Richard Nixon Lived Here, Too

Can you name Radar O’Reilly’s hometown? That’s a little Iowa trivia that doesn’t escape the natives, and for those who hail from Ottumwa, it is our most common identifier.

“Where are you from?”

“Ottumwa.”

“Ottumwa? Oh, yeah! Radar O’Reilly’s hometown!”

Once people find out there really is an Ottumwa, they naturally assume there really is a Radar O’Reilly. I haven’t found a graceful way to answer the questions, “Did you know him?”, and “Does any of his family still live there?” without sounding condescending.

“Well, see, Radar O’Reilly isn’t a real person. He was a character from M*A*S*H, and they randomly chose Ottumwa as his hometown. Maybe it’s because we have a former naval airbase here, which is home to the world’s largest swimming pool. Hey now, there’s a piece of history for you. Do you know why we have the world's larg…”

“Radar really was from Ottumwa, though. It's right at the beginning of the book. Didn’t he become a congressman, or something?”

“That was Fred Grandy. He played Gopher on The Love Boat.”

“Oh. What happened to Radar, then?” And they call us yokels. The swimming pool story is a lot more interesting.

I grew up in Ottumwa, in the southeast quadrant of the state. We aren’t that far from the Missouri border, close enough for the locals to have adopted the southern twang that colors Missourian vowels, especially the “ou”, the “ow”, and the “aw” sounds, along with the short “u”. When we go downtown, we go daaown-taaown. We worsh our clothes, and as a part of our lawn care routines, we occasionally trim the boooshes when they get shaggy.

While limestone gravel awaits its harvest below the surface in my northeast Iowa home of Decorah, the coal has already been mined around my southeast Iowa roots of Ottumwa. In our history classes at Wildwood Elementary, we studied the great Coal Palace that once graced our community, a shrine to and of the black rock that, for a time, was our economic mainstay.

The Mondanaro’s house burned down in the mid-60’s, and the fire was blamed on their coal furnace. Marian, my best friend in high school, said it was her brother Jim’s job to shovel the coal into the furnace before bedtime in the winter, and when she would touch the wall that abutted her bed, it felt hot.

Marian’s Italian father, Joe Mondanaro, was originally from Jersey City, New Jersey, which he pronounced “Joisey City, New Joisey”. It was our naval airbase that brought him to Ottumwa -- he trained scuba divers in the gi-gundo swimming pool there. Once he was here, Joe became an active and colorful member of the community, with a houseful of kids by his Irish wife Phyllis; Jane, Peggy, Jim, Marian, Steve, Gina, Chris, and John. He must have loved living in the Midwest, and remained here until his untimely death from cancer in 2003.

Joe never did switch from his Joisey accent to the Missouri twang, though. In the fall of the year they moved to our neighborhood, he was observing the migrating birds that rested in our treetops as they made their ways from the north to their winter homes. The trees would be thick with them, and it was fun to clap two boards together and watch them scatter en masse from the maple trees.

“Hey, goils!" he hollered to Marian and me from the front porch. “Come out here and look at these boids!”

No, you wouldn’t have heard him saying, “Our new haaouse is on the Saaouth Side.”

The Ottumwa Courier featured the story of the blaze that destroyed their home, and the unusual living arrangements for the surviving family of ten. Right after the fire, the Mondanaros found refuge at The Heights, a Roman Catholic junior college for women. They closed off an entire floor of the residence hall, and moved all ten of them in there. Before long, they found a house to rent on the South Side, on Quincy Avenue, just two doors down from us, and Marian and I became solid buddies. We have one of those talk-every-decade-or-so-but-still-have-fun kind of soul-sisterhoods. I know there were times in high school when we laughed so hard we just about wet ourselves. It set the tone for a lifetime.

Ralph and Pauline Kirkland lived just a few blocks east of Quincy Avenue, on Appanoose. Across the street from them were Harold and Stephie Johnson. Harold and the three kids went to First Lutheran, the same as the Kirklands and we Onerheims. Stephie went to mass at St. Pat’s, but we all thought she was still pretty nice. Harold had a tenor voice that turned heads when he sang hymns during the 8:30 service at First Lutheran. "Ricky" is the only one if their kids I see anymore – I don’t even know for sure where the other two are, but Rick’s in Ottumwa.

We were having the Ottumwa showing of The Clausen Quilts this weekend at Pennsylvania Place on the North Side. It’s a retirement community, and The Barn and The Peg moved into their independent living unit ten years ago, when it was brand new. Pauline moved there about a year ago, just after Ralph died. Rick Johnson gave his eulogy, I played my flute, and my sister Jeanie did the readings. Our two families considered ourselves the “Kirkland Kids” -- they had quite a passel of us! Thelma Johnson, Pauline’s sister, has lived there several years, too, so I usually get to see both Thelma and Pauline when I visit Ottumwa. Thelma entrusted me with a large collection of Mrs. Clausen’s hand embroidered pillowcases and dresser scarves several years ago. It’s an awesome responsibility – they are like gold to all of us.

I heard a voice, booming from the foyer of Pennsylvania Place. “You went to Pickwick? I went to Wildwood, so that means we both went to Evans Junior High.”

Huh? Who went to Wildwood? I went to Wildwood… and I scurried to peer over the quilt-draped railing to the foyer below.

“Oh, it’s Ricky! Hi, Rick!”

“Hi, Kari. I was just telling Lea Ann [Mercer nee' Joseph, who went to Pickwick] here about how well Polly could sew.”

The Johnsons always called Pauline, “Polly”. It’s their special thing.

“I tell you, she could sew suits that looked like they came right out of Vogue. She sewed everything she wore, and she looked like a million bucks every day. I don’t know if Thelma could sew, but Polly could. I don’t know if Polly could quilt, but she could sew just about anything to wear.”

I love to listen to Rick talk. He threads ideas and observations together into a verbal quilt.

“But Polly’s mom, well, everyone knew Polly’s mom could sew quilts and clothes, and she sewed those quilts by hand, every little tiny stitch.” Rick advanced from the foyer to elevator, where he pooshed the button for the first floor and headed for the boardroom, where the rest of the quilts were set up for showing. We had a fine talk, sharing memories about the quilts, and catching up on bits and pieces of the last thirty years since we lived on Quincy Avenue and Appanoose.

Behind our house, across the alley in a house facing Hackworth Avenue, was where Debbie Stubbs lived. One day The Peg was cleaning up after lunch when she told me a new little girl had moved into the neighborhood, and she was just my age. “After I finish with these dishes, we’ll go over and meet her.” I was a pre-schooler, and it took a long time for her to finish those dishes.

Debbie was inside the house with her mother Doris, who was unpacking. There were boxes and furniture strewn about, so she and Debbie came outside for our introduction. The Peg and Doris talked right along, and I remember Doris saying Debbie was shy. I didn’t know what a shy was, but if Debbie was one, I wanted to be one, too. Obviously, the shy thing never took hold with me.

I loved my new friend instantly, and we spent most of our time together for the next five years. We were best friends, a relationship that defined the term for me. To this day, you are my best friend if I love you as much as I love Debbie Stubbs.

We started kindergarten together, and have the first-day-of-school pictures to prove it, both of us in plaid school dresses with hoop slips underneath, holding those manila envelopes that held construction paper and a new box of eight fat crayons.

One spring The Peg made us fancy matching red and white organza dresses, with big red organza “butterfly bows” that tied in the back. In appreciation, Doris bought us matching red and white shorts outfits. Since The Peg made all of our clothes, this was the first store bought outfit I remember owning. I went with Debbie and her mom when we bought them. It was all very foreign to me, shopping for clothes in a store in daaown-taaown Ottumwa.

Debbie moved a couple of miles away when we were in the second grade. She didn’t go to Wildwood anymore; now she lived across the street from Pickwick. I got a flute for my birthday right after Debbie left, and I started learning to play. The regular kids, whose dads weren’t the band director, had to wait until the summer after fourth grade to get their instruments. Not me. I took lessons from Cindy Cline, who didn’t live all that far from Debbie’s new house. Later, in the fourth grade, Debbie chose to play the flute, too, and we were in band together until we graduated from high school in nineteen-none-of-your-dang-business.

Debbie helped out at my wedding reception, and then I never saw her again. She got married, I didn’t know her last name, her dad died, her mom got sick, and we lost track of each other. She was probably too shy to look for me. It was a slipped-through-the cracks problem, where the stars were never in the right alignment to connect with her. I could never forget her, because she was my first best friend.

Dorothy Benson lives across the hall from The Barn at Pennsylvania Place. Dorothy taught kindergarten at Anne G. Wilson Elementary, on the North Side. Pickwick and Wildwood are both on the South Side. Marian Mondanaro had Mrs. Benson for kindergarten, and their house that burned down was a short walk from Anne G. Wilson. When I was writing this blog entry, there were some details I wanted to check out about the fire, and the living arrangements afterwards. Did the Mondanaros live at Walsh, the Catholic high school, or was it the Heights, the Catholic college? I thought Dorothy might remember, so I walked across the hall to ask. She didn’t remember the story, but she had a treasure to share with me – an address book of dear old OHS alumni. Marian had moved since the book was printed, and I didn’t have her new phone number, but I found some siblings I could try calling. I figured I’d find some Mondanaro and get the answers to my questions. I copied down a few numbers, went back to The Barn’s apartment, and hit the hay.

In the morning, I was planning when I could call a Mondanaro when it hit me -- the book! Debbie Stubbs could be in the book! I decided it was worth it to bother Dorothy again, and she was as gracious as ever. Sure enough, Debbie Stubbs was now Debbie Richmond, and there was her phone number. I called and left a message, hoping she hadn’t gone away for the weekend.

In a few hours, my cell phone rang. “This is Debbie.” I told her as politely as I could to get herself over to my dad's, and within a half hour we were sitting down together for the first time since July of 1976. She really hadn't changed a bit. It was fun being in the same room with her, and after she left The Barn remarked that nothing had changed: I still jabbered and gestured away, and Debbie sat quietly, shy and patient, waiting to get a word in edgewise. As we parted, she said she'd come visit me in Decorah. We still have a lot of years to catch up on.

I talked to Marian today, too. She was the second best friend of my life, and I love her with my whole heart, too, just like I love Debbie Stubbs. I did manage to get the details of the fire and their stay at the Heights right, and then we spent another ninety minutes catching up since our last gabfest in 2002. Sadly, Marian's parents are both gone in that short time. Debbie's dad died suddenly of a heart attack when he was barely sixty-five, and her mom has been quite ill since the late nineties. Debbie's own husband, whom I never met, passed away from cancer suddenly in December of 2004. The Peg has been gone for three years now, and that seems like a lot to have piled up when it is shared in the span of a few days. We are learning to adjust to the reality of these changes.

All anybody asks about when they hear I'm from Ottumwa is Radar O'Reilly. The people I know from Ottumwa aren't fiction. They are real and warm and wonderful, and they helped create who I am. Yes, Tom Arnold is from Ottumwa, and yes, I sort of remember the family. I don't remember knowing Tom: who could have forgotten that voice? Richard Nixon lived there during WWII, they tell me, in the Tisdale Apartments, but he was no Debbie Stubbs or Marian Mondanaro. There aren't The Barns, or Thelma Johnsons, or Pauline Kirklands, or Ricky Johnsons, or Dorothy Bensons anywhere else on the planet.

They are the great people from Ottumwa, the ones I come home to.

Copyright © October 2005 Kari E.O. Burns