The Runaway Tire -- A Story From O'Connor's Standard Service

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Each year as I stand outside and greet the first snow of the season, I’m reminded of a winter night long ago and a lesson in humility. A lesson taught by a tire with a mind of its own.

The theme from A Charlie Brown Christmas TV special was playing in my head as I slid the flat tire off the Chevy Malibu’s passenger-side rear axle. I reached down and scooped up the five lug nuts before the snow covered them and they became lost on the drive of O’Connor’s Standard Service, 402 W. Main St., Osage, Iowa.

The snow was beautiful – big, fluffy flakes, just like on TV – hence the Peanuts’ rendition of “Christmas Time is Here” in my head. The gigantic flakes were invisible in the night sky until they fell far enough to be illuminated by the lights above the gas pumps. As you drove down Main Street, our service station stood out like a light house against the dark streets that surrounded it.

It was a December Friday night and I was working alone. All the Osage Green Devil basketball teams were playing away games, so the traffic on Main Street was lighter than normal. It was a quintessential quiet night in small-town Iowa.

I loved working on nights like this. All was quiet. All was peaceful.

The Malibu was parked on the edge of the drive, just outside the office door. I carried the flat tire into the back room. I loved fixing tires. It’s dirty, hard work, but I always imagined myself like a surgeon – seeking out the problem and performing an operation to restore the patient to health.

If I was successful the patient would be as good as new and the customer would be back on the road. I’d be the hero. If it couldn’t be fixed, then the nominal cost of repair would be replaced by the expense of a new tire and I’d be the surgeon whose patient had died on the table. A new steel-belted radial wasn’t cheap, so the pressure was on to fix the old tire.

I used the pneumatic tire machine to remove the tire from the rim. I then located and extracted the offending nail, patched the hole, remounted the tire and balanced it. The whole process took less than 15 minutes. Another success.

As I rolled the re-inflated tire from the backroom and through office to the front door, I noticed the snow was falling harder. It was more than an inch deep so the tire left a clear track in the fresh snow as I reached the axle.

I heard the telephone ring just as I was crouching down to lift the tire and slide it onto the axle’s lug bolts. I left the tire standing upright and hustled into the office. I leaned over the high desk and grabbed the receiver. It was a customer asking if his car was ready to be picked up after servicing. My back was to the drive. As we talked I heard multiple cars honking on Main Street.

I completed my business with the customer and hung up the phone. As I returned to the Malibu I wondered what all the honking had been about. As I came around to the passenger side I looked down to find my newly fixed and inflated tire was gone!

“Gone?” I thought. “How the heck could it be gone?”

It didn’t take a bloodhound to sniff it out. Because of the fresh snow all I had to do was put my head down and follow the pristine tire track in the snow. I mentally removed my sterile surgeon’s scrub cap and replaced it with my Sherlock Holmes deerstalker. We had a mystery to solve. The game was afoot!

The track led due-west and down a slight slope onto 4^th Street – a distance of more than 30 feet. Upon reaching the street, the tire took a sharp right and headed north toward Main Street. Twenty feet later I reached the stop sign. No sign of the tire. The track continued north.

At that point I snapped out of it and simply looked up and across Main Street. Now keep in mind, Osage’s Main Street is four lanes wide – more than 100 feet.

And there it was. The tire in question had miraculously rolled across four lanes of traffic, finally coming to rest in the middle of the street at the corner of 4^th and Main.

Now I knew what the car horns had been about. Happily, no one had been injured, and more importantly, I didn’t have to explain to my dad how I’d single-handedly caused a traffic accident without even being present.

In the end, I retrieved the tire and securely re-attached it to the Malibu. As I tightened the final lug bolt it became clear to me that just like in the hospital, the doctor’s job isn’t finished until the patient is safely out the door. It was a serious lesson. But I also had to laugh. And I still do. Every year.

A lesson in humility. Delivered by a tire. In the snow. Only in Iowa.

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Main Street, Osage, Iowa

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Foods That Make Me Ask, 'Why?'

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To know me is to know that I love to eat. One of the things I most enjoy is getting to know people and their culture through food. I’ll try most anything. You name it, I’ve probably tried it – and more importantly – I can usually point you in the direction of a restaurant that specializes in it – whatever “it” is.

My kids like to say that if I were an animal I’d be a catfish. Why? Because a catfish eats anything that comes along. While I have to confess they’re mostly right, they’re not completely correct.

There are still a few things out there that I refuse to eat. Why, because I’ve come to the conclusion that some things just don’t make sense. You can explain it to me all day long, but I simply won’t get it. I’m slow that way.

Below is my list of the top 10 foods and beverages that make me wonder, “Why would I waste my time?”

10. Angel food cake

Cake should be sweet and dense and chock-full of wonderfulness. Angel food cake, in my opinion, is none of those. In fact, it’s just the opposite. You might as well eat Styrofoam peanuts. And don’t start in on all the effort it took to make it. It’s not about the effort, it’s about the final product. If it were about effort they’d give out Olympic medals for last place. 

9. Grits

Spend any quality time with a Southerner and he’ll extol the virtues of his mama’s grits. Grits, for Yankees who’ve never been so abused, are the food equivalent of eating sand. The name says it all. Now, my friend Bubba will give you at least six reasons why his mama’s grits were outstanding. Most of them are the things mama put on top of the grits – cheese, eggs, bacon, you name it. The grits are nothing more than a vehicle to carry the good stuff to your mouth. Ask Bubba if he likes plain grits. He’ll state emphatically “No! Nobody eats plain grits.” My point exactly.

8. Lefse

See No. 9. Lefse is to my Norwegian friends as grits are to my Southern friends. Lefse is a flavorless, no-frills, potato flatbread that by itself is just no fun.

7. Meringue

Here’s another one from the “I want applause for my effort” file. Sure it’s pretty, but it tastes like sugared spackling compound. Spend half the time and make an apple pie – you’ll be loved forever.

6. Boiled peanuts

Any guy who likes beer will tell you peanuts are a gift from God. Whoever decided to boil peanuts in the shell was clearly unstable. What’s even stranger is that people line up for blocks to buy the mooshie things by the bag full. It’s like eating soggy toast. What once was good is now just gross.

5. Fat-free ice cream

Ice cream is supposed to be a treat. A decadent few moments of blissful escape into creamy splendor. You’re raining on the parade when you try to make ice cream healthy. Go find a little old lady to help cross the street. Leave my ice cream alone.

4. Salad

I laugh when I hear people talk about the “wonderful” salad they had for lunch. Let’s be clear, salad isn’t food – it’s maintenance. While you can do things to dress it up, it’s still not much fun to eat. It’s a necessary evil. A preamble. Not the reason you’re there. If you’re excited about a salad you need to get out more often.

3. Coffee

Now before you go ballistic, hear me out. Coffee smells great. But there’s something really important that gets lost between smelling it and drinking it – flavor. In comparison, hot chocolate wraps its arms around you in a warm, loving embrace. Coffee, on the other hand, slaps you around and says, “Tough love is good!” From a taste standpoint you might as well boil some tree bark – it’d taste just as good. Coffee is just nasty. I’ll get my caffeine from a pop can.

2. Gray food

This one’s a little broad, but stick with me. There’s just not much less appetizing than gray food (apologies to all my Norwegian friends). Gray is gross. You never hear anyone on the Food Network tell you to “gray that in the pan.” Brown is better. Swedish meatballs and stroganoff don’t have to look like they’re covered in gray, gelatinous snot. So to all my friends up North, ask Santa to put some Kitchen Bouquet in your stocking this year. Your dinner guests will love you for it.

1. Light beer

Let’s just get it out on the table once and for all. The United States leads the world in consumption of light (low-calorie) beer. Something to be proud of? I think not! Most other countries don’t even sell the stuff! With all the fantastic beers out there, why would you waste your time drinking beer-flavored water? I’m at a loss. Life is too short to drink bad beer. Amen.

So, those are my thoughts on foods that make me ask, “Why?” What’s on your list? Please respond so we can add to the list.

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How I Met Your Mother

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Every family has its origin stories. When my kids ask about how our family got started, this is the story I tell.

I arrived at the University of Northern Iowa in August 1988 via a circuitous route. My college career had been interrupted by four years of military service overseas. Now I was stuck in a kind of purgatory.

In my view, college students were a “waste of groceries,” and now I was one of them. And to top that, at the ripe old age of 24 I was labeled a non-traditional student. I was a military veteran who’d been stationed in Germany and Greece and now I was surrounded by a bunch of civilian kids whose most pressing problem was figuring out where they were going to find the cheapest beer.

I was squarely unhappy. I was stranded in a place I didn’t want to be, surrounded by a bunch of people I didn’t want to be around. So I said to myself, “Self, you need to get in and out of here as quickly as possible. You’ve got two years ahead of you. Put your head down and move forward. No booze, no women and no extra-curricular activities.” I was on track to live a monk’s life of focus and purpose.

Yeah. Right.

I forgot that I’d spent the previous two years on an island in the Aegean Sea. Let’s just say that items one and two in my credo got tossed out the window almost immediately.

That left extra-curricular activities.

After I gave my first speech in speech class, the professor asked if I was aware UNI had a competitive speech team. He was one of the team coaches and was looking to fill out his roster. I told him I’d done that in high school, and while the offer was tempting, I was on a straight-line course to get in and out of UNI as quickly as humanly possible.

From then on my professor was like a dog with a bone. He worked on me for the next two weeks. Finally after class one day he said, “You know, you could go to nationals right now with no training.” Bingo. He’d found my soft spot. Two years in a row in high school I just missed qualifying for the All-State speech competition. He’d figured out the code to getting me motivated: I had unfinished business. I joined the speech team just in time to go to the first tournament of the year.

My professor, now coach, told me I’d be doing the public-address events: informative, persuasive, impromptu and extemporaneous speaking. He was the public-address coach so I’d work primarily with him. The other coach, who oversaw the after-dinner speaking and oral-interpretation events (the dramatic and funny stuff), would listen to my speeches from time to time to offer her advice, he explained. I was told to go introduce myself.

So I did. Within seconds of entering her office my competitive nature kicked in. I didn’t like her. She was a three-time national finalist when she competed on the team. She’d gone straight from undergrad into her graduate program and one year later was now a full-fledged instructor. “Good for you,” I thought sarcastically. I found her annoyingly full of herself. After four years in the military, I had no time for pomposity.

Sometime during the conversation it came up that I was Catholic. Then she asked me if I had access to a VCR so I could watch tapes of other collegiate speakers in action. I told her I owned a VCR. “Oh,” she said. “So you’re Catholic and you own a VCR. You want to get married?” An irony I wouldn’t understand for many months to come.

The words that came out of my mouth were “No, thank you.” The words in my head were, “No, thank you, you self-centered loudmouth!” Her name was Penny Geurink.

So it began. I joined the team and for the next eight months every other Thursday, two coaches and 13 students would cram into a university van and drive into the night to compete. We’d spend all day Friday and most of Saturday competing. Then we’d jam back into the van and head back to Cedar Falls – usually arriving in the early hours Sunday morning. I got to know my teammates and coaches better than I ever planned or wanted.

In late February, after six months of travel, I came to the realization that Penny really did know what she was talking about. And over time I discovered her irritating bravado was simply a defense mechanism. She wasn’t nearly as self-assured as she proclaimed to be. She was tender-hearted and vulnerable and didn’t like to admit it. Over time, we both came to the realization we had much more in common than we originally thought. 

We started dating on the down-low, because even though I was a year older than her, we knew it could be a problem for her if people knew she was in a relationship with one of the students on the team.

In April, the season was coming to an end. The team was in East Orange, New Jersey, for the National Forensic Association national tournament, the third and final national tournament of the season. This was the big one -- the largest of the three national tournaments. Hundreds of the best collegiate speakers in the United States were there to see who was the best of the best.

We’d flown in on Wednesday and had competed all day Thursday and Friday. Just before we left the campus of Upsala College Friday night, I learned I’d made the semi-finals of informative and persuasive speaking. I’d compete the next morning for a chance at the national finals. My stress level was high.

Penny and I got into a huge fight after dinner. While the subject of the brouhaha is long forgotten, I’ll never forget what happened next.

We went for a walk in the hotel parking lot and made up. As I was escorting her back to her room something inside my brain snapped. I felt my pulse quicken. All I could hear in my ears was a whooshing sound. I felt like I was drowning. Panic was taking over. Some would later say I’d lost my mind. I suddenly felt like the world would come to a cataclysmic end if I didn’t voice my desperate query. I felt like a man holding onto the cliff edge with his finger tips.  

She opened the hotel-room door. Her roommates were asleep so I ushered her into the bathroom. As she took a seat on the countertop I mustered my courage and blurted, “Listen, I don’t want an answer right now, but I need to ask this. Penny, will you marry me?”

With that I gave her a quick kiss goodnight, asked her to wait to give me an answer until the next afternoon and hustled out the door, afraid of what I might hear if I lingered.

The next day was a blur of activity. I was off to compete while Penny was busy judging. It was an extremely windy April day in New Jersey. The announcements came out at about 3 p.m.

Our head coach had a list of who was moving on to the final round of their respective events. We gathered on the sidewalk. He had to yell to be heard above the wind. Two from our team made the finals. I was shocked to learn I was one of them.

There were hugs and high-fives all around. Penny hugged me and told me congratulations. Time seemed to stand still. The sun seemed to shine a little brighter. Every nerve in my body seemed to tingle. Yet again, all I could hear was a whooshing sound in my ears.

The wind picked up as I turned to walk to the building where finals would take place. Behind me, Penny said, “The answer is yes!” She thought I heard her.

I didn’t. It wasn’t until the awards ceremony a few hours later that she asked why I wasn’t more excited. Only then did I learn that my proposal had been accepted. I was getting married! Time stopped again as she hugged me on the floor of the college auditorium.

That moment marked the end of a crazy season of competition – but more importantly it signaled the beginning of a whole new journey.

Yes, I proposed in a bathroom at the Red Roof Inn in Whippany, New Jersey. But more importantly, something really special came from travelling down a road I didn’t want to take. And 27 years later, Penny and I are still enjoying the journey.

It’s been a great trip. And I thank God for setting up the detour that started it all.

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Lucille and Arnold -- The Untold Love Story

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The fabric of every family is woven together by stories. Some short, some sweet, some tragic. Some true, some mostly true.

In the end, fact or fiction doesn’t really matter as much as the example they provide. Why? Because family myths and legends have a singular and special purpose. They give us hope and strength, something strong to lean on when times are tough.

It doesn’t require much to spark a classic family legend. All you need is one tiny nugget of truth to start a good story rolling down the hill of genetic history.

Just as siblings tend to share physical features, family stories tend to share common themes based on the family’s roots, livelihood or interests. It could be anything from farming to football to fishing.

In my family’s case, our roots are firmly anchored in ice cream.

Once upon a time there was an ice cream shop

The Great Depression was in full swing in 1938. No stranger to hard work, Arnold Wayne Corell, like millions of other young men, had moved from place to place in search of steady work. He’d already tried his hand at several endeavors. Each began with high hopes and each summarily ended much sooner than expected. His most recent endeavor had taken him to Montana as a laborer.

Upon returning home, Arnold began casting about for a new opportunity. His sights were set squarely on a new venture. He hoped at long last that this would be his ticket to a new life and prosperity.

Our story begins when plucky 22-year-old entrepreneur Arnold made the 52 mile journey west by northwest from Waverly, Iowa to Nora Springs, Iowa. He was there to open “Arnie’s Ice Cream Shop.” If you think “Arnie” was his nickname, you’d be wrong. He very carefully selected the moniker “Arnie” because he thought it sounded less formal than Arnold.

Arnold was quiet and unassuming. He was slightly taller than average and thin, with a hawkish nose and blonde hair he always kept slicked back in keeping with the fashion of the time. He didn’t say much. Talking wasn’t his style. He preferred to listen, or read, despite an eye condition that left him almost legally blind and excluded him from ever obtaining a driver’s license. 

And then there was her

A hundred details had to be dealt with as Arnie’s Ice Cream Shop began to come to life on Hawkeye Street in downtown Nora Springs. One of the details was staff. Arnold couldn’t run the shop by himself. He’d need at least two employees.

The bell above the front door rang as Lucille Robinson stepped carefully into the shop. She had to contort herself a bit to get past the sign painter who was lettering the big plate-glass window that faced the street. Half-empty crates and boxes were everywhere. Toward the back, a tall young man was busily putting away supplies behind the wooden counter that ran half the length of the shop.

At 16, Lucille was barely over five feet tall. She had curly blonde hair and a radiant smile, despite a rather obvious gap between her front teeth.

What you couldn’t know by simply looking at her was that Lucille’s very existence was a bit of a miracle. Her mother and father had met late in life. Each had lost a spouse to illness and they’d planned to quietly live out their twilight years together on a small farm outside Nora Springs.

But God had another plan. They named the baby Lucille Mildred. When she was born, her mom was 49 and her dad was 58. A miracle for 1921. Lucille’s father died in 1937, and as 1938 rolled around, her mother was in poor health. Until recently, Lucille had been working at a private nursing home. But when the home abruptly closed, she was out of job and needed an income to help support her ailing mother. That’s what led her to Hawkeye Street.

Squaring her shoulders, she walked directly to the counter and confidently introduced herself to the man she assumed was the proprietor. She’d seen a “help-wanted” ad in the newspaper and had come to apply for a job. Arnold was taken by her maturity and friendly manner. He knew immediately she was perfect for the job. She’d be good help to him. He was quiet and reserved. She was talkative and outgoing. He knew it was a smart business decision. He also knew, immediately, that he was in love.

Changes of venue

After a lackluster year in Nora Springs, Arnold accepted the fact that he needed to move the business to greener pastures. He’d try his luck in Toledo, Iowa. His employees were told they’d have a job if they wanted to move with him.

After a long discussion with her mother, Lucille took the offer and moved to Toledo as part of Arnold’s newest adventure. It was a good move. They were married later that year.

While 1940 ushered in the official end of the Great Depression, start-up businesses like Arnold’s were still failing at a high rate. It was a sad day when he closed his shop for good. But while business was bad, life was good. The Corells loaded up their car, complete with their new baby boy, and headed north to Rockford.

The road of life

The next 44 years were a mixture of joys and tragedies. The Corells eventually took up residence in a modest home on Gaylord Street in Nora Springs. Modest is really an understatement. The house was originally a small barn, which had been enlarged by attaching a chicken coop to it. But they were happy and the family grew.

Six more children joined the family. One very briefly. Their fourth child, Arnold James, died of pneumonia when he was just few weeks old.

Following that tragedy, Arnold found work operating a wheelbarrow at the Rockford Brick and Tile Works. It was backbreaking labor, but the pay was steady. That job and Arnold’s life almost ended one day as he maneuvered a load of bricks up a steep ramp. Halfway up the ramp one of the wooden handles snapped. The massive wheelbarrow flew back, plunging the broken handle into his side, breaking several ribs along the way. He was laid up for weeks with no income.

In the late 1950s, Arnold took advantage of a job-training program through the Iowa School for the Blind. There he learned to upholster furniture. He’d spend the rest of his working days as an upholsterer in Mason City and finished his career as the proud owner of Federal Auto Upholstery.

Arnold died the Sunday after Thanksgiving in 1984. Lucille was heartbroken. She had loved Arnold with all her soul. Sure, they had their ups and downs. But who didn’t? Their marriage had passed the test of time and many bumps along the road of life. She would have given anything for just one more day with Arnold, but it just wasn’t meant to be.

Grandma’s steadfast faith in God buoyed their marriage. Her faith, and their unrelenting support of each other through the worst of times, gave us courage when times got tough. If they could do it, we could too.

As Grandma always reminded us, “It’s not how you start that matters. What matters is how you finish.”

An unexpected revelation

It was cold and rainy as I stepped into Grandma Lucy’s house one night in 2009. I found her asleep in her chair at the kitchen table. That chair at that table was her special place, her sanctum sanctorum, her chapel. It’s where she went to think and where she went to pray.

In that chair, at that table, hands folded in her lap, she had prayed for every member of her family, and her legion of friends, every morning for 69 years. Lucille was one of God’s soldiers and proud of it. Prayer to her was like drill to soldiers – part of an essential daily routine.

Her body was failing and she understood that soon she’d have to move into the local nursing home. The clock was ticking, and she knew it.

That’s why I believe she’d decided it was time we had a talk. Grandma and I were very close. We had a special bond. Because of that bond she shared things with me. I was used to that. But I was wholly unprepared for what came next.

Grandma instructed me to go into her bedroom and look under the antique wardrobe in the corner. There I was to find a small metal box. I retrieved the locked box and returned to the kitchen. She asked me to open it. She didn’t have a key, so she asked me to break the lock with a screwdriver.

Inside the box was a small bundle of love letters Grandpa had written to her when the kids were little and he was on the road looking for work. She asked me to read them to her. As I did so, I could hear his baritone voice in my mind extolling the trials and tribulations of life on the road. With each page, I felt like I was turning back time.

The last page of the last letter came too soon. I could see it on her face. She wanted to hear more from her beloved Arnold. But that was that.

“I have one more thing for you to do, James,” she said quietly. “There should be one more piece of paper in the box. Read it.”

At the bottom of the box, folded once and slightly yellowed was an official-looking document. It was a marriage certificate. Grandma patiently waited as I skimmed from line to line, reading quietly aloud, “Certificate of Marriage…Lucille Mildred Robinson…Arnold Wayne Corell … on this date, 1976…Sioux Falls, South Dakota…” I went back and read it again. “Certificate of Marriage…Lucille Mildred Robinson…Arnold Wayne Corell … on this date, 1976…Sioux Falls, South Dakota…”

Hold it! 1976?! Sioux Falls? What in the world? Everyone knew they were married in Toledo in 1939, right!?

I looked up to find Grandma staring at me intently with a benevolent smile on her face. “I’m sure you have questions,” she said matter-of-factly.

Questions! I didn’t even know where to start! I was speechless. Grandma saw her opening and took over.

She explained that they were in love and that “things happened.” Before they knew it, Roger was born. In those days you didn’t often need to produce an actual marriage license, so they simply did the math and came up with a date that properly corresponded with Roger’s birthday.

When they returned from Toledo, they were married and had a child. No harm, no foul.

I took it all in. Then I asked, “Why did you drive all the way to South Dakota to get married – and why 1976 – when I was in sixth grade?

She said they realized that if something happened to either one of them, they needed an official document to prove they were indeed married -- for insurance purposes, etc. In 1976, South Dakota was the only state within driving distance that allowed someone to get a marriage license in one day.

She spent another hour filling in the details and reminiscing about Grandpa, the love of her life. Then she became very serious.

“James,” she started. “You’re the only one in the family who knows about this and I want to you keep it that way until I’m gone. You can share it with the family once I die.”

This was a sacred trust. She gave me the document to keep safe. She didn’t want it to be accidentally found and cause a lot of undue concern.

She then took my hand in hers and told me she wanted the family to know the truth, but more importantly know why. She wanted me to make sure the family understood that she and Grandpa loved each other more than she could explain. She wanted us to know that times were very different when they fell in love and that having a baby out of wedlock just wasn’t condoned.

She wanted us to know that God forgives. And God gives second chances. And she and her beloved Arnold had taken that second chance and done their very best. While their life together started as a struggle, it was a wonderful life – and they had a wonderful family. Theirs was a great love story. The truth about how it started was immaterial.  

Her mission in life was to raise her family and quietly set an example we could all be proud of.

Her final words that night still ring in my ears, “James, remember. It’s not how you start that matters. What matters is how you finish.”

And finish well she did.

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Epilogue:

Grandma Lucy died on Jan. 28, 2012. While her body failed her, her mind was sharp to the very end. And to the very end, she continued to pray for each and every one of us daily. And in my heart, I know she continues to do so today.

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Never Play Poker With a Nun

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I come from a long line of storytellers. On my mom’s side there was the lovable curmudgeon, Grandpa Arnold. You’d mention a current event and he’d not only have an opinion, he’d also produce an historical reference to affirm that opinion.

Across the kitchen table sat the ever-passionate Grandma Lucy. Her renditions of chapters from “Bible Stories for Children” were nothing short of spell-binding. Her take on the David-and-Goliath slingshot scene was epic. You’d laugh, you’d cry, you’d remember. She was oral interpretation of literature at its best!

And let’s not forget my great-uncle Bill. Uncle Bill raised giant Belgian draft horses, told classic tall tales straight out the Old West, and had all of his nieces and nephews utterly convinced there were alligators in his stock pond.

Then, on my dad’s side of the family, we had the one and only Grandpa Bud. Frank A. (Bud) Tienan was a storyteller extraordinaire. He had a story or piece of advice for any incident, predicament or occasion.

Where’d he get his material? Life. And what a life it was.

From the time we were puppies, Grandpa Bud told us stories about when he was a short-order cook, and when he was a cattle rancher, and when he was a prize fighter, and when he was a semi-pro baseball player. He did it all, and it was all true.

Bud Tienan lived a colorful life. The stories that life produced were masterpieces of insight and wit that illuminated the human qualities he cherished most, like duty, honor, hope, love, grit and above all, humor.

Grandpa Bud had two passions in life: fishing and telling stories. He did both like they were his job.

We started going to Minnesota and fishing with Grandpa Bud when I was in fourth grade. It became our summer tradition. Every day was the same. You could set your clock by it. My brother, Mike, and I gave each part of the day a nickname.

The “early bird show” began when Grandpa and Dad left before sunrise to go walleye and northern fishing. When they came back, we’d make breakfast.

Immediately following breakfast was the “big show.” We’d load up the rented, no-frills Lund fishing boat and head across Diamond Lake to our secret crappie spot.

Once the crappies stopped biting, we’d re-rig and troll for walleyes. By about 11 a.m. we’d make our way to the lily pads to try our luck with the sunfish.

At noon we’d head in for lunch. Grandpa was a phenomenal cook so that was something to look forward to.

Following lunch was the “afternoon show.” Grandpa would head out again. He knew full well the fish would usually stop biting during the heat of the day, but he was a fisherman on a mission. His addiction rubbed off on me, so I always went along. Dad and Mike were smarter than us and sat out the afternoon show on shore in the shade.

Lest we forget

It was during one of those insanely hot and uncomfortable afternoons in 1976 that Grandpa Bud shared with me some of the best advice I’ve ever received.

It was 3 p.m. We were anchored about 10 yards off the lily pads on Diamond Lake. There was no breeze. It was so hot I swear I could smell my hair starting to burn under my ever-present baseball cap. 

My bobber sat on the still water waiting for a sunfish to come by and take the big, juicy night crawler suspended on a hook precisely two feet below my split-shot weight, which in turn was precisely one-and-a-half feet below my red and white bobber. Grandpa was a stickler for exactitude.

As I straddled the hard wooden bench seat and watched a dragonfly attempt to land on my bobber, I heard Grandpa quietly rummaging through his tackle box. When the fishing was slow, his habit was to methodically review the contents of his ancient tackle box. He’d quietly hum to himself as he’d pick up each lure, inspect it and gently replace it. He’d chuckle quietly when a certain lure reminded him of some past fishing adventure or mishap. It was a way to pass the time and commune with old memories.

It was at times like that when he’d decide to share with me a pearl of his wisdom. I could almost feel it coming, like a storm brewing on the horizon.

The humming from the stern suddenly stopped and I heard, “Jimmy, there’s two things you need to remember if you want to be successful in life: Three of a kind beats two pair; and never, under any circumstances, play poker with a nun.”

With that he returned to rummaging in his tackle box and humming his sonata.

I stared at him as my 12-year-old brain struggled to process his sage advice. Unsure, I simply replied, “Thanks, Grandpa,” and returned to monitoring my bobber.

True to form, Grandpa Bud had simply led the horse to water. It was up to the horse – me – to drink. In this case, that meant figuring out what the heck he meant.

It took me more than a decade, but I did it.

No. 1. Three of a kind beats two pair

It’s the simplest rule in poker. But the reality is that during the heat of the game when the pot is building and the chips are flying it’s really easy to fall in love with those kings and eights and forget that three lowly twos could win it all. Grandpa Bud’s message? If you’re going to play the game, know the rules.

No. 2. Never play poker with a nun

Grandpa was a German-Lutheran who married into a big Irish-Catholic family. Grandma Bertha had two brothers and a son who were priests, and a niece and grandniece who were nuns.

Card playing was part of every family get-together and the go-to activity during bad weather on fishing trips. It was on one such soggy trip to northern Minnesota with Grandma and her nun nieces that he learned the realities of the women in the habits. 

The nuns in our family played a lot of cards. They were great with numbers and by profession, they knew how to keep a straight face. That meant that within mere minutes of learning a new game they’d have it mastered. If they decided to focus their skills on poker, they’d have all your money and just smile and say, “Thank you for your kind donation to the Widows and Orphans Fund.”

The lesson? Don’t be deceived by outward appearances. Ever. It could cost you dearly.

These are lessons that have proven over and over to be invaluable to me. I’ve often shared them with my kids. And I look forward to the day when I can share them with my grandkids, just like Grandpa Bud did.

I’ll look up over my tackle box, stare that youngster in the eye and say, “You know, there’s two things you need to remember if you want to be successful in life…”

###

Frank A. (Bud) Tienan

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Shadows from the Past

(To listen to this story, click on the photo above.)

I live a charmed life. I grew up in a small Iowa town. But despite that fact, I often find myself running into people I know all over the world, literally. I don’t know why, it’s just a fact.

That’s why when our son, Sean, left home to join the Air Force I cautioned him that I was just young enough that he might run into people in the Air Force who either knew me or knew of me. And I couldn’t guarantee that would necessarily be a positive thing.

As a broadcaster at the American Forces Network-Europe headquarters in Frankfurt, West Germany I was well known. Whether I liked it or not, my voice and face were broadcast all over northern Europe, every day. And as the only English-language radio and TV network in continental Europe at the time, we were the only game in town.

Growing up, Sean had heard all my stories. When he asked me if they were true my response was always the same. “I just can’t make this stuff up.”

And so it begins

Sean’s first run-in with my past came while he was in basic training. His flight was pulling K-P duty. Toward the end of the shift the senior master sergeant in charge of the dining hall called him over.

In a thundering voice he boomed, “Trainee O’Connor. Front and center, now!

As Sean hustled across the busy dining hall he asked himself what in the world he could have done wrong. When he arrived in front of the very imposing figure with more stripes on his arm than Sean had time to count, he came to attention and addressed the senior NCO.

“Sir, Trainee O’Connor reports as ordered!”

The very tall, sergeant looked him up and down before barking, “Was your father ever in the military?”

“Yes, sir!” Sean said.

“Was he in the Air Force?

“Yes, sir.”

“Was he a broadcaster for AFN?”

“Yes, sir,” Sean said again.

“Son, I watched your father on TV all the time. I was a sports nut. I always tuned in to see the scores. He did a great job.”

Sean thanked him and walked back to his station. My premonition had come true and it left him a little unsettled.

“Oh my God,” he thought. “He really didn’t make this stuff up.”

Déjà vu No. 2

Four months later, newly minted Airman First Class Sean O’Connor was in the final weeks of Air Force Security Forces Technical School. He and his comrades were demonstrating their ability to assemble and disassemble a variety of handguns. It was a high-stakes test. If they failed, they’d be released from that tech school and the Air Force would reassign them to another specialty. That’s a fancy way of saying if you failed, instead of asking people for their license and registration at a traffic stop, you’d be working as a cook and asking people how they’d like their eggs prepared.

Throughout the test Sean could sense someone staring at him. Just as he finished he looked up and saw their lead instructor, Senior Master Sergeant Robertson, looking straight at him.

As they made eye contact, Robertson signaled for him to come to the front of the room. Sean began to sweat. His mind raced. He thought for sure he’d failed the test. Months of hard work were now out the window. What school would they send him to next? Would they really make him a cook?

When he got to the front of the room he came to attention and addressed the senior NCO.

“Sir, Airman O’Connor reports as ordered!”

The sergeant looked him up and down before barking, “Was your father ever in the military?”

Sean had a strange feeling this was going to be deja vu all over again.

“Yes, sir!” Sean said.

“Was he in the Air Force?

“Yes, sir.”

“Was he a broadcaster for AFN?”

“Yes, sir,” Sean said again.

“Son, I knew your daddy!”

He explained to Sean that we were stationed together at AFN for about four months. At the time, he as a young radio and TV engineer. Years later he cross-trained into security forces.

He then queried Sean, “Did your daddy ever tell you about the time he stood up to the AFN commander in front of a general?”

Sean’s head was swimming. How in the world was this happening? Not only did his senior instructor know of his dad, but he was actually stationed with him.

Sean regained his composure just in time to reply that yes he’d heard the story, but he didn’t think it could have possibly been true. The sergeant laughed and replied that yes, indeed it was true. And it was a day he’d never forget. Here’s the story.

The unwitting hero

It was a Thursday in late winter, 1986. I was working the evening TV shift in the AFN Sports Office.

Word had come down on Tuesday that the commanding general of all U.S. Army troops in Europe was coming to Frankfurt and he wanted to tour AFN. Much like the teenager who starts jamming stuff in the closet and under the bed when he knows his room is about to be inspected, the network headquarters had been in a tizzy for two days. Walls had been painted, floors had been buffed and the commander’s rules about staffing had been issued.

At that time, the AFN commander was an Army Lt. Colonel, who was the embodiment of every stereotypical-jerk commander you’ve ever seen in the movies. He was a micromanager with no regard for the chain of command. He thought nothing of dressing down a young enlisted person in front of a crowd. In short, he was insecure and power-hungry.

On top of that, he hated having a mixed command of Army, Air Force and Navy personnel. In his mind, the only uniform he should see when he stepped out of his corner office was the Army-issue woodland camouflage, battle-dress uniform. It’s fair to say he was universally despised by everyone under his command. We’ll call him “the Colonel.”

True to form, the Colonel put out the word that all non-Army personnel were to be assigned to “other duties” on Thursday. If a non-Army person simply had to be on duty, then they were to keep their mouth shut and maintain a low profile. Thursday would be the Army’s day to shine!

On Thursday afternoon I was busily working away editing videotape for the six o’clock news. The Sports Office was located in a corner in the back of the building. There were two entrances to the office. One led to the recording studios, while the other led to the main hallway.

The plan was for the general and his entourage to enter from the recording studios, spend less than a minute in the office and then exit into the main hallway. Why? Because the Colonel hated the Sports Office. We were the most popular part of the evening news and he thought the news should be the shining star. On top of that, our boss, Milt, was an extremely talented civilian who wasn’t afraid of him. You can imagine how that went over with a power junky like the Colonel.

Just after 3 p.m. an Army sergeant arrived to let me know the general was about two minutes out. As fate would have it, I was the only person in the office. Milt and the rest of the sports team had conveniently found somewhere else to be. They didn’t want to be part of the Colonel’s propaganda parade. Because of my impending deadline, I didn’t have that luxury.

Moments later I heard someone announce “Uh-tennn-shun!” as the Colonel led the general and his group into the room. I stood ramrod straight and listened as the Colonel gave a 20-second explanation of what we did in the Sports Office.

With that, he opened the main door to usher out the general and his staff. The general was a short, grandfatherly looking fella with a kind face. He stepped forward to shake my and said, “Aren’t you Airman Jim O’Connor?”

“Yes, sir.” I replied.

He continued to enthusiastically shake my hand.

“Airman, my wife thinks you’re the best thing since sliced bread! We watch you every night. You do great job. You’re a credit to the network and to your service. Thanks for all you do!”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Colonel. If steam really could come out of your ears, it would have come out of his. I’m sure in his mind, I had disobeyed his orders, which brought undue attention to the Air Force, and the Sports Office! His face was beet-red.

“Thank you, sir!” I said.

With that, the general finally released my hand and said goodbye. The group shuffled out the door. The last person out was an Army sergeant friend of mine. He just smiled and whispered, “That was awesome! The Colonel’s going to go nuts!”

For the next week people would stop and shake my hand. The Colonel had been taken down a peg and they loved it! I was an unwitting hero of sorts. The truth is, I didn’t do anything. I was just in the wrong place at the right time. And I just can’t make this stuff up.

And this makes three

A few months later, Sean was stationed on a remote base in England. Along with being a Security Forces specialist, AKA base cop, Sean was part of a special unit whose operations and duties were highly classified. They were so classified, he couldn’t tell me the real names of the people on his team. It was a small team of just eight, and each was a character right out of the movies.  

Perhaps the best example was the team’s pilot. He was the real-life personification of Mad Dag Murdock from TV’s “The A-Team.” If it had wings or a rotor, he could fly it. And he was just as crazy as his TV counterpart. We’ll call him "Eagle."

One day the team was working in their secure facility when the subject of travel came up. Eagle casually described a summer trip he took to Berlin when he was a cadet in the Air Force Academy.

Sean thought some of what he heard sounded familiar. He Skyped me the next day and mentioned it because he thought he remembered me talking about a similar trip to Berlin.

I told him I was in Berlin in summer 1986 and while I was there I went on a city tour. One of the people on the bus was an Air Force Cadet. I remembered he had a French last name and was from someplace in southern Minnesota. He was a nice kid.

I could see the excitement on Sean’s face. He said, “Dad, I can’t tell you his name, but I think you just described Eagle!”

The next day, Sean was back in the team office. He’d previously told them about me and how I had this uncanny way of knowing people and running into them in odd places.

“Hey, Eagle,” he said. “When you went to Berlin, do you remember hanging out with a senior airman from Iowa?

“Yeah,” said Eagle. “We were on a bus tour.”

“You wore your dress uniform with your glider medallion.”

“Right,” said Eagle, with a quizzical look on his face.

“And you took a bunch of pictures at the Luftbrucke Memorial.”

“Right.”

And you ate dinner at a Balkan Restaurant by the airport.”

“Yeah, we ate so much the owner gave us free shots of amaretto. How in the world did you know that?” Eagle asked.

“That airman was my dad!” said Sean.

“No way!” Eagle yelled.

“Yep,” said Sean. “That’s my dad. I just can’t make this stuff up.”

###

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