It is State Tournament time here in Nebraska and Larry is very excited because he and our three sons will make their annual trek to Lincoln to watch the boys’ finals on Saturday night. They always stop and buy snacks to sneak in, eat at HuHot, and have a great time together.
My last post was about how I started playing the historic 6-on-6 Iowa girls’ basketball in the '50s, and I want to share a favorite memory of that time: The State Tournament! If you read that post, you’ll know our team never made it that far, or very far at all, but we got to go watch! It was an amazing time for us Washta teens, as most of us had never traveled past Cherokee and maybe once or twice a year to Sioux City! I think many of you athletes, girls and boys, will relate to the fun we had!
I’ll never forget when Luanne and I, both eight-graders, were told we could go! The school policy was that the first team and the seniors on the team were given the opportunity each year. We were playing quite regularly as the season progressed, so they invited us, too, and there was some dissension again. I know I was excited, but also overwhelmed and a little scared of the unknown. Think about it; Luanne and I were only 14.
What a blast to get out of school, travel to Des Moines, and stay in Hotel Kirkwood! I had never stayed in a hotel before. We had a chaperone, of course, but she didn’t stay in our rooms, as she probably required sleep. Not us! The way to accomplish this, is to never get in bed. In the five years that I went, I only remember sleeping a little one night as that chaperone and coach came down hard on us.
The hotel couldn’t put us on the same floors with teams that actually played in the tournament, or other visitors, because we were running the halls and stairs all night and having a great time making friends with other teams.
What fun we had during the day! Freedom to roam the streets, shop and eat what we could afford, and be carefree and silly. Never underestimate being silly! I remember eating pizza for the first time. Some of us had pooled more than we could afford for that pizza, were starved, but could hardly down a piece. The whole top was thick, stringy cheese, and nothing like the pizza we eat today. Perhaps it was because we Iowans were only used to beef, corn, potatoes and gravy!
A highlight of each year was to visit the beautiful Iowa State capital and climb the circular stairs to the very top. In those days, you could even continue on the wooden steps into the dome, which was very scary. Years later, when Larry and I took our children there, it was closed off because of bomb threats. Oh, the innocence of our time.
OK, I know you can’t believe that I would do this, but one year, two or three of us dropped water balloons from our hotel window. Besides us, there were a couple quieter girls who happened to still be in the room. Soon we heard a knock on the door, so we hid in the closet. The other girls had to answer the door and face the policeman who bawled them out and gave a stern warning. Their faces were SO red and they weren’t too happy with us.
A program from the Girls’ State Basketball Championship the year I was in eighth grade.
The games: Oh, that’s right, we went there for the games! Of course they were exciting, and it was fascinating to see how well the girls played. The thing that actually made me wide-eyed, though, was the overwhelming size of the auditorium, and all the people; it was so far down to the players! Everything about it was new and exhilarating. Contrarily, it was also difficult to stay awake!
I could probably go on for another page or two about the fun we had those five years, but what I’m really hoping is that this post will be a catalyst for all YOUR wonderful memories. If you would like, share one in the comment section for everyone to enjoy. Be sure to click “like” at the top of this blog so I know you read it, and “share” with all your old school buddies! Thanks, and happy reminiscing!
*Visit my post on How and Why You Should Write Your Memories, and leave your stories for your grandchildren.
My name is Mary Moore Conley. Recently, Deb Warth White read my post on How and Why You Should Write Your Memories. What caught her eye was my high school basketball photo, and she suggested I join the “I Played 6-on-6 Basketball in Iowa” Facebook page. So I did! She was also kind enough to share my post to that site.
Oh, my! As I scanned, I saw photographs of teams from way back even before my time (I graduated in 1960) and read some of the history of the unique game. On one of Deb’s entries, she mentioned two of her favorite things to watch is the movie, “Hoosiers,”and the Iowa Public Television video “Watch More Than a Game: 6-On-6 Basketball In Iowa.” I agree. We have that video, and I can almost see myself in much of it. Yes, I wore one of those very modest uniforms! As for the movie, my husband, Larry, and I can fully relate to the cracker box gymnasium in the story, as ours was even smaller. In fact, there is one scene our team experienced. We were about to go to a tournament held in a large gymnasium in Sioux City. Our coach took us there for a practice so we could get a feel for it. Then he used a tape measure to show us that the basket was the same distance from the free-throw line and same height from the floor as in our little gym where the two free throw circles overlapped the center circle! What he couldn’t do, though, was to give me the energy to run such a large court!
Also, as I scanned the Facebook page, I felt left out. I couldn’t identify with the many photos with trophies. Mostly LARGE trophies winning state. Wow! They don’t make them like that anymore! No, we never had a team that played at state, so Washta never had the chance to talk for years about the big game at Des Moines that shut down our little town for the day. However, there are so many wonderful memories in the hearts of us girls that should be mentioned, I think I may have to do just that!
Where to start is the problem. I’m thinking it will take more than one blog post because I want to recall several memories of those times. I’ve decided that I can only start from the beginning of my own story, knowing that much of it will also be the story of so many of the girls. I was not the star player on my team, but still, I can only tell my story.
It began in a school building that housed kindergarten through 12th grade. First, though, you’ll need to realize that back then, parents didn’t pay for their children to play on teams starting in grade school like at the present. So, I first started playing basketball in seventh grade on our little junior high team.
Junior High Basketball: I was in seventh grade.
Then came a big surprise. Actually, a shock. First two, and eventually five of us, were asked to stay after school to practice with the high school girls. You know that our school was desperately small in numbers for that to happen. My friend, Luanne, was better than I, and didn’t seem as scared to be with the older girls. I tried to fake it, but I was petrified. I realize, now, that the coach and superintendent watched us, thought we might have potential, and the sooner we started the better.
Before long, some of us were put in the games now and then to get experience. The regular bench warmers who eagerly waited for a turn were not too happy about that, and I can understand their disappointment. I didn’t win any popularity contest with them, but worked hard and did my best. I don't remember exactly when we began playing quite regularly, but I do know we played high school BB for five years.
The high school basketball team. I was in eighth grade.
As I previously mentioned, I wasn’t the star player, so I’m now going to tell you my ONE personal highlight I found in my scrapbook today. Then my boasting will be over. It was a county tournament game, and the newspaper article not only verifies how young we were, but also caused me to remember that it was a turning point for my acceptance from some of the benchwarmers and older girls. Mostly, I know all you athletes will identify with the disappointment of playing your heart out and then losing.
This is a clipping from the Cherokee Daily Times. We were eliminated in the first round of the annual Cherokee County Tournament.
Yes, I even underlined my name!
We had given it our all and come so close. After the game we dragged ourselves to the locker room. What a pathetic downcast mess we were. Then our chaperone told us not to shower quite yet as the coach wanted to talk to us. There certainly wasn’t much talking going on among us. No, we all just sat down on the floor along the walls and benches and shed a few tears, as girls do, and waited. And waited. Eventually, our coach and school superintendent came in. They were late because there had been quite a heated dispute. It seems the person “forgot” to start the clock as soon as he should have. It didn’t help that he was a fan of the other team. We’ll never know if he did it on purpose or just got caught up in the game. We lost just the same. We were told in detail that we played a great game, and I was personally complimented. One always remembers that.
It was on the bus ride home that a teammate, one of the bench warmers, sat by me and told me that she admired what I had done and that I deserved to be on the team. After that, I noticed that the others also had a better attitude towards me, and I felt accepted. Luanne certainly deserved her place on the team, far more than I.
A side note is that neither my or Larry’s parents attended our games. News of the game traveled back to Washta before our bus did, and my dad, who played cards in the pool hall while waiting for me, had already heard about the game when I arrived, and I could tell he was proud of me.
Now you know about a young Iowa girl who loved the game even though her team didn’t get far, let alone to state. Please join me again as I recall more highlights as well as the nitty gritty of playing small town 6-on-6 Iowa girls' basketball.
Do you still get to visit your childhood home? I’m 73 and the youngest in my family. My parents have been gone for several years, and the farm where I was raised was sold long ago. We just passed it on the way to visit relatives a few days ago, taking in all that has stayed the same, as well as the changes. I always look forward to seeing it, but then so many emotions start flooding in, I tear up, and almost wish I hadn’t. If I could, though, I know without a doubt which part of the farm I would love to relive again. Even for an hour or so. The railroad track.
A few years ago, I decided to write short stories of my life to pass down to our children. It surprised me how many of those memories involved the railroad track.
Our farm was in the Little Sioux River Valley 1 1/2 miles south of Washta, Iowa, and the track ran parallel to the farm, highway 31, and the hills. I wrote about walking on the rails and ties, and riding our pony in the safety of the surrounding ditches. There was an exciting summer my cousin, Gary, and I spent Sundays in the slimy water under the trestle witnessing the gradual change of tadpoles. We always acknowledged to each other when we heard the sound of the train that passed once a day, and I often waved to the friendly men who pumped the handcar checking the track between Correctionville and Washta. Occasionally, a black man helped repair the track; he was the first person of color I had seen in small-town Iowa.
And, it was while wandering along the railroad track as a young girl that I looked at the hills and decided there must be a God who made it all.
A small trestle just like the one by our farm. Photo: Roxy Lang Photography
Mostly, I remember the many hours herding cattle along the track on the hot, dry, summer days of July and August. The pastures had been grazed bare, but there was plenty of lush grass and tall weeds along both sides of the track. It was my job to take the cows down the lane and along the track to the next farm, turn them and head back. Cows are sneaky and there were many scary moments. If it were not for my trusty dog, Shep, it would have been impossible to keep them off the road, turn them towards home, and then back down the lane and through the gate to the barnyard.
Although herding cattle required my full attention, there were so many distractions such as beautiful wildflowers in bloom, and birds nesting in the grass and singing their special songs. Can’t you almost feel the soft winds and warm sun making me drowsy? Cars passed by now and then, and trucks with guys who honked and stuck their arms and heads out the window to wave and whistle. (No air-conditioning in vehicles in those days.) I was quite shy with my grubby clothes and windblown hair, but I wondered what they were like. Were they young or old? Were they already married? Cute? Would it be fun to date them? Would – OH, NO! There go the cows!
As adults, we often drove back to visit my parents on the farm. I can still picture our four children leaning forward to see who could be the first to spot their grandpa’s silos as we rounded the bend. On one of those trips, much to my horror, we noticed the railroad track had been ripped out and the ground graded smoothly in its place. To me, those tracks had been as permanent as the hills, or the winding Little Sioux River bordering the opposite side of our farm. It was part of my identity. How could they? They didn’t even ask me. It was so very sad.
Yes, if only I could spend even one hour back along the railroad track.
I guess I just did!
* Check out my last blog on How and Why You Should Write Your Memories!
I am not a writer. I know because I’ve read good books! I am a blogger, though, and I’m just now getting used to saying that. For a long time when people complimented my blogging, I always felt as though we were talking about a third person. In today’s post I want to tell you about how I first started writing. It was a few years ago, and my goal was to record several stories about my childhood for my children. I think you should, too, and I’ll soon tell you why.
“Not me,” you say? You can’t spell or punctuate or you don't have good sentence structure? Doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you get it down and in your own words. You don’t want your story to sound like someone else’s life, anyway. How do I know? I read it in a book, and that is what gave me the courage to start. I also know from the following experience:
I received a fairly lengthy note from my sister-in-law, Wilma. A FIRST! It was a rare thing, indeed. I felt so privileged that she had written to me, I was nearly floating around the house. Then my husband, Larry, started reading it, and pointed out the errors. It made me so mad. I didn’t care about those errors; I was just happy that she had written to me. Furthermore, because she had written in her own voice, I could just about hear her talking to me as I was reading her note. I treasure it!
Back to the “why” you should write your stories. Again, learning from experience, it is bound to be so much more than just passing down your life to your children. The act of writing, itself, may become therapy. For free! At least it did for me. It helped sort things out and made me realize something very important.
My family was wonderful in many ways, and very dysfunctional in others. What writing did for me was to revisit even the difficult times. I often stopped my typing to wipe the tears. Sometimes, I sobbed through it, or discontinued until another day. Then, I eventually applied forgiveness where needed. One of my stories was a letter I wrote to my dad, talking it all out. In the end, I told him I forgave him for all his anger and the sadness it caused. This may seem ridiculous since he was already dead, but it helped. My big surprise, though, was how I realized all that my parents had sacrificed and done for me. What started out as writing some of my childhood stories for my children, turned into gifts for me of forgiveness and thankfulness.
Maybe you don’t want to put yourself through any of those emotions. Well, don’t write those stories, then. I didn’t in the beginning. Tell your children all the fun and happy experiences you had. You’ll find yourself smiling as you type! I wrote about my dolls, playing on the railroad track, the arrival of baby chickens, riding our pony, being sent to the principal’s office, girls' basketball, typing class, 4-H, Mom sewing all my clothes, adventures with my cousin, Gary, and many more. If you can’t type, don’t give up before you start. Your family will inherit your very own authentic handwriting. My recollections range in size from just a paragraph to three pages.
1956/57; my memories of playing six-man Iowa girls’ basketball.
I’m quite sure ideas are popping into your head right now while you are reading this. Quick! Jot the topic down and you can get back to it later. One memory will most likely trigger another and soon you’ll have a whole list to work from. Larry “plans” to write his childhood stories, and he often mentions that he wants to tell about how the boys played marbles at recess and every chance they got.
I do feel I should warn you about something else I read in a book. Someone, probably a sibling, will tell you that your story isn’t accurate. It may not be, since everyone experiences things differently, especially if you were very young. Don’t let your feelings get hurt. Maybe they are the ones who don’t recall the details correctly. Don’t worry about it. Memories are just that, what you remember, and you can tell them so! Hopefully, you’ll enjoy reminiscing together.
One more thing: Don’t forget to write about your emotions. I learned this from Larry’s mom. She left a diary which we all read. It had a little historic value, but was completely devoid of any feelings concerning the situations, even when their house burned down. Not only was it boring, but it left us with so many questions. One could get the impression that they didn’t have emotions back then, similar to how the old sepia portraits make us wonder about our ancestors. I remember my elderly Aunt Golda telling me that after stiffly posing for those lengthy sittings, they would all burst out laughing! Ever since she shared that memory, I visualize it whenever l see one. Can’t you imagine those sober, colorless people transitioning off the photo paper into a fit of laughter?! Don’t make your readers wonder. Capture the emotions of what happened. They want to know you were a real live human being with feelings, just like them! Are you ready to begin?!
Mark Twain said there is a great deal of human nature in people! I have a perfect example I want to share with you. It was a week before Christmas that year (before 9-11), and I was on a three-hour layover in Atlanta, on my way to Pensacola, Florida, where our son-in-law was stationed in the Air Force. It was a special trip because I was going to help with the arrival of a new grand baby. Leaving my coat at home in frigid Omaha, Nebraska, I eagerly looked forward to my first visit to sunny Florida during the winter. I purposely overdressed in my new Christmas attire so that my young grandchildren, Joshua and Katie, would see me come off the plane in a cheery red dress.
While exiting the first plane, a man in front of me complained, "You can’t even go to hell without stopping in Atlanta." I, however, was almost thankful for the lengthy layover as I sat crocheting a pair of blue booties. I scolded myself once more for not making them before the rush of Christmas preparations. Now, if they would only turn off that annoying, repetitive message about not leaving luggage unattended or with a stranger, I would be able to concentrate on the pattern.
It was probably the red dress that first caught people’s attention, then they would see that I was a gray-haired grandmother crocheting booties, and smile at me. A little girl and her mother stopped and chatted. Then the mother asked me to watch their bags while they went to the restroom. As a woman, I understood how difficult it is to manage everything plus a child in one of those small stalls, but then another person observing us asked me to watch his, also. It became a job. All of a sudden, I was watching three people’s bags at the same time! All those black carryons began looking the same, and I was concerned that I might lose someone’s luggage! It became difficult to concentrate on my crocheting so I gave up and decided to continue after boarding the next plane.
I laughed to myself at how several people had ignored the constant warning on the intercom. I thought, if I ever need to look trustworthy, I'll just wear a red dress and crochet booties!
This is a more recent photo of this gray-haired grandmother crocheting! I have on red, and I’m crocheting a blue baby blanket. Do I look trustworthy?!
I believe each generation thinks theirs is a more difficult time to raise children. I remember the decade that teens started using drugs for the first time, and unprepared and distraught parents wrote in to a popular advice column saying that if they had known what was in store for them, they would never have had children.
One of the difficulties of raising children at the present is technology. Although it is wonderful, it is also a source of conflict, causing parents to have to put up safe guards and time limits on the computer, having to make their children go out and play, and demanding that phones be turned off during meals and other times.
Watching the news can cause concern about this present generation for sure, and it is no wonder from what I've observed while shopping. Who would believe that educated people would let a little child talk back, swear at them, or hit and kick them? So many times, I would like to say to a mother that I could give her a little hint I had learned along the way that would turn that whole scene around. I wonder what would happen if I did? Would she be relieved to get help, or tell me where to get off? On the other hand, I have observed many of my piano students over the years and know that there are parents who work hard at raising healthy and happy citizens.
I've found an exciting part of getting older is watching our own children become parents. One of our sons said that he hadn't realized when he was first handed his infant son, he would instantly know he would die for him. Yes, what a blessing, and now we get to watch THEM do the parenting!
This photo of our nine grandchildren was taken a year ago.
I find it difficult to remember the cute things my own children did or said, but have several memories about my grandchildren; probably because I repeated them so often to my friends! I would like to share two memories of examples of good parenting that made me proud to witness.
On the lighter side: The children had taken me out to lunch for my birthday. Little Charlie made a face of dislike about the water. His mommy said that some restaurants put lemon in the water. Charlie said, "I hate yemon." Mommy told him hate was a strong word and he could say, "I don't like lemon, or, I don't care for lemon." Daddy said, "Shall we practice that Charlie?" Charlie said, "I don't yike yemon!"
Serious parenting: We have nine grandchildren, and they have always liked each other and gotten along even though they are strung out in age. But one Christmas Eve a few years ago, it was well past young Charlie's bedtime and he was tired. I didn't see it happen, but he evidently wasn't being nice to older cousin Molly. Mommy and Daddy took Charlie upstairs and had a little talk. When Charlie came back down, he went to Molly and told her that he was sorry. Instantly, Molly put her arms around him and said, "I forgive you."
Doesn't that make your heart feel good? There is hope!
Benjamin Franklin is quoted as saying, “In this world, nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.” Since tax time is coming up, I rather like what Margaret Mitchell wrote in her book, "Gone With the Wind," "Death, taxes, and childbirth! There’s never any convenient time for any of them.” Well said, but I’m actually wanting to chat about what we used to call a funeral, but now often refer to as “the celebration of life.” I think you know that this is going to be one costly celebration unless we embrace the emerging way to go out without a bang.
Nothing stays the same in this world, and just as the small bookstore and the family hardware business, it is my opinion that the traditional funeral home may also be on the way out. Here is what I’m hearing that people are doing or plan on doing to escape the funeral home’s exorbitant costs. In a nutshell, to save the most money, be cremated and scattered.
Now I will be more compassionate. There are all kinds of changes you can make to that brief statement to fit your desires and still save money. I’ll try to write about as many as I’ve heard about and thought through. The main thing, though, is to bypass the funeral home.
The gathering: You can do this in your place of worship for little or no cost, or perhaps at a lodge or town hall. These choices may be more conducive to visiting and reminiscing. You can still have photos displayed, slides shown, and your eulogy or exciting life history read. Since my parents, aunts and uncles, and four out of five of my brothers have already passed (bowing of head), I would like mine to be in my own home with perhaps an open visitation one day, and a private family funeral the following day. Unless, or course, my residing place has been a nursing home.
The burial: I’m sure you have already heard of myriad places someone’s ashes have been strewn. They can be buried, too, but this adds to the cost. We already have plots my father gave us in a beautiful well-kept cemetery in our home town of Washta, Iowa. We will pay for a headstone, but the bonus to cremation is that our bodies can easily be transferred to that site without charge. And if (ha, ha), our children ever visit us there, they will find graves of our extended family from both sides. I can just about see them excitedly calling out to one another as they find one family tombstone after another. I heard recently, that in some places, you can even have a family member dig the grave to save money. I guess that might happen if they are hard up for a little more inheritance. Or, you used up all your savings in a nursing home and left them nothing for such things.
The coffin: Forget it. Years ago, we went to the gravesite service for one of Larry’s brother’s and there sat a little wooden box about the size of a large jewelry box. At least that is how I remember it. Cremation was new to us, and when I saw that little box, I don’t know what came over me, but I got the giggles and almost had an aneurysm burst right there trying to contain myself! Our friends recently went to a funeral where the woman, who loved to fish, had her ashes put in a large colorful bobber! The point is, you can be put in anything you want to be buried in, thrown out to sea, or to stir up a little conversation at your visitation! Maybe we should go choose something right now while we’re thinking about it. You know, like some people choose their favorite suit or dress ahead of time.
So, is there anything left to pay for besides that fiery furnace? Maybe the death certificate if it didn’t come with the cremation, I’m told, but you will save thousands. As usual, you can find all that information on the web, or leave it for your family to do; that and cleaning out the years and years of stuff accumulated in your house! Its payback time!
On a lighter note: My sweet friend, Roxy, wants her ashes scattered out among their trees. I told her that if I’m still alive, I will spread wild flower seeds around her. Isn’t that a happy thought?
Quotes I hear my husband, Larry, saying:
– Every day above ground is a good day!
– Don’t take life too serious. You aren’t going to get out of it alive anyway!
– Larry also sometimes honestly mistakes the word funeral in place of wedding. When corrected, he says, “They’re the same thing!”
– Lately, he has been fond of repeating a Woody Allen quote: “It's not that I'm afraid to die, I just don't want to be there when it happens.” He thinks that is so funny!