"Sam's Gift" Submission #5

Madrid, Iowa - Early 1970

It must have been early 1970. Winter. I woke up on a Saturday morning and was greeted with blanket of fresh snow on the ground. Before I could even choke down a bowl of cereal or watch a "carntoon," Sam was beating on my front door.

He looked like a little mixed and matched Eskimo... lots of layers of clothing in various sizes and colors. Snow boots, many sizes too big for him. It appeared he was posing as the male half of the famous American Gothic painting but instead of a pitchfork, he was holding a snow shovel.

He suggested that we could make some money if we knocked on the doors of our neighbors and asked if we could shovel their sidewalks and driveways for cash. Now this was an odd concept for a California boy but I was certainly game if it meant monetary gain which Sam assured me it did.

Sam was right.

Before noon, we had combined for a $20 jackpot...
ten bucks each!

Should I tuck it away in my piggy bank and save it? Not on your life! We were headed downtown to the Dime Store on 2nd Avenue. Candy galore!

I was a kid on a mission as I methodically ran my eyes across the racks of candy. Ten dollars worth of candy in 1970 was almost equivalent to a pillow case of treats on Halloween. I was so focused on the task at hand that it wasn't until I loaded the counter with my choices, that I noticed Sam hadn't picked up a thing.

With great curiosity, I asked him, "Aren't you going to buy anything?"

"Yes." He replied. "But not here."

Knowing the handful of retail establishments in Madrid, I could not imagine where he wanted to spend his hard earned money but I was about to find out.

Lucas Hardware was a few blocks east of the Dime Store. I had never darkened its doors. I mean...

why would I? I had just turned 11 and there was little reason that a kid my age would have any need for tools or nails or whatever else they sold in that place.

Sam knew exactly what he wanted. He told me that he wanted to buy something for his dad. He almost seemed embarrassed by the admission but my thought was, "At least you have a dad."

He scanned the contents of a well lit, glass enclosed case of pocket knives and settled on a nice, pearl handled one. This single purchase consumed just about every cent of his ten dollars. Sam was proud of  his choice.

He had resisted the selfish lure of buying enough candy to put himself into a sugar induced coma in favor of blowing his entire earnings on a gift for his father. I thought that was dumb and cool at the same time.

Sam was so excited, he ran all the way home as I attempted to keep up with him, while placing a stranglehold on my bag of candy. Out of breath... we reached his house.

Sam motioned for me to follow him as he slowly opened the front door to his house. Coming from the bright, white snow, illuminated by an afternoon sun, into the dark living room of the Smiley home was quite an adjustment for the eyes.

As usual, there were only two things that lent any light to the dungeon-like living room... the flickering screen of a small television and the subtle glow of Mr. Smiley's cigarette.

We stood just inside the door, eyes slowly adjusting. We were not greeted by Sam's dad. We weren't acknowledged in any way. Not even a glance in our direction.

Uncomfortable and intimidated...VERY intimidated. I wanted to bolt.

"C'mon Sam!" I thought. "Give him the knife and let's get out of here!"

Sam slowly and cautiously approached his dad as if he were approaching a rattlesnake. Mr. Smiley kept his eyes glued to the television.

"I bought you something, dad." Sam said as he handed him the box.

Mr. Smiley appeared annoyed as he took the box and opened it. He took the knife out of the box and stared at it for a few second before putting it back in the box.

He looked at Sam as he tossed the box onto the coffee table and said, "What the hell am I supposed to do with that?"

If Sam had an answer to his dad's question, he thought it best to keep his thoughts private.

Mr. Smiley's gaze returned to the TV as he took a long hit on his cigarette. Once again, Sam and I felt invisible and insignificant.

After what felt like an eternity, Sam reached down, picked up the knife and headed out the front door. I was right on his heels.

In my mind, I was weighing the hypothetical options of having a dad like that or having no dad at all. At that exact point in time, I thought my circumstances were better than Sam's.

As we left his house in the vast brightness of the day, I looked at Sam and before I could say a word, he forced a smile and said, "Good. I wanted to keep the knife for myself anyway." We both knew that was lie but I understood perfectly and smiled back at him and said, "I know."

Was it an isolated event? Maybe. Am I being too harsh right now with a memory from 44 years ago? Possibly.

All I know is that this episode has stuck with me for my entire life. As an 11-year-old, I couldn't totally process what had just happened. I just knew that it didn't feel right. I was scared and uneasy and I felt deep sympathy for my friend.

I often wondered whatever happened to Sam. It wasn't until years later that I found out...

"Welcome to the Neighborhood" Submission #4

Madrid, Iowa - July 1969

It was the middle of an Iowa summer... hot... humid... and the annoying buzz of locusts filled the air. Bruce and I were in the backyard. We had two large walnut trees with a single plank of wood wedged between them forming a bench. A homemade swing hung from a sturdy branch.

Under the canopy of branches and leaves from the large and mature trees, we set about making a fort out of the moving boxes. We cut out windows to allow air into our corrugated construction and carved passage ways into the tubular boxes that became hallways to other sections. It took us hours to complete.

We were so proud of our efforts that we briefly considered living in our cardboard condo until Bruce brought up the fact that there were tornadoes in Iowa and that it snowed in Iowa... and that our new home just might not stand up to such weather conditions. Oh well... we'd just enjoy it while we could.

As we sat in the cramped quarters wondering what to do next, our thoughts were interrupted by a barrage of rocks pelting our humble abode. We were under attack! Who had launched this assault? Was it my mom? Couldn't be. She couldn't throw... I mean... she couldn't chuck rocks with that sort of velocity and accuracy.

 Turns out that the offensive was Sam Smiley's way of welcoming us to the neighborhood. The Smiley's lived next door. Five kids. Two boys and three girls.

The Smiley boys, Sam and Rod, became my first friends in Iowa. They were as different as night and day.

Rod was quiet. A very nice kid. Very low-key and shy. Stable and guarded. He didn't seem to be too wrapped up in popularity, fashion, sports or the opposite sex. He loved to get up at a ridiculously early hour on Saturday mornings to watch hours of "carntoons" as he called them. His daily uniform was jeans and a white t-shirt that was a size too small. He kept life simple.

Sam, on the other hand, was loud, energetic and impulsive. The rock thrower! Sam was the funniest kid that I had ever met. It wasn't as if he was attempting to be a comedian, he was just naturally funny. Sometimes, we would be in the street playing football or tag and I would look down and notice that Sam was wearing rubber baseball cleats. The cleats just happened to be near him when he got the impulse to play outside. So he slipped them on and away he went. And talk about an enviable talent, he could burp the entire alphabet in a single belch. What kid wouldn't like a guy like that? If you didn't grow up with a "Sam Smiley" in your neighborhood, then you missed out.

As an adult, I have learned that many who entertain us with their comedic genius, have an unpleasant history or grew up in some tough circumstances. Not all funny people share this background but many, many do. It makes me wonder about Sam and it conjures up some memories that held little significance as they unfolded more than 40 years ago but give me pause today.

It makes me think of that wintery Saturday morning when we woke up to a deep, blanket of snow on the ground...

"Who's Moving?" Submission #3

Lakewood, California - Madrid, Iowa - Spring/Summer 1969

Almost immediately after my dad passed away, my mom made the decision to move us back to Iowa. Home. Well... her home. My home was California, the only place I knew.

Grandma Harris, mom and me. Circa 1966

This decision was heavily influenced by my grandma Harris... mom's mom. She was getting up in age
and maybe saw this as an opportunity to have us take care of her. And... she did, in fact, live with us after we moved.

So let's take an inventory. Who exactly would be uprooted and moved halfway across the country? Not Barb. She had decided to reconcile with her husband and stay in California. Butch had been granted an honorable discharge from the Army and would shortly thereafter get engaged and then married. Bob was 19 and completely capable of making his own decisions. He stayed. Bill was about to start his senior year in high school and despite his protestations, Mom laid down the law that he would be moving back to Iowa with us... which he did. A couple months later, he was back in California.

Well... that left Mom, my cousin Bruce and me on the Iowa roster. We were to finish out the school year and then be in Iowa by July. 2-1/2 months left in California. 2-1/2 months left to spend with my brothers and sister. 2-1/2 months left to spend with my friends and girlfriend.

Girlfriend? Yes! I had recently discovered the opposite gender and I liked what I had found. Well... as much as a 10-year-old boy could like a relationship such as this. Carolyn Hulse lived two doors down from me. Not only did she write a sad poem about me leaving but she organized a little song and dance routine with our friends, Keri McCready and Wendy Barker, and performed it for me. A "send-off" of sorts. Awkward. VERY awkward! But I was flattered nonetheless.

So long California! I hope we meet up again someday!

Madrid, Iowa - July 1969

Madrid Train Station

An old brick house on the corner of Union and 21st Street. 21st Street? I don't think this town has 21 streets! Anyway... this house, built within the first few years of the twentieth century, became our place of abode. It had one bathroom that was situated between two bedrooms. In other words, guests would have to navigate their way through a bedroom in order to use the restroom. We had a musty basement only partially paved with cement and a still functional coal shoot.

Madrid water tower... across from Grandma Munson's house

Madrid, Iowa... population just over two-thousand souls. A far cry from the concrete jungles of Los Angeles. This was definitely a new and unfamiliar world for me.

We had vacationed in Madrid once when I was six or seven years old. A few things had made an impression on me during that visit. 1) I didn't know what it was at the time, but I felt the overbearing humidity. 2) All of my cousins and most other kids seemed to have nicknames... Dunce, Mapo, Peta, etc. 3) They seemed to speak a slightly different language... like calling my bottle of soda, a bottle of pop. And when we were playing catch with a baseball, they didn't say, "Throw it here," they said "Chuck it here." Odd. 4) I was frightened by the late summer screeching of locusts. 5) My dad and his buddies were in heaven when they were at the Des Moines River with a beer in one hand and a fishing pole in the other.

When you stop and think about it, life had change dramatically and abruptly for this little 10-year-old boy. But kids are typically pretty resilient and enjoy a good adventure and this move was certainly an adventure.

"Dealing With Death" Submission #2

April 22, 1969... Lakewood, California

You know how when you are awakened from a deep sleep and your mind starts to rapidly process information that eventually brings you to reality? Questions like, "Where am I?" begin to flood your mind. "What day is it?" "What is going on today?" What happened last night?"

That last question: "What happened last night?" That explained why I was awakened to the sound of my sister crying as she entered my room in the early morning hours of April 22nd, 1969.

She didn't have to tell me why she was crying. I knew, Dad died. The 10 year old boy who hadn't realized the seriousness of cancer had finally figured it out. Cancer was serious. Cancer killed my dad.

After she told me, she left my room and I sat on my bed for a few minutes, processing what I had just been told. "Dad's dead. My dad is dead. Dad is really dead." I repeated these phrases in my mind as though I were trying to convince myself that it was really true. It didn't sound right. It didn't feel right. It was too final. It was too foreign. Death. For the first time in my life... I was experiencing the passing of someone close to me and I had no clue how to handle it.

Eventually, I got up and made my way down the hall. Bill was in the bathroom and as I walked through the door, he grabbed me and hugged me. I started to cry but I really wasn't sure why. I know that sounds odd, but it was true.

I felt the somberness of the moment but my mind was still in the processing mode. My dad died but what does that mean to me?  Does the world now stop for my family? I had just signed up for baseball but would I still play? When would I go back to school and will the kids know that I lost my dad? Will they treat me differently? How much would I miss him? Would I miss him at all?

Strange but honest thoughts. That's what occupied my mind. Everyone was crying and so I did too... in compliance with expectation.

I missed my dad for all the wrong reasons during the ensuing several years. Selfish reasons. I wished he hadn't died as I sat in class later that 4th grade year when my classmates all made Father's Day cards and I just doodled on my paper, hoping that no one noticed. Or like in the 6th grade when our teacher went around the class asking each student about their father's occupation. I was overwhelmed with anxiety and fear as it came to my turn. With my eyes looking down at my desk, I quietly said, "Pass."

I was selfishly embarrassed about his death. Not a very noble admission but a truthful one.

Jeana and I, 1980

I miss my father tremendously today and I think I miss him for the right reasons now. I miss him because I don't think I ever really got to know him. I grew up with some personal characteristics that I despise and that I know he would have worked to correct. He was a disciplinarian. To borrow a phrase from the late singer, Dan Fogelberg, "He earned his love through discipline, a thundering velvet hand. His gentle means of sculpting souls took me years to understand." Of course, my older siblings might disagree with the words "velvet" and "gentle" in describing dad's disciplinary methods but my experience with him was in a totally different phase of his life than was their formative years.

I wish he could have seen me throw my one and only no-hitter, pitching in a Little League baseball game when I was 13. I would have loved to see his face in the crowd at my high school graduation. Wouldn't he have been pleased with the choice of my bride. As much as any of these, I wish he could have met my children, his grandchildren.

The Munson Family - December 2013

I miss him terribly and think about him most every day.

"Back to Iowa?" Submission #1

Southern California...1992

My work had sent me on four or five trips across the country during the second half of 1992 and the first half of 1993. I was assigned the task of managing our product distribution using the services of a number of private warehouses around the fruited plain.

Our warehouse in Atlanta began to have some issues with our inventory accuracy, among other things, so I was dispatched to the site to perform a physical inventory of our product. As long as I was making this trip, I was told to add a couple other of our warehouses to my trip itinerary... Pottsville, Pennsylvania and Rock Island, Illinois.

The problems at our Atlanta warehouse proved to be significant enough that we were forced to part ways. I was in charge of finding another distribution partner in the southeastern portion of the United States. This project led to numerous trips over the period of a year and visits to Georgia, Alabama, Tennessee and South Carolina.

For most of these trips, I would leave out of Long Beach on a Friday and stop in Iowa for the weekend to visit my mom and my sister, Barb. It was during those visits that Barb began to ask me if I'd ever consider moving back to Iowa.

Iowa... hmmmm. Would I ever move back? For the most part, my boyhood experience in the Hawkeye state was NOT a pleasant one.

***

Virgil LaVoy Munson - My dad

I was born in Iowa in January 5th, 1959. That same year, dad packed up the family and moved us to the Los Angeles area of California in pursuit of a job opportunity.

Southern California...1969

It was April 22nd, 1969 when my dad died of cancer. I guess that I was the only member of the family that was shocked by his death. I was barely 10 years old and had never experienced anyone in a fight with a serious disease. I mean, I knew cancer was worse than a cold or the flu but I had obviously underestimated how much worse it really was.

I'm the small guy and the rest are my siblings... circa 1963

There were five of us kids. I was the baby of the family... by far.

Bill was the closest to me in age at seven years my senior. He was finishing up his junior year at Artesia High School when dad passed away. Bob was 18. Butch was 19 and was serving in the Army. Barb was 22 and living at home after separating from her husband of nearly four years. My cousin, Bruce, was also living in our home after the passing of his mom months earlier. Bruce was 13.

This is me in about 1968

The night before his death was pretty scary. I recall a flurry of activity as he had apparently taken a turn for the worse. Different members of the family were scurrying in and out of his bedroom with panic written on their faces while my mom was on the phone frantically begging for someone to send an ambulance and screaming, "My husband is dying!!"

I remember sitting at the kitchen table... trying to listen, trying to understand, trying to pray.

When I couldn't take anymore, I grabbed Bruce and said, "Let's get outta here."

We walked around the block. I don't remember what we talked about or even if we talked at all. I was just hoping that everything would be back to normal when we got back. I hoped that mom and Bill would be sitting at the table playing Yahtzee, as the often did. I wanted to see Bob laying on the couch, reading the latest issue of his "Archie" comic book. I hoped against hope that dad would be on the road to recovery so that we could continue to cultivate that father and son relationship that it seems we had just begun.

Those desires were dashed as we rounded the corner and saw the flashing red lights and a small crowd of neighbors gathered on the sidewalk in front of our house. I rushed through the front door just as the emergency workers wheeled my dad through the living room. I heard him groan and a member of the emergency crew said, "Take it easy old-timer.'

"Old-timer? Old-timer?" Heck, my dad had just turned 46 the week before. He wasn't an "old-timer!" Virgil LaVoy Munson was a decorated soldier from World War II! He was a strong man! But, of course, all they saw was a shell of a man's man whose body had been ravaged by this insidious disease... cancer