, those same years were prosperous ones.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Our parents simply wanted us to have what they didn’t have. We took it and wanted more. And more, and more. As probably the most pampered generation in history, I think we unwittingly created a culture of entitlement where a man’s worth is measured more by what he owns than by his personal code of conduct.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">When songstress Joni Mitchell wrote that “we are stardust,” her lyrical expression was an accurate reflection of <a href="http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/1999/06/990625080416.htm">scientific fact</a>. Everything around us is derived from materials that were on this planet millions of years before humans. The genius of man is that he has been able to take the raw materials provided by nature and transform them into the buildings, roads and iPods that we use today. Even the cheap oil that has sustained us for the last 100 years or so is the result of decaying organic matter.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">So here is what I hope for you, my children, and your descendants:</span></p>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Clean air to keep your lungs clear and your spirits buoyant.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Fresh water to drink, bathe and play in.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Nutritious and readily available food to sustain you.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">A reasonably healthy life, uncluttered by the ravages of disease, toxins and warfare.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">A life partner with which to share the joys and sorrows that will inevitably come your way.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Comfortable shelter to protect you from the elements, to give you safety and refuge in times of stress, and a place where you may rest your body or enjoy the companionship of others.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Friends that will support you in times of need and give you a swift kick in the rear when needed.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Close and cordial relationships with your immediate family members, whose aggregate knowledge reflects the wisdom of generations past.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">The confidence that your own life experience has positioned you to make appropriate decisions concerning your own family’s welfare.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Proper standing in your own community commensurate with your skills, knowledge and personal beliefs.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">A strong spiritual faith that connects you to your natural environment and keeps you centered on those things in your life that truly matter to you.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">That you develop and practice the virtues of compassion, truthfulness and generosity.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">That you find contentment in all you do, that you find it within yourself to accomplish your dreams and that you concentrate on matters within your control and accept what you cannot.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">That you live a full life, true to your own beliefs without doing harm to others.</span></li>
</ul>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">With love always,</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Dad</span><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><br /><br />Photo: Meghan, Aaron and Bret Lehmer by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/7313625@N08/">lwlehmer</a>.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">Author Larry Lehmer's book about Dick Clark and American Bandstand --</span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">  Bandstandland: How Dancing Teenagers Took Over America and Dick Clark Took Over Rock & Roll --</span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">is </span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">available from <a href="https://www.sunburypressstore.com/Bandstandland-9781620060131.htm">Sunbury Press</a></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. His book about the last tour of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens --</span></span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The Day the Music Died: The Last Tour of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens -- </span></span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">is available at </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Day-Music-Died-Bopper-Richie/dp/0825672872/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Amazon</a>.</span></span></span></span></p>environmentFamily historyLegacy lettersLarry Lehmer2019-04-22T13:28:55-05:00Personal history isn't limited to those people in your family tree
https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/passing_it_on/2019/01/it-was-almost-14-years-ago-that-i-started-building-a-personal-history-business-based-on-the-premise-that-every-person-and-bu.html
It was almost 14 years ago that I started building a personal history business based on the premise that every person (and business, group or organization, for that matter) has a story worth saving and sharing. I still fervently believe...<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"> <a class="asset-img-link" href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e2022ad3d4e180200b-pi" style="float: right;"><img alt="Roots" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d834516d4069e2022ad3d4e180200b img-responsive" height="217" src="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e2022ad3d4e180200b-320wi" style="margin: 0px 0px 5px 5px;" title="Roots" width="217" /></a>It was almost 14 years ago that I started building a personal history business based on the premise that every person (and business, group or organization, for that matter) has a story worth saving and sharing. I still fervently believe that, but most family histories are of interest to a relatively small circle of people. Generally, the more well-known you are, the greater the interest in your story.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">That has been brought home to me in recent days around the celebration of Dr. Martin Luther King's birth. The personal histories of two well-known African-Americans whose careers were bolstered by their examination of black heritage were explored, as was Dr. King's legacy itself. Here are summaries and links to five stories I found in the past week to be especially compelling. (With the caution that some of these are news articles that can disappear from cyberspace quickly. Apologies if you're sent to a dead link before I can remove it):</span></p>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Historian Henry Louis Gates, host of the TV series <em>Finding Your Roots</em> on PBS, talks about his own family history in <a href="https://www.wfae.org/post/historian-henry-louis-gates-jr-dna-testing-and-finding-his-own-roots#stream/0">this interview</a> with Terry Gross at PBS station WHYY in Philadelphia. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: black;">Forty years after the popular TV mini-series <em>Roots</em> first appeared on television, Katina Rankin of Memphis TV station WATN went to <em>Roots</em> author Alex Haley's childhood home in Henning, Tenn., to explore his own family history. This is <a href="https://www.localmemphis.com/news/local-news/hidden-history-the-roots-of-groundbreaking-author-alex-haley/1714416988">her report</a>.<br /></span></span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: black;">She's just 10 years old, but Yolanda King is well aware of her grandfather's legacy. But MLK's granddaughter is already something of a public figure, worthy of <a href="https://www.wsav.com/honoring-mlk-jr-/-his-words-are-powerful-mlk-s-granddaughter-talks-about-his-legacy/1714287799">this interview</a> by NBC's Rehema Ellis.</span></span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: black;">When reporter Keith Oppenheim of Vermont Public Radio learned that his mother shared a birthday with Dr. King, he vowed to learn more about the man who was assassinated when young Oppenheim was just 7 years old. Here's <a href="http://digital.vpr.net/post/oppenheim-mlk-memory#stream/0">his story</a>.</span></span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: black;">Writer Dani Shapiro was so shocked by what she learned from her DNA test that she wrote a memoir about it, <em>Inheritance: A Memoir Of Genealogy, Paternity, And Love</em>. Read more about <a href="http://www.wvik.org/post/inheritance-author-genetic-test-unravels-family-history-identity#stream/0">her story</a></span></span></span><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">Author Larry Lehmer's book about Dick Clark and American Bandstand --</span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">  Bandstandland: How Dancing Teenagers Took Over America and Dick Clark Took Over Rock & Roll --</span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">is </span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">available from <a href="https://www.sunburypressstore.com/Bandstandland-9781620060131.htm">Sunbury Press</a></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. His book about the last tour of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens --</span></span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The Day the Music Died: The Last Tour of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens -- </span></span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">is available at </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Day-Music-Died-Bopper-Richie/dp/0825672872/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Amazon</a>.</span></span></span></span></span></li>
</ul>Larry Lehmer2019-01-22T10:30:04-06:00Fond remembrances of a true Railroad Man from Council Bluffs
https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/passing_it_on/2018/11/walter-b-lehmer-was-a-railroad-man-the-capitalization-is-no-mistake-walter-better-known-as-jack-to-most-was-my-dad-and-a.html
Walter B. Lehmer was a Railroad Man. The capitalization is no mistake. Walter, better known as Jack to most, was my dad and a loyal employee of Union Pacific Railroad throughout his working career, which spanned the better part of...<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"> <a class="asset-img-link" href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e2022ad3bcefa7200b-pi" style="float: right;"><img alt="1966-03 Omaha Union Station Jack Lehmer in car foreman's office" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d834516d4069e2022ad3bcefa7200b img-responsive" height="149" src="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e2022ad3bcefa7200b-320wi" style="margin: 0px 0px 5px 5px;" title="1966-03 Omaha Union Station Jack Lehmer in car foreman's office" width="230" /></a>Walter B. Lehmer was a Railroad Man. The capitalization is no mistake. Walter, better known as Jack to most, was my dad and a loyal employee of Union Pacific Railroad throughout his working career, which spanned the better part of four decades.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">It's no exaggeration to say that railroads were the lifeblood of my hometown of Council Bluffs, Iowa. From the time President Abraham Lincoln stood on a bluff and pronounced Council Bluffs as the eastern terminus for the country's first transcontinental railroad, the iron horse was the town's economic engine. Growing up in the 1950s, the railroad culture was ubiquitous. You couldn't expect to cross town without being delayed by a train of some sort. The congestion on the city's main drag was alleviated some by a long-awaited viaduct that crossed dozens of tracks in the mid-1950s, but you were reminded of the industry's influence at every turn.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">If you rode a bus (and many of us in the 1950s did), you probably knew that the Fifth Avenue line made a slight detour on 21st street, turning south towards the Golden Spike monument. The monument (which has remained standing well after its 1939 construction as part of the promotion for the film, <em>Union Pacific</em>), wasn't the destination, however. In my youth, it was delivery of workers to the blocks-long mail handling center that was a joint venture of the U.S. Post Office and Union Pacific. Prior to that, the area had been home to a magnificent 200-room hotel and restaurant catering to the U.P.'s many passengers. It was while working in the restaurant that my grandmother met my grandfather.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">For decades, the Omaha & Council Bluffs Street Railway Company shuttled passengers around the city, to Lake Manawa and to the ferries that once delivered passengers to the Nebraska side of the Missouri River. Though it was long gone before our family moved to the southwest corner of 28th Street and Avenue E in 1948, we were told that a trolley line once ran north on 28th Street to the river, where, presumably, it connected with the historic double-swing Illinois Central bridge, a major rail connector between Iowa and Nebraska.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">As you might expect, Council Bluffs was full of railroad men, especially, it seemed, on the west side of town where most of our friends and relatives lived. Dad came by his railroad roots honestly. His dad was a boilermaker and machinist who carried a sliver of metal in one of his eyes to his grave, the result of a work accident at the Union Pacific shops. Dad's paternal grandfather never worked for the railroad, but he came close. After closing up his blacksmith shop in North Bend, Nebraska, Cal Lehmer followed his son to Council Bluffs, taking a job with Griffin Wheel Company, one of the nation's biggest producers of iron railway wheels.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Nearly every branch of our family tree included a railroad employee or two, mostly with the Union Pacific. Both of my brothers and I worked for U.P. at one time or another. My work at Union Station as mail handler, coach cleaner and carman's helper made it possible for me to get through college. My youngest brother, Dave, stuck it out for an entire career, retiring from Union Pacific. Nepotism wasn't only practiced at U.P., it was practically mandatory.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Dad held a few other jobs after graduating from high school. The first was pushing wheat cereal for Tommy Tucker Cereal Company, an enterprise (and job) that didn't last long. Then came stints at Connolly and Wheeler drug stores where he dished up banana splits and cherry phosphates. His next job took him west, to 112th and Center streets in Omaha, with the Dutch Mill Oil Company, where his long work days and lack of a car, made him a temporary resident, taking over one of the cabins in the cabin camp (a forerunner of motels). He took his meals in the complex's restaurant and pocketed a neat $50 a month for his efforts. He made enough to buy his first car -- a 1931 Model A coupe -- and take a job closer to home at Omaha Standard, where he was building truck bodies when the U.P. called.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"In those days you didn’t just go to work for the railroad," Dad explained. "You put in an application. If you had a relative working there, you had to have a relative, then you could go to work. And they called me, so I went to work over there." <br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">That was in April 1941. Dad was eight months into his four-year apprenticeship when the Japanese invaded Pearl Harbor.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"I was 21 years old and I knew I was bye-bye," Dad said. "I sold my car so I wouldn’t have to mess with it later. The railroad union came and told us that we were working for an essential industry and we weren’t going to get drafted. That’s when we went ahead and got married"</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Mom and Dad eloped on Aug. 8, 1942. Then Uncle Sam threw a knuckleball.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"I got called to the Army," Dad said. "I had to take a physical. I came out of the doctor’s office and went over to the Navy recruiting office and said 'I just took a physical for the Army and I don’t want to go to the Army.' He said, 'You don’t have to. Go into Sea Bees.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">So, for the next three years the apprenticeship was put on hold and Dad served as a storekeeper in the U.S. Navy, half of that time in the South Pacific. As he and Mom waited out the late stages of pregnancy in Ventura, Calif., after his discharge in October 1945, Dad had to make a decision: go to work in the Southern California oilfields or return to Iowa and the railroad.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"I took a job out there," Dad said. "She [Mom] couldn’t travel for a month. The people that we rented a house from, he worked in the oil fields. He was a supervisor up there and he got me that job and I could have stayed. I had another offer, too. I could have gone to work for a wholesale auto parts company because of my storekeeper rating. I thought about it quite a bit whether I wanted to stay in California or come back to the railroad. You were the only grandchild on her side and kind of a little pressure on us to come back. I probably made the right move."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Dad resumed his career as a Railroad Man in late 1945. He was given one-year credit towards his apprenticeship due to his military service and by the time he was given journeyman status on April 7, 1948, he was already set up to be a foreman.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">In May 1950, Dad was sent to Chicago to help inspect during construction of 50 new U.P. passenger cars. I spent part of that summer in Chicago before starting school in Council Bluffs.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"You learned a lot of things there," Dad said. "We had an apartment in the hotel. You learned that brown cows gave chocolate milk. Luke Appling lived in the same building. Wasn’t he the White Sox shortstop? You talked to him; he talked to you."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, I remember Dad working odd shifts as he built on his career. For a brief time, our careers overlapped at Omaha's Union Station, which I wrote a bit about <a href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/passing_it_on/2017/11/memories-of-my-father-on-his-birthday-httpswhenwordsmattertypepadcompassing_it_on200908from-the-vault-photog.html">here</a>. But, during my senior year in high school, his career threatened to derail my own plans.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">The way I remember it, sometime during my junior year of high school, Dad had the chance to accept the General Car Foreman's job at Green River, Wyoming. The General Car Foreman job is a big one in the railroad business and it was definitely a promotion. When I got wind of it, I adamantly declared that I wasn't going. I'd stay with relatives until I finished high school, I said. Whether Dad turned down the job or whether it was just floated as a possibility, I'll never know, but Dad didn't go.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Instead, he joined the U.P. staff a few years later, a major promotion into the executive ranks. The job meant a lot of travel for Dad, sometimes out of the country, primarily to direct recovery efforts after derailments, but some other duties that he wasn't quite as comfortable with.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Dad was doubtless a solid member of the U.P. staff. As straight an arrow as there ever was, he was a strict by-the-book guy. I'm sure this was a factor in what I think was the biggest assignment of his career: Escorting the reclusive Howard Hughes to the West Coast.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Dad was the railroad's official representative on the rail journey, which left Omaha headed for Los Angeles in the dead of night. Hughes had his own rail car in those days and Dad followed in a U.P. private car. The Hughes contingent pulled a sleight of hand maneuver when it had the train stopped in the Nevada desert and someone thought to be Hughes was carried from the train and placed in a waiting ambulance, apparently headed to Las Vegas.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">The train continued on to Los Angeles, where a cadre of inquisitive journalists sat in waiting. As the railroad's official representative, Dad was peppered with questions. Since he was as in the dark as anyone, he had nothing to say. I'm pretty sure there's film sitting in TV archives somewhere of my frustrated father repeating "no comment" to every question. The situation was unnerving and he was soon off the staff, promoted to his dream job: General Car Foreman in Council Bluffs. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">He oversaw the Union Pacific rail yards in Council Bluffs for the last 13 years of his career. No one was more surprised than me when he opted to retire in 1981 at the age of 60. As a true Railroad Man I just expected him to go on forever. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">He, obviously had other plans. For the next 27 years, he and Mom played golf, attended Sea Bee reunions, doted on grand-kids and great grand-kids and piled on the miles on a succession of motor homes, flitting from one country music jam session to another.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Retirement for my parents was pretty much a resumption of their five-month courtship in 1942, when they were both members of a roller skating club that hit all the hot rinks in Western Iowa.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">As my Dad wrote to Mom in May 1942 when he was visiting an uncle in Long Beach, Calif.: “You are the only one to whom I have written every day. Gee whiz I wish you were here. I saw one roller rink last night in North Long Beach and from the bus it looked like a classy affair. I intend to skate and will I ever miss my waltzing and 2 step partner."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: tahoma, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Photo: Walter B. Lehmer in his role as General Car Foreman of Council Bluffs, Iowa</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">Author Larry Lehmer's book about Dick Clark and American Bandstand --</span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">  Bandstandland: How Dancing Teenagers Took Over America and Dick Clark Took Over Rock & Roll --</span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">is </span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">available from <a href="https://www.sunburypressstore.com/Bandstandland-9781620060131.htm">Sunbury Press</a></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. His book about the last tour of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens --</span></span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The Day the Music Died: The Last Tour of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens -- </span></span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">is available at </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Day-Music-Died-Bopper-Richie/dp/0825672872/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Amazon</a>.</span></span></span></p>
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<p> </p>Larry Lehmer2018-11-01T15:12:09-05:00Remembering Jim Pollock: A good friend, gone too soon
https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/passing_it_on/2018/04/here-it-is-another-mid-april-in-iowa-the-weather-toggling-between-snowy-and-slippery-and-drizzly-and-gloomy-and-im-missing.html
Here it is, another mid-April in Iowa, the weather toggling between snowy and slippery and drizzly and gloomy. And I'm missing an old friend, Jim Pollock, gone these six years now. For years Jim and I were co-workers at The...<p><span style="font-family: times\ new\ roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"> <a class="asset-img-link" href="http://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e201b7c961fdcd970b-pi" style="float: right;"><img alt="Jim Pollock" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d834516d4069e201b7c961fdcd970b img-responsive" src="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e201b7c961fdcd970b-320wi" style="margin: 0px 0px 5px 5px;" title="Jim Pollock" /></a></span><span style="font-family: times\ new\ roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Here it is, another mid-April in Iowa, the weather toggling between snowy and slippery and drizzly and gloomy. And I'm missing an old friend, Jim Pollock, gone these six years now.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times\ new\ roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">For years Jim and I were co-workers at <em>The Des Moines Register</em>. Actually, Jim was one of the first people I met when I showed up for work on <em>The Register</em>'s sports copy desk the afternoon of May 13, 1981. To the rest of the world that was the day the pope was shot. For me, it was the day I started working alongside John Sotak, the Daves -  Randall,  Reynolds and Stockdale - Bill Huffman, John Millea, Bob Spurgeon and Jim Pollock.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times\ new\ roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">As I would quickly learn, it was an all-star crew, editors snatched up from smaller Iowa papers blended with young local talent, many from Des Moines' Drake University's fine journalism program. Despite being the most soft-spoken of the team, Jim stood out for his self-deprecating humor, wry wit and uncanny ability to cut to the core of any issue. He laid bare Iowa tropes like the myth that the weather gods perpetually jinxed the girls' state basketball tournament with an unseemly string of blizzards. "Maybe it's because the tournament is in February in Iowa," he scoffed.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times\ new\ roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">You can count on one hand the number of <em>Register</em> co-workers I've had to dinner at my house. Jim was one. He and his wife, Nola, were relative newlyweds and childless when they arrived for dinner. My wife Linda and I thought we might have convinced them to remain childless after supping with us and our brood of three children ranging in age from 2 to 11 at the time, but Jim and Nola went on to have three great kids of their own.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times\ new\ roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Jim, a small-town boy from State Center, Iowa, settled with his family in the tiny exurban community of Bondurant, which he affectionately referred to as the "Bondo metroplex." Our careers at <em>The Register</em> diverged in the mid-1980s when newsroom managers recognized Jim's ability to transform the most humdrum news story into concise, engaging prose. So, during a newsroom reorganization, Jim was moved into a reporting role. He quickly staked out ownership of one of the best-read and most-anticipated feature stories of the year, an annual compilation of quirky "Below the Fold" stories, those that in newspaper lingo weren't of sufficient news value to be seen on a newsstand. Of course, in Jim's hands, they were must-reads.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times\ new\ roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">I remained in sports, which, for various reasons, is treated in most newsrooms as something of an anomaly. At <em>The Register</em>, once a statewide paper that reported sports scores from every high school in the state, the sports department was a busy (and noisy) place on high school game nights. As a result, <em>The Register</em> eventually relocated sports to a room apart from the main newsroom. With the physical separation, plus the fact that Jim worked mostly days and I frequently worked nights, we seldom saw each other for several years.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times\ new\ roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Eventually, Jim left <em>The Register</em> and took a job at Meredith, a magazine publisher based in Des Moines. He worked for a financial magazine for a while then joined the staff of <em>Wood</em> magazine, a good fit for Jim, an accomplished woodworker. In 2004, he returned to news as the managing editor at <em>The Business Record</em>, Des Moines' preeminent business publication.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times\ new\ roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">After leaving <em>The Register</em>, Jim and I would get together for an occasional lunch, maybe 2-3 times a year. They were like any lunches with friends. We talked about family, mutual acquaintances and how the world was changing. Jim seemed genuinely perplexed by the gentrification movement that was building steam in downtown Des Moines. "Who's going to live in all these places?" he'd ask. Jim was one of the few people who knew of my active job search in the early 2000s, including near misses at jobs with Younkers, Iowa Cultural Affairs and the <em>Omaha World-Herald</em>. He very nearly landed me a job at Meredith, too, as detailed in <a href="%20http://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/life_in_the_slow_lane/2014/02/heres-a-story-about-a-story-that-nearly-landed-me-a-good-job.html">this blog post</a>.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times\ new\ roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Jim was among the first to know when I decided to launch my own personal history business in 2005. As I was setting up my home office, Jim helped me transport a heavy oak desk in his truck from the furniture place up a flight of stairs to my office, all for the cost of a lunch. A real bargain.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times\ new\ roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">It was with great sadness that I learned Jim was sick in April 2012. His illness advanced quickly and he was in hospice and dead before I could visit him.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times\ new\ roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">I've lost a lot of <em>Register</em> friends over the years, but Jim's death has affected me the most. It's hard for me to explain. We didn't see each other often, but each meeting was memorable, if for its ordinariness. It's kind of how I remember my family growing up. There are many memorable events, sure, but what I remember most easily are family dinners where my mom and dad, brothers Ron and Dave are around the table discussing our day. Our dog, Rusty, is begging for scraps from the table. Nothing more specific than that, just a feeling.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times\ new\ roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">After Jim died, <em>The Business Record</em> published a book of Jim's <em>Transition</em> columns. Nola graciously sent me copy and, while some of the columns are now dated, Jim's easy wit and fluid style bring a smile to my face every time I read one. Here's an excerpt from Jan. 9, 2006, where Jim writes about selling the family farm after 137 years:</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times\ new\ roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">"South of the driveway, submerged in thick grass and weed, is a little chunk of concrete with my older sister's name on it. It was originally the base of a clothesline post, but when a visitor found it, she gently asked if Judy was the name of a family pet. No, I said, that's my sister; she's in Ames. That really threw her, because she thought it was a gave marker. That's right, I said. In my family, we believe that when you die, you go to Ames."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times\ new\ roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Jim was buried In Ashton Cemetery in rural Jasper County. We visited Jim's grave shortly after burial. As the photo shows, I left a pica pole (newspeople know what that is) at the gravesite to commemorate his service to journalism. It's a small cemetery. So remote, So quiet. So beautiful. So perfect.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times\ new\ roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"> <a class="asset-img-link" href="http://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e201bb0a0509a2970d-pi"><img alt="DSC_0014" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d834516d4069e201bb0a0509a2970d img-responsive" height="261" src="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e201bb0a0509a2970d-320wi" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="DSC_0014" width="392" /></a><br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">Author Larry Lehmer's book about Dick Clark and American Bandstand --</span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">  Bandstandland: How Dancing Teenagers Took Over America and Dick Clark Took Over Rock & Roll --</span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">is </span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">available from <a href="https://www.sunburypressstore.com/Bandstandland-9781620060131.htm">Sunbury Press</a></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. His book about the last tour of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens --</span></span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The Day the Music Died: The Last Tour of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens -- </span></span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">is available at </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Day-Music-Died-Bopper-Richie/dp/0825672872/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Amazon</a>.</span></span></span></p>Larry Lehmer2018-04-18T12:35:19-05:00Remembering Dad on the 97th anniversary of his birth
https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/passing_it_on/2017/11/memories-of-my-father-on-his-birthday.html
Today would be my dad's 97th birthday. Although he died nearly four years ago, dad, Walter B. Lehmer, lived to see 93 of those birthdays, 66 of them while married to my mother. Dad and I were not particularly close....<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"> <a class="asset-img-link" href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e201b8d2c0c935970c-pi" style="float: right;"><img alt="1960s early Jack Lehmer mows law Elsie L advises" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d834516d4069e201b8d2c0c935970c img-responsive" src="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/.a/6a00d834516d4069e201b8d2c0c935970c-320wi" style="margin: 0px 0px 5px 5px;" title="1960s early Jack Lehmer mows law Elsie L advises" /></a>Today would be my dad's 97th birthday. Although he died nearly four years ago, dad, Walter B. Lehmer, lived to see 93 of those birthdays, 66 of them while married to my mother.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Dad and I were not particularly close. In fact, it was mostly an "oil and water" relationship in the years we lived under the same roof. (That roof, incidentally, literally topped <a href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/passing_it_on/2014/01/the-house-that-jack-built.html">"the house that Jack built"</a>). But, as time went on and I became a parent myself, I gained a greater appreciation for what he did for his family. </span><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">As the first born of a couple of first-borns themselves, we each had a bit of an independent streak. Considering that my parents were children of The Great Depression and I was of the much more prosperous post World War II generation, it was, perhaps, inevitable that we wouldn't always see things eye to eye. Of course, I lost most clashes with Dad, many of them ending with "because I say so."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">But I truly believe that he always had the best interests of his children at heart.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">As I alluded to earlier, Dad built his own house at a time when his career with Union Pacific Railroad was just starting to blossom. Money had to be tight when he bought truckloads of lumber reclaimed from old boxcars for sub flooring. Frugality was the norm through much of the early years as he toiled as a carman before rising to the foreman ranks. My brothers and I took turns sitting on a stool in the basement while he buzz cut our hair. He took cheese sandwiches to work during second and third tricks (evening and overnight shifts), often bringing home half to share with his boys.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">But he also brought us a dog just because, well, boys need a dog (and, truthfully, because Mom fell in love with this particular one). This was the same man who turned down a postwar job in the California oilfields so Mom could return to Iowa and show off her brand-new baby (me). One of my favorite (long lost) home movies is of Dad with his young sons sitting at a small table in a closet pretending to have a picnic, drinking from small metal cups that sat on small metal saucers. It sounds suspiciously like tea time, but I doubt that is what we rambunctious boys called it.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Dad wasn't much into sports although he did enjoy bowling and golf as an older adult. Nevertheless, when my church little league team needed a coach, he stepped up. In the summer of 1957, he took my brothers and me on a day train trip to Kansas City so we could see a major league baseball game. (It wasn't much of a game, Boston beating Kansas City, 16-0, but I did get to see Ted Williams in his final season). Ironically, it was softball that brought my parents together. They met when Dad was hitting grounders to his sister Phyllis' team, the same team Mom played for.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">I like to say that I worked my way through college, but most of that work was because of Dad. His railroad connections got me jobs as a mail handler in Council Bluffs and Omaha and a variety of jobs at Omaha's Union Station in the mid-1960s. My last railroad job was as a full-time, union dues-paying,  midnight to 8 a.m. coach cleaner while still a full-time student at Omaha University. I spent much of those two years sleeping in my car between classes. I also spent a couple hours each night sleeping on the job.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">A coach cleaner's job at Union Station in those days didn't consist of cleaning coaches at all. Our job was to put drinking water in passenger cars. As the train pulled into the station, we stood at its side, trying to knock down the handles that would release the air pressure from the water tanks as the train passed. This saved time, since a nearly empty tank took a while to bleed off. Then we drug hoses from pits and filled them up. It was actually an artful ballet when trains were long and you had to work more than one hose among several cars.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">As a major stop on UP's main east-west route, we typically handled up to six trains each night. If they were on time, the last train would rumble through around 4 a.m. If the train was westbound, they would typically add cars. Conversely, cars would be cut from eastbound trains and shunted onto stub tracks so passengers could continue sleeping, if they wished. Few passengers on the coach cars did, though. Typically, one of the coach cleaners would check out the coach cars on the stub, under the guise of cleaning, which was actually done later in the day in Council Bluffs, across the Missouri River. What he was really doing, though, was looking for an empty coach. If one was found, most of the workers whose work day was essentially over, settled in for a nap. At least one of us would remain in the work shanty in case the rest of needed to be summoned back to work. Or woke up before our shift ended.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">One day no one woke me. It was only the jostling movement that woke me, just before the switch engine pulling the cars toward Council Bluffs reached the bridge. I caught the eye of a switchman, got off the train and picked my way through the rocky track bed back to the station and the shanty. Of course, the third trick guys were long gone and I was greeted by a host of mostly unfamiliar faces of the day crew as I sheepishly approached my locker. I'm sure I made some lame excuse, but e</span><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">veryone knew what had happened. I'm sure that included my dad, the day foreman that particular day, who just looked up briefly from his desk in his adjoining office.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Although he must have been embarrassed to learn that his son had been literally sleeping on the job and pretty much flaunted it in front of people he had the duty of supervising, we never talked about it. My railroad career ended not long after that incident and Dad went on to higher management positions on the U.P. staff (where he once escorted Howard Hughes to the West Coast) and as General Car Foreman of Council Bluffs, which is a much bigger deal than it sounds.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">He retired within weeks of my moving to Des Moines in 1981 and our contacts became even less frequent than before. After Mom died in 2008, it became clear that Dad's mild dementia was getting worse. My brothers Ron and Dave assumed most caretaker duties for Dad in his later years but I would occasionally make the 125-mile west to take him to medical appointments. Even as his dementia worsened, I was pleased that he always knew who I was, often introducing me to others as "my son, Larry." Sometimes he'd introduce me to the same person twice within minutes.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">Dad's birthdate of Nov. 22 was usurped on his 43rd birthday in 1963 by the terrible events in Dallas, Texas, but I always remember it for what it meant to me as I was growing up -- that Walter B. "Jack" Lehmer was one day younger than Stan Musial. To a young baseball card collector from Council Bluffs, Iowa, that meant something.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;">P.S. <a href="https://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/passing_it_on/2009/08/from-the-vault-photographic-memories-of-my-familys-past.html">Here's a picture</a> of my grandparents taken at their home just a few months before Dad was born. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times new roman, times; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">Author Larry Lehmer's book about Dick Clark and American Bandstand --</span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">  Bandstandland: How Dancing Teenagers Took Over America and Dick Clark Took Over Rock & Roll --</span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva; font-size: 12pt;">is </span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">available from <a href="https://www.sunburypressstore.com/Bandstandland-9781620060131.htm">Sunbury Press</a></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. His book about the last tour of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens --</span></span><em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The Day the Music Died: The Last Tour of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens -- </span></span></em><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">is available at </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana, geneva;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Day-Music-Died-Bopper-Richie/dp/0825672872/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Amazon</a>.</span></span></span></p>
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<p> </p>Larry Lehmer2017-11-22T11:21:42-06:00