Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Joe Brown’s goes to the dogs, literally

By now, it’s no secret we’re a family of animal lovers. And except for a couple of cats we had during the seven years we lived in DeWitt, our entire cast of fur-covered Murrell children have dwelled in the confines of the old Joe Brown place.

Our family began with Tuttle, a black lab wedding gift from Marty’s brother and his family. Named after M*A*S*H character Hawkeye’s childhood pretend friend, Tuttle was kind of ours and kind of my parents.

When our first human child arrived, we determined Tuttle needed a vacation and would be happier at my parents’ Grand Mound farm. Mom laughs about it now, but apparently we never really verified that little agreement. I assumed Marty had cleared it with them and vice versa, but as Mom tells it, “One day, you brought Tuttle out for a visit. And left! Marty would take her hunting . . . and then bring her back!”

maudry in pastureBy the time Moira was three and Maclane arrived, Tuttle was back. Back in DeWitt for a couple more years before heading north to the old Joe Brown place.

By the time we moved, Tuttle was around eight. Though not terribly old, she’d lost the spring in her once-youthful step. Enter Zeke.

A RAGBRAI teammate from Ames realized his behemoth, caramel-colored giant of a mutt was too big for his small house in town, and since we had a big ol’ house and all that fresh, country air. . .

But Zeke turned out to be awesome with the kids and a buddy for Tuttle before her health deteriorated into a debilitating spinal condition that ended her life.

One of my favorite Zeke memories occurred during a particularly long road trip. If it’s possible for a dog’s hair to turn green, poor Zeke’s had. When that oh-too-familiar stank wafted to the front of the vehicle and I turned around, a woefully comic expression rested on his face. Zeke was car sick.

After depositing some of his stomach’s contents in the back of our old Ford Explorer and leaving the rest in a ditch alongside the road, he eventually passed out.

His favorite pastime, however, would also be his demise: chasing down the many milk trucks that travel to and fro Blanchard’s nearby dairy.

After Zeke died, Tuttle’s health failed and we found ourselves dogless. Within days Marty located a beagle pup, Sydney. She was an absolute sweetheart except for an irritating habit of snacking on dirty underwear, specifically small, pint-sized Spiderman briefs.

Sydney was our one and only mother, having found herself in the family way after dog-sitting Dad Reed’s fully-loaded springer, Chubby. Dad couldn’t remember if Chubby was fixed, but when we’d taken Sydney to the vet to be spayed, it was too late.

Following a litter of seven puppies that winter, Sydney, like Zeke, met her end on 136. Again dogless, Marty and the kids visited a local shelter and were sweet-talked into taking TWO dogs: a massive black lab mix named Gordy and a small, ugly-as-sin rat terrier, Maudry.

After a few months, 136 struck again by luring Gordy to his death. This was around 2009, which I’m happy to say was the last such victim. For now.

Maudry, who wheezed like a chain-smoking 87-year-old bridge player and exhibited a similar level of fitness, remained committed to her belief that she be allowed to hump all the couch pillows and sleep her days away. What a peach.

As lovely as she sounds, old Maudry needed a companion. When a neighbor called to see if we wanted a puppy, a springer/collie mix, that’s when Joe Brown “The Dog” entered our family.

Joe, who remains alive and well with my brother, Matt Reed, is one of the funnier dogs. One Christmas we went south and Dad Reed agreed to dogsit. When we returned and brought Joe home, he seemed blue. When Dad came over for supper, Joe jumped in his car.

The two were perfect for each other. Dad thought Joe should stay outside, Joe thought he should be in. Come sunset Joe would bang on the front door and Dad would yell, “Knock it off!” This banter became an evening routine with Joe always winning. The most faithful of companions, Joe remained at Dad’s side until the end.

Prior to Joe’s taking over Dad’s place, we briefly had a trio: Maudry, Joe and Pugsley, a stray pug. We quickly learned, he was probably a stray for a reason.

Whether it was finding him on top of the dining room table or snorting dead flies, Pugsley was at once both cute and gross. His biggest fault, though, was his running.

It should’ve been no surprise given that’s how we got him. We could barely let him out to pee without him taking off. On one such adventure, we learned he’d shacked up for a weekend with Joe and Kelly Sparks under the pseudonym “Larry.” What a player.

It was clear Pugsley needed open, corralled spaces and we weren’t about to fence in our yard. Though Maclane continues to resent me for it, I encouraged Marty to find Pugsley a new home with an enclosed yard.

And then a pregnant stray showed up at Marty’s parents’ Arkansas home! When the pups arrived, they looked a bit Labrodor’ish. And Marty wanted a hunting dog.

So with hopes the Lab line ran strong, Charlie was brought from Arkansas to Iowa where he continues to be the best darn dog on the planet! He loves the outdoors, tries to flush birds and is a pro at avoiding eye-contact with cats. He’s great at scaring off possums and skunks, doesn’t snore too loud and has the most expressive face ever.

He’s so mutt’y he probably has a dozen different breeds flowing through his veins, but he’s proven himself the most devoted overseer of the Joe Brown place.

Except for having to put Maudry down a couple years ago due to her suffering with COPD-like breathing troubles, we’ve had no further canine sorrows. Let’s hope this lucky streak continues!

Originally published 6 December 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Beatles tribute hits Vegas jackpot

It was a moment of weakness when I registered for the Las Vegas Rock & Roll Marathon last spring. Friends were signing up & the early-bird registration was quite affordable at $125. So with thoughtless fingers, I completed my online registration.

I had no business doing so, for several reasons: A) I did a Rock & Roll half marathon in Chicago in 2010 and given the high price tag, it should’ve been fabulous. It wasn’t. Neither awful nor awesome, the “meh” attitude with which I was left me caused me to swear off future Rock & Roll events.

vegas mom & dadMy second mistake was forgetting I’ve never had a desire to visit Sin City, ever. It’s hot, it’s crowded, I don’t drink, I try not to smoke and I don’t gamble.

Then I figured it could be a short getaway for my husband and I . . . until Marty was lured to Florida for a week of golf with his brother-in-law. Then, as the event grew nearer, the friend I planned to travel with opted to drop out.

When I told my mom about the event and my predicament, she said her and Dad wouldn’t mind going back to Las Vegas since their last visit had been 25 years ago.

So I booked a package deal through Allegiant Air for the three of us. Flying out of Moline Friday afternoon and returning Monday, we had rooms at The Mirage and complimentary tickets to the Cirque du Soleil Beatles LOVE show for Friday night.

Because I’d never expected to visit Vegas, I was ignorant of its geography and really only knew it sat in the desert. I didn’t realize it was surrounded by the attractive red rock of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

Sitting sandwiched like an eight-year-old between her parents, our flight out was cramped, noisy, but incredibly smooth. (Our return was opposite in every way: I’d selected seats with extra leg room, the 7 a.m. departure was quiet, but both the take-off and landing were a bit bumpy.)

Arriving in Las Vegas mid-afternoon we were able to check-in to our hotel, collect our tickets for the 9:30 show that evening and visit the race expo for my bib number and swag all before supper.

Having left Dad back at the hotel, Mom and I tackled the expo by ourselves. Try as I might to avoid having my picture taken, Mother insisted I stand before an expo sign. Ugh. But as fate would have it, while Mom attempted to take said picture, some people began walking in front of me. Turned out these random strangers were friends from the Cedar Rapids/North Liberty area who I didn’t know would be there! It was estimated 40,000 runners participated in the Saturday and Sunday events and there I stood with a gaggle of buddies as if we were at some local Iowa race!

Mom marveled at the size of the packet pickup and number of vendors. While I normally loathe expos because of the crowds, seeing Mom sample nibbles of mint chocolate chip PowerBars and snatch up free samples of organic Hemp Pro protein powder, it was totally worth it.

Plus, we both got suckered into purchasing hand lotion. As the vendor massaged the aloe cream into Mom’s hands, she said the magic words, “It won’t wash off, no matter how many times you wash your hands.” Mom, being a nurse, immediately said, “We’ll take two.”

Following the expo, we grabbed Dad and enjoyed a massive buffet at the hotel. If I was still drinking, it would’ve been a steal at $35 a head because all-you-can-drink wine and beer was included. That said, I attempted to eat my weight in sushi, shrimp and chocolate . . . not the best move considering how tired we were feeling and still had the Beatles show to see at 9:30 (11:30 our time).

But what a show!!! I had absolutely no idea the sensory overload we were in for. Premiering back in 2006, much of the music featured came from the Beatles psychedelic album, “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.” The songs and voice overs of John, Paul, George and Ringo were acted out with the acrobatic prowess of the famed Cirque du Soleil troupe.

Done “in the round” with the audience circling the stage, our nose bleed seats from above gave us a bird’s eye view of EVERYTHING! Whether it was trapeze artists swinging from a ceiling dripping with twinkling lights to the sound of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” or bubbling, billowing fabric slithering from a rising bed and covering the audience 20 rows deep during “Within You Without You,” the three of us agreed you simply didn’t know where to look!

From all directions came colors and movement and sounds. No wonder the people sitting next me had seen the show seven times! Every song was a different scene offering weird, eye-popping, candy-colored costumes. We were riveted by the roller skaters zipping and flipping over half-pipe skate ramps to the song, “Help!” and transfixed by the floating jelly fishes bobbing from their bungee cords during “Octopus’s Garden.”

I could go on, but no words, no photos will ever do this 90-minute show justice! That, alone, made the trip worth it.

Tune in next week for two vastly different tours of the Las Vegas Strip!

Originally published 22 November 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Vegas 26.2 proves too great a challenge

I’d traveled to Vegas to run the Las Vegas Rock & Roll Marathon. My husband couldn’t join me so Mom and Dad opted to go!

It’d been 25 years since they last visited Sin City. A lot has changed. We spent much of Saturday morning and afternoon walking the Strip. I booked us at The Mirage because not only did I think Mom and Dad would enjoy it, but the marathon finished there. Little did I know it was also seated at the north end of the Strip.

Strolling south we visited casinos in Harrah’s, the Flamingo, New York New York and the Monte Carlo. There were crystal chandeliers, hot pink leather seats and gorgeous silver Audis waiting to be won. Absent were the tuxedo’ed James Bond-types.

~vegas marathonThough the casinos were mostly the same, Mom and Dad both admitted disappointment with how lavish and outlandish the Strip had become. The old Vegas was gone, replaced with extravagant shops like Prada, Tom Ford and Guicci. It’s truly like a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah.

We had supper at Toby Keith’s I Love This Bar & Grill inside Harrah’s. With hard-working waitresses in cowboy hats and chaps, Mom and I giggled watching tables of middle aged men drool over the in-your-face breasts and butts, ignoring their poor dates.

The rest of the evening and much of Sunday I hung out in my room while Mom and Dad roamed around. The anxiety I normally feel before a marathon was amped up even more because it was a night event. Start time: 4:30 p.m.

When I joined Mom and Dad for coffee and muffins Sunday morning and again for lunch, I kept telling them, “This wait is killing me!” As with many runners, I’m used to a morning routine of coffee, breakfast, race. This was a mind game of waiting. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t relax, couldn’t calm down. Despite it being my 12th marathon, it felt like my first.

Ever since my first in 2010 when I saw a runner wearing a tall Eiffel Tower cage, I knew I wanted to run in costume. Since then I’ve acquired all sorts of tutus and shirts and tights. For Vegas, I decided to go with a holiday theme: red tulle skirt, black capri tights, candy-cane striped socks, a Santa hat, elf collar and a green t-shirt that read “Santa’s coming? I know him!” from the movie Elf.

Some people think I do it for attention, but I dress up to give other people a laugh and this costume didn’t disappoint. While waiting for the race to start, a gaggle of Santas passed through my start corral so I shouted, “Santa! I know him!”

When the Santas turned around and greeted me, I turned to my race mates and screamed, “They know me!” That’s all it took for a few of us to start swapping Elf movie quotes. Still, we were in for a long wait and though the majority of runners were doing the half, even they were antsy to get going.

I was assigned Corral 28 based on an estimated finish of 4:40—a tad hopeful, but not impossible given my marathon PR is 4:32. But this was the first I’d run with a required finish time of five hours or less. That, alone, does a number on the psyche.

Though the race started at 4:30 p.m., it wasn’t until 5:10 that I go rolling and by the second mile I knew I was in trouble. Whether it was the long wait to start, the previous day’s walking or the evening timeframe, I could tell I was pushing too hard and getting nowhere. I felt like I was in quicksand.

As the course ran along the Strip, I took in the lights, but worried. I spotted my parents and Hi-5’ed Dad, not stopping to talk. Off and on, I ran with a Quad City friend who was doing the half.

Around the ninth mile, she veered toward her finish while the full course headed to Fremont Street, which was a delight! With a massive video screen canopying the pedestrian mall, crowds lined the race course and Hi-5’ed us as we went through. I noticed my face was having trouble smiling. My cheeks wouldn’t work!

And then it happened. Just before Mile 14, as I trailed runners taking the course’s left turn, several race officials walked onto the course and formed a human barricade. I’d missed the cutoff. Me and everyone behind me were denied further progress.

I heard one runner shout at the race officials, pleading he be allowed to continue. No dice. We’d run the first half too slow. They’d turned us around and sent us back to the finish.

This was on an out-and-back portion of the course so we blended in with other runners who’d already circled through the portion we hadn’t.

I felt a weird mix of angst and relief. Like a neon billboard, the thought that crowded out all others was: “This would be my first DNF (Did Not Finish).”

I couldn’t understand what I’d done wrong. My training was solid, the course was flat, the temperature was perfect and yet none of that matter. It was a race in which things just didn’t come together.

As the course took runners back through Fremont Street I tried to smile and wave. When I headed toward the finish, I palmed the many hands sticking out. I felt like a poser, but couldn’t find another way off the course. I headed down the finisher’s chute and over the finish line. Weird.

I spotted a half marathoner sitting along the edge, pulling out a cigarette. I nearly joined him. I felt gross, on the inside.

After my parents found me, their faces falling when I told them what happened, I went to my room and messaged friends of the failure. It wasn’t long for a Facebook comment to pop up from one of my dearest friends, Observer-alum Shelly Seifert, “Your children are watching how you deal with this.”

BOOM!

Does it get any more real than that?

There is way too much heartache in this world to let a little ol’ marathon get me down. Besides, I have no regrets! It was a great way to see the city and a fabulous experience with my parents!

For all the junk that chokes my Facebook newsfeed, recently a friend posted an article by runner Dane Rauschenberg, “Six Ways You Can Succeed in Running.” No. 6 on the list was “Remember How Lucky You Are.”

“. . . the main and best thing about running is that you get to do it. . . You are traversing the world, one foot at a time . . . there are thousands who wished they had it so easy. Don’t take it for granted.”

And I don’t intend to. Hopefully Thursday I ran my fifth Turkey Trot in Davenport. Tonight, my son Maclane and I will done costumes for Clinton’s Symphony of Lights 5k at Eagle Point Park. Tomorrow I plan to strap on a headlamp and join my Cornbelt buddies for a 6 a.m. long run along Bettendorf’s Duck Creek Bike Path.

Originally published 29 November 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Like a cruel ding-dong ditch ‘em, ‘Menopause’ comes a’knockin’

Last Sunday, I sat in the fourth row at the Adler, listening to a quartet of women sing about my life. Honestly, I’d hoped the topic would sail over my head, that the theme would be some unfamiliar nether issue waiting for me many years off in the future. Sadly, “Menopause the Musical” hit every stinking note with surprising precision.

Is that “TMI” (too much information), that I’m sitting squarely in the midst of “the Change?” Tough. It has/is/will effect half the people on this planet so why shouldn’t we talk about it? And yet our culture, for as progressive as we may think ourselves (well, maybe not so much after last Tuesday) we continue to dance around the issue.

At least the musical gave good beats with which to do that dancing.

I knew I had a few telltale symptoms, but as each scene passed and the songs built one on top of the other, I was aghast at how strongly I could relate to the four women on stage. No offense, but those four women looked much older than me!

Not that they weren’t attractive, mind you, but they certainly weren’t 35. And neither am I, even though my mind would have me believe I’m still in my early 20s. Where did the last two decades go?!

I guess I can thank the women of the Baby Boomer generation for not going quietly into that dark “Change,” but I don’t know how ready I am to join you.

Once the 1980s gave way to the ‘90s and I no longer required cans of Aqua Net to set my hair skyward, increasing my height a solid 6 inches, I slowly drifted away from worrying about my looks.

Maybe it was the “freshman 15” in college or maybe it was just the style of the times: large, flannel shirts and grunge music, but somewhere along the way I lost the ability to be “girlie.”

Sure I might wear a bit of makeup, but any concept of how to accessorize scarves and beads and earrings and bangles was snuffed out by my penchant for plaid button-downs and KSwiss sneakers.

And my fashion sense hasn’t improved much. Instead of the oxford shirts, it’s race t’s. The KSwiss tennies have been replaced by whichever running shoe currently holds my orthotic inserts.

So what does this have to do with menopause? In spite of my best efforts to shun my gender, I am indeed a woman . . . and boy do my hormones ROAR!

Take the night sweats . . . the heat I emit is similar to that of a self-cleaning oven, as if I might set the bed on fire. I was running with a girlfriend earlier this week who told me that when she suffers night sweats her husband asks if she’s sick, “Do you have a fever?”

There are times I’ll wake up FREEZING and drenched, leggings, long-sleeved t-shirt and my entire side of the bed, soaking wet. Gross? Well, apparently that’s just run-of-the-mill menopause.

During Sunday’s performance, one of the characters made mention of waking up in a puddle and not knowing whether to change the sheets in the middle of the night or simply lay down a towel and go back to sleep.

Are there hidden cameras in my bedroom?! There’s only one way writer Jeanie Linders could’ve known that about me and that’s if it happened to her and a host of other women. And yes, my running buddy admitted it happens to her, as well.

And speaking of sleep, I never realized my lack of continuous shut eye was menopause related, but when the musical hit that note, I was reminded how over the last couple of years, I’m waking more and more often for no reason and struggling to fall back to sleep.

My doctor recommends I take Black Cohosh, morning and night, but I haven’t noticed much of a difference.

The differences I AM noticing are those marching across my body, starting with my face. I remember my skin being younger-looking, more like Play Doh, smooth and healthy. But now? For the first time I’m noticing wrinkles in new places. My forehead is creased with many and varied lines and my dimples no longer seem youthful, but rather sad and weathered.

And that area between my neck and chest, the décolletage? Let’s just say that if it wasn’t for the dang hot flashes, I’d wear turtle necks year round! Where did all those freckles and furrows come from?!

Maybe this is why I abandoned my “girlie” side years ago, maybe I secretly hoped that if I ignored the “girlie” part of me and focused on the “biking, running, sporty-Grrrr” part of me, I wouldn’t be bothered when age came a’knocking.

But guess what, I’m bothered.

While I’m not ready to delve into wrinkle creams, age-fighting serums, Botox and all the other “solutions” the beauty industry is hocking, I am beginning to understand on a very personal level why women pine for such treatments.

This aging business is quite disturbing. For someone like me, who really didn’t care about all that, to suddenly care about all that?! It’s weird.

I can only imagine how freaked out normal women must be, women who actually put an effort into coordinating an outfit and putting on make-up. In my effort to set myself apart from all of you, I find that I’ve been right beside you all along.

Hopefully next time you see me and I’m lathered like a horse, you’ll know I’m just struggling through a hot flash. Misery loves company, so please don’t let me suffer alone, remind me you know how it feels. I like empathy.

Girlfriends, let’s help each other through this! No matter how different we each choose to cope, let’s have each other’s backs on this and just do whatever we must. Me? I think I’ll sign up for another race . . . and slather on extra sunscreen.

Originally published 8/15 November 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Film, music & make-up: a great week of area entertainment

Movies and mayhem, both musical and otherwise. What a week it’s been!

Without a doubt, Monday’s premiere of the documentary “West By Orphan Train” at DeWitt’s Operahouse Theatre crushed anyone’s expectations.

Hosting the event was the Friends group from the Frances Banta Waggoner Community Library and we offered a secret preview that afternoon to residents of local assisted living facilities. With 10 people attending from Maggie’s House in DeWitt and another 20 traveling from Grand Haven in Eldridge, we had a solid start to the day’s event.

orphan train mo & mac behind depotSpending the remainder of the afternoon with film director Colleen Bradford Krantz and Clark Kidder, author of “Emily’s Story,” I took them to Ann Soenksen’s to show Kidder where his grandmother’s school would have stood while also allowing him to visualize the general area of the Pelham Farm where his grandmother lived for several months. Eventually we stood at the Malone train crossing, where Emily arrived in Clinton County via orphan train from New York.

When we returned to DeWitt and walked toward the Operahouse at 5:30 Monday night, people were already trickling into the lobby. By 6:10 p.m., as Kidder’s book supply started running low and the crowd swelled, all of us began to fret over the theater’s capacity of 236.

Within 20 minutes, the house was full!

Opting to offer a second showing, we rolled the 60-minute film early and had another 150 people return at 8 p.m. for that screening!

While hindsight remains 20/20 and both Krantz and Kidder agreed the afternoon preview would have been a great option for others, no one could have prepared us for the wonderful interest in this project.

Admittedly, we live in a pretty cool area. Not only do we support the arts, but we have a solid interest in the orphan train story due, in part, to the Delmar Depot.

Many people connected with Krantz and Kidder, sharing stories of family members who came to the Midwest on an orphan train. One of the more exciting meetings was with a Muscatine woman whose mother was an orphan train rider and is still alive!

Iowa Public Television will be partnering with Krantz and Kidder for another local showing at Davenport’s Figge Art Museum, Sunday Nov. 16 at 2 p.m. A tentative IPTV airing is set for Monday, Dec. 1 at 7 p.m.

As if I didn’t get my art “fix” Monday, Tuesday was the Northeast Marching Band Extravaganza in which both the middle and high school marching bands performed in the gymnasium.

When we moved our family into the Northeast School District nearly a decade ago, we attended a football game and watched a small, rather rag-tag marching band take the field. Both Marty and I came from strong high school music programs and we were adamant that both our children participate.

In the few years since our first experience watching the Northeast Marching Band, the program has burgeoned under the tutelage of Gerald Creger, Matthew Bolahan and Laura Horst, making Marty and I (selfishly) very excited for the coming years!

During Tuesday night’s concert, the middle school band began their set with Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water.” I barely stifled a giggle as Creger prefaced the song by claiming it’s a mainstay for anyone with a guitar, electric or air. Myself? I remember killing it on the keyboard. Seriously, few are the chords less familiar!

After a smokin’ hot rendering of that classic, the band proceeded with the theme from “The Pirates of the Carribean” before closing with an impressive parade number.

Prior to the high schoolers taking the floor, Creger noted the band participated in the Musky Marching Invitational in Muscatine where they won the third place trophy. They also took part in the Iowa High School State Marching Band Festival at the newly renovated Brad Street Stadium in Davenport where they achieved an ‘Excellent’ rating.

The gym then filled with the music of Billy Joel, a multi-piece homage titled “Piano Man-the music of Billy Joel.” From “Only the Good Die Young” to “Air” (Dublinesque) it was both exciting and gorgeous to witness.

Hats off to the seniors and we excitedly wait the 2015 season to hear how the younger performers try to fill your shoes. Great work and many thanks for all your hard work!!!!

And finally, what Halloween is complete without ghouls, especially in Charlotte? Yep, the local haunted house is baaaack!

After 2012’s sudden and soul-crushing closing of the Charlotte Haunted House, Mike Jensen and the rest of the Citizens For Charlotte crew resurrected this community tradition inside the walls of the old stone Charlotte school.

With last weekend’s opener attracting nearly 1,000 people (official headcount was 989), it’s clear this town gives a great scare. Consider joining us tonight for the final screams of the 2014 season!

Originally published 1 November 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Movie sheds light on orphan train history

It was 2000 when I first heard about the orphan trains. I was working as a stringer for The Quad City Times and was assigned a piece on the Delmar Depot and a Maquoketa man who landed in the area after riding an orphan train from the east.

He was quiet and kind, showing great patience with my nervous, cub reporter-self. Inviting me into his home, I sat with him and his adult daughter while he shared his experience.

wilton orphan depotIt wasn’t a happy one. I remember he swallowed back tears telling me of the pain he felt being given away. He talked of being taken in, not as a son, but as a farm hand, and how the other kids at the farm would make fun of his eastern accent, specifically for how he said the word “horse” as “haws.” He said it was hard coming on an orphan train because, as he put it, he wasn’t wanted.

Not to wax saccharine, but in spite of this man’s sad start in life, I remember looking at his daughter and thinking of the love he eventually found in marriage and creating his own family. Surely it doesn’t replace the early love lost, but it must’ve filled at least a little of the empty space. My inexperience cost me. I didn’t ask the question, and he’s since died, taking his story with him.

Oddly enough, what Wisconsin author Clark Kidder wrote in “Emily’s Story” about his own grandmother’s coming from New York to Iowa on an orphan train echoed a similar experience.

First being taken in by the Pelham family of rural DeWitt, Clark noted it wasn’t a good environment for Emily. She was then taken in by a LeClaire family. Again, more pain awaited her. In fact Emily was never formally adopted, rather she grew up in Wisconsin, staying with families that gave her shelter in exchange for housework and childcare.

As with the Maquoketa gentleman, Emily’s joy did not take flight, it seemed, until a friendship with Earl Kidder sparked into romance and a family of her own grew up around her.

Since that mid-90s newspaper assignment the story of the orphan trains remained a part of me. Maybe it’s the regular drives through Delmar and past Maria Casad’s shadowy mural of train passengers, or maybe it’s the unsettling disbelief that such things took place for 50+ years from 1854 to 1930.

Given today’s standards for adoption, it’s surreal to imagine loading trains with orphans and indigent children, and sending them blindly into an unknown. Obviously organizers hoped they would find new, loving families, but there were no guarantees.

As the children were paraded across stages like that of DeWitt’s Operahouse Theatre, reciting a poem or a psalm, they could be taken into the home of a predator just as easily as that of a caring family, eager to give shelter and love.

I still question why I never learned about it in school, as if it was some ugly mark kept hidden, forgotten in a corner of our history. I marvel at how few people are aware of this period. While the movement was sparked out of concern and love for those children, as with so many altruistic efforts, pure intentions are easily sullied by the harmful actions of a few.

Monday the history of this orphan train experiment will come to the big screen in DeWitt with the premiere of the film “West By Orphan Train.”

Through an odd twist of events, Clark reached out to one of my dearest college friends, Colleen Bradford Krantz whose 2010 documentary “Train to Nowhere” on illegal immigration, sparked her book of the same name.

Clark pitched the idea of doing a documentary on the orphan trains, using his grandmother’s story as the framework. Colleen agreed and pulled in Iowa Public Television to partner on the project.

In planning the film schedule, Colleen realized how close my daughter, Moira, was in age to Emily when she rode an orphan train to Malone Station east of DeWitt. With Moira portraying Clark’s grandmother, additional children were needed to portray other orphans and Maclane happened to fit one of the costumes, serving as an extra for filming at the depots in West Liberty and Wilton.

Even though witnessing movie magic was an enjoyable experience, it remained a sad look at our nation’s past. Watching Moira wander, alone, along Anne Soenksen’s property near the original Malone Station; seeing Maclane sit on a suitcase and stare across the West Liberty railroad tracks . . . my mind continued to turn over the sadness experienced by so many young ones.

Reading “Emily’s Story,” I gaped at the strength necessary to withstand rejection at such a fundamental level, in many cases by your own family and then by adoptive families taking you in solely for your ability to work.

Seeing mine and the other children in period dress left me emotional. Their little bodies. Their long, sad faces. It was hard NOT to imagine the fear Emily and thousands of others must’ve felt as their trains chugged toward the next stop . . . being marched across a stage, holding their backs straight, chins up, hoping to be chosen by a nice family.

I know not every story was one of sadness. In spite of her tough start, “Emily’s Story” is a beautiful telling of one girl’s willingness to persevere. In fact, after my book club read it, a single word, “spitfire” continually sprang to mind whenever I thought of Emily. She simply never gave up. And thanks to her grandson’s book and Colleen’s film, her story and that of other orphan train riders are preserved for the ages.

Monday, consider joining Clark, Colleen and the Friends of Frances as we host the premiere of “West By Orphan Train” at The Operahouse Theatre. This free event begins at 6 p.m. with Clark signing copies of “Emily’s Story.” The movie will show at 7 p.m. and a question-and-answer period with Colleen and Clark will conclude the event.

*Unfortunately I was unable to locate a copy of my orphan train piece in the early 2000s and did not want to risk misidentifying the name of the Maquoketa gentleman I interviewed. My deepest apologies for the omission.

Originally published 25 October 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Old Farmer’s Almanac 2015 forecast

The opening verse of the song “Like the Weather” by 10,000 Maniacs pops to mind during cold, rainy periods such as the recent soaking we suffered earlier this week. . .

              “Color of the sky as far as I can see is coal grey.

              “Lift my head from the pillow and then fall again.

              “Shiver in my bones, just thinking about the weather.

              “Quiver in my lip as if I might cry.”

Those dreary days can be easily forgotten as Wednesday gave way to gentle fall conditions. Is anyone with me in noticing the tree color? Could I be hallucinating or do the reds seem incredible this year? Even the sumac, usually a gorgeous deep burgundy is a flaming candy-apple red in many places!

I suffer such a love/hate reaction to this time of year. One the hand, the temperatures are falling and the changing leaves are lovely. But on the other hand, days are shortening . . . and I need my Vitamin D!

Admittedly, my schizophrenic-like attitude toward the weather is one in which I’m seldom content. Heat is my constant foe, and humidity? Forget it! I will never complain about the cold because you can always put on more layers (though my sisters would argue otherwise). But during those thick, steamy days of summer? You can only get so naked before you’re arrested, and then you’re still gross and sweaty!

In spite of my aversion to warmer climes, I must admit my recent sadness. All the glorious leaf colors and cooler temps serve as sentinels to my seasonal depression, heralding shorter days, cabin fever and miles waiting to be slogged on the treadmill.

While I truly appreciate temps in the teens, the limitations winter places on our lives is a total bummer. Thanks to wool socks and all sorts of layers, at least the cold and wind do not imprison me. But snow and ice? Yeah, I’m out . . . or rather, in.

When I asked my 11-year-old son his thoughts on the coming winter, he shared his excitement, claiming “there’s more to do outside during the winter.” Maclane noted sledding, snowboarding, snowball fighting. (I’ll remember this when he wants to be a toad, sit on the couch and play Minecraft all day.)

It was about six weeks ago, listening to Iowa Public Radio’s “Talk of Iowa” with Charity Nebbe, that I caught her interview with an editor of The Old Farmer’s Almanac.

The winter forecast? Cold and blustery.

Seriously? After last winter?! Honestly, I hate to complain about last winter, but even I found it a little . . . long.

And now it would truly seem that our last hot days are behind us. Hurray! But does that mean I’m ready for cold and blustery? Nope, which is why I opted to snag a copy of the 2015 edition of The Old Farmer’s Almanac to find out for myself all that next year has in store for us.

Scanning the table of contents, there’s an actual guide to using The Old Farmer’s Almanac, a good thing considering there are parts which read like Galileo’s notebook. The calendar pages are the meat of the almanac, “these pages are unchanged since 1792, when Robert B. Thomas published his first edition. The long columns of numbers and symbols reveal all of nature’s precision, rhythm and glory, providing an astronomical look at the year 2015.”

One thing I remember from the public radio program was that the Almanac claims to have an 80 percent accuracy rate. Googling the question, “How accurate is The Old Farmer’s Almanac” I found many sites itching to complain about such a boastful claim.

A meteorologist writing for Slate, an online magazine, reported “Independent verifications of its forecasts by actual meteorologists over the years showed skill that was ‘laughable at best and abysmal at worst’ with accuracy about as good as a coin toss.”

But doesn’t longevity give its predictions a little cred? The Old Farmer’s Almanac has been released continually on an annual basis since first published 1792. And come on, am I alone in believing the science of meteorology can be a tad “iffy” at times?

While science is reporting a “warmish” winter, The Old Farmer’s Almanac is predicting temperatures, precipitation and snowfall “below normal.” Could this be an indication of less ice i.e. fewer miles on the treadmill? Time will tell.

But as I read further, it was next summer’s prediction that had me groaning: “hotter and slightly drier than normal.” Though that could indicate a possibly less humid summer, it sounds like a scorcher could be in store.

In the meantime, I guess I’ll just enjoy fall while we have it: the beautiful colors, the milder temps, and the last few passes with the lawnmower before winter arrives and I batten down the hatches.

Originally published 18 October 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Our uphill journey adopting a semi-feral cat

I don’t know if I’ve been effected by the spirit of Joe Brown, but I’m a total sucker for animals. Living in his home, people often share with Marty and I stories about the animals that Joe Brown let reside with him in this cavernous abode.

There are tiny chips along the edge of the porcelain bathtub, surely remnants of duck nibbles. The grooves along several window sills? Probably dogs. There’s goat horn rubbings on the basement doors and in the attic we found a large, wooden crate with old, nasty straw. We assume it was a whelping box for momma goats. This house has seen its share of wildlife.

early clydeAs of late, our menagerie includes just two indoor cats, one indoor/outdoor dog and one indoor guinea pig. Outside, we have a herd of uppity farm cats amenable to petting only when their food bowls are empty.

This is the most stable our family has been in quite a while. In the nine years since we moved here, we’ve gone through about as many dogs, a hedge hog, many farm cats and two indoor cats.

And it’s the indoor cat situation that remains an issue. Ever since Jan. 2 when our matriarchal alpha cat Turbo died, the younger two have battled for dominance. And these battles are so passive-aggressive it’s ridiculous.

There’s the older, stately Fluffy vs the sassy teeneager, Stashy. Without the calming presence of a Boss, these two will go through periods of destruction that explain why we have only area rugs in our home and yet still own our own carpet shampooer.

Earlier this year, you may remember we fostered a ginormous male ginger cat, “Carrots.” He was a wonderful addition to the brood, but after getting stuck in the rafters of our attic over Easter weekend (being rescued only after Marty opened a rafter with a buzz saw), he then snuck outside the following day and has never been seen or heard from again!

The disappearance of Carrots was so sad! He was a lovely, low key cat, but we fear he was too freaked out when we hosted Marty’s entire family that weekend. We later learned he had a tendency to go on “walkabout.”

For the next several months, we tried to live with the chaos that is Fluffy and Stashy. When they avoided each other, things were fine. But when they’d “rediscover” the other on their turf? Ugh. We knew we needed an alpha.

In late August, a Facebook post from the Quad City Animal Welfare Center in Milan shared a picture of “Clyde,” a tiger-striped male who had been brought to the shelter with his sister, “Bonnie,” when they were about 9 months old.

They’d been found behind a dumpster and were semi-feral. While Bonnie had been adopted, Clyde remained at the shelter for the next 18 months, living in the Cat Room with 20+ other felines. Needless to say, this guy had emotional baggage.

So why would we want him? Excellent question considering the issues Fluffy and Stashy had already brought to the table.

I reasoned that our current situation with Fluffy and Stashy couldn’t get any worse and that helping Clyde may be the best thing for all three. We formulated a plan for bringing Clyde into our family, starting with where he’d live.

Our house is rather large and the idea of letting loose a semi-feral cat who’s known nothing but a single room filled with cages and cats for the majority of his life did not sound like the greatest approach.

After several visits to the shelter, when I brought him home, we placed Clyde in the “Sunroom” off Marty and my bedroom. He’s what’s considered a “bush dweller,” staying low to the ground, hiding behind things and burrowing under blankets. The Sunroom offered both low and high spots for him, sanctuary from other animals as well as peace and quiet.

He was easy to find and easy to pet, though I still bear the evidence of my one and only attempt to pick him up.

After two weeks in the Sunroom, I opened the door to our bedroom, allowing him access to now two rooms. A week later, I opened our door to the hallway. A few days after that, we opened the door to the stairs, thus granting him full roaming privileges. He’s yet to venture downstairs and when we’re upstairs, rarely comes out from under our bed.

But as I sit downstairs, working on this column, Fluffy and Stashy sleeping on the couch, Nova the Guinea Pig rattling his cage in the kitchen, Clyde is galloping around upstairs, paws thundering along the floor like horses hooves.

And what a fabulous ruckus it is! He sounds playful and free! But we still have far to go.

I’ve started folding laundry upstairs to acclimate him to our presence and our voices. He rarely peeks out. In fact, it’s become standard practice for all four of us to flip up the bedskirt and peer under to say “Hello.”

But in the moments when he thinks he’s alone, I’ll see him slink from under the bed to the Sunroom and his food, water and litter box. In a calm voice, I greet him. He used to skitter back under the bed, but will now look back at us. If we stay still, he’ll proceed to eat or drink or sniff around.

This is progress. I’ve seen him jump onto window ledges for a look-see and I’ve found him venturing into other bedrooms. We’ve even watched him walk past us and not scramble away.

I’m not sure he’ll ever be a lap cat, but I’m growing a bit more hopeful he may one day let us pet him.

As for his effect on Fluffy and Stashy? While Fluffy can hardly be bothered to inquire, Stashy is a jerk. Sneaking into the Sunroom and eating his food, drinking his water. I’m waiting for one unsheathed claw to put Stashy in her place.

Originally published 11 Oct 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Marathon joy found in miles of smiles

Last weekend saw the 17th running of the Quad Cities Marathon. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

Since July’s Ironman 70.3 I haven’t been doing much training. Sure I had a few events since then: Bix, Ragnar Great River, Glow Run 5k, Clinton Half Marathon 10k and Iowa’s Best Dam Tri (sprint). But I wasn’t fired up about a single one of them. I was tired.

So why didn’t I take some time off? Fear. Irrational fear, at that. Despite knowing I have a fabulous group of training buddies, when I get scared, I forget that everything is ok and will be ok. I forget that taking a break will not send me back to the nether regions of life before I started running. I forget that breaks are actually good for the body. Hindsight remains 20/20.

By mid September, however, I was beginning to feel the old mojo return. Fresh off witnessing training buddy and friend Laura Snook from LeClaire complete Ironman Wisconsin (2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike, 26.2 mile run), I waffled on whether to change my QC Marathon registration from the full to the half.

When Laura reminded me the marathon would be buddy Marilynn Bartels’ first marathon, we opted to stay at the full distance and see Marilynn through to the end.

I remained leery because I hadn’t run long since June, but by the time I arrived in Moline on race morning, I was excited to be doing it with so many friends.

Sunday was my 11th marathon and I can truly say I’ve gained more than just a medal from each one. But the most important thing I’ve gained is friends. While it may sound a little pithy, it’s true!

My first marathon was Chicago 2010. I didn’t know anyone and because much of my training was done solo, I thought marathoning was a solitary endeavor.

The following spring I ran the Illinois Marathon for my second and wrote the following Facebook note to my family:

In the summer of 1994 when I interned at The Observer, I took up running—laps and laps around that wee lil’ track in the Hart Center (DeWitt Fitness Center).

When I wasn’t doing that, I’d be bugging Gramma Kroymann at J & K Kids (now home to Family Tree consignment shop). One time when I’d come in from a run, she told me I was nuts and that I should put on some makeup.

Fast forward to April and the Illinois Marathon, somewhere in the final mile. I was fading and just trying to make it to the finish. I started thinking about prayer and how it didn’t feel right to ask for God’s help since I wasn’t running for a charity and I’d voluntarily put myself there.

Then I thought about Grampa Kroymann and then Gramma and instantly heard in my head, “You IDIOT! What are you doing?!” with the image of Gramma standing by her microwave doing a fake little faint and slapping the counter with an exasperated sigh. I smiled a little and then went back to focusing on the misery of this last mile.

The route went under a train bridge and just as I was coming out from under it, I started to walk. That’s when some guy in an orange shirt came up from behind me and said, “Come on Baby Cakes! We’re gonna do this thing together! I’ll run with you!”

So I ran with him a few strides and then told him I had to stop. That’s when he grabbed my right hand and started pulling me along. “Come on! You can do this! We’re going to finish this with a 4 in front!” (Meaning in under 5 hours.)

He pulled me along for about a half mile. At one point, I said to him “You’re so kind.” He replied, “Hey, we’re all family out here! marathon cupcakesWe help each other out!” I have to admit that A) it was a little weird holding hands with this guy, but whatev; and 2) what was Marty going to think when he saw me run into the stadium all cozy with this guy?!

I finally had to tell him, “I gotta let go.” And then he released my hand. I don’t remember if we said anything more to each other, I only remember his orange shirt. With only a quarter mile left, I figured I’d find him afterwards and thank him. But I couldn’t find him! ANYWHERE!

A few days later, after I’d been telling everyone about my ‘Angel in Orange’ it dawned on me that mere moments before he came up on me, I’d been thinking about Gramma, secretly asking for some help….

Even in my idiocy, Gramma continues to watch over me, offering little nuggets of aid in the strangest of places and ways.

~Now it’s three and a half years later and I get it! I “get” why my ‘Angel in Orange’ did that for me! It’s not about the time clock, it’s about the time: not in minutes and seconds, but in people and smiles!

We thanked the volunteers and Hi-5’ed the kids! We shouted encouragement to our fellow runners and mugged for photographers! We even sang, “Everything is AWESOME!” from the Lego movie!

~Sure we suffered—it was hot and the last 6 miles are a soulless lesson in punishment. In spite of the many impressive PRs logged that day, Laura summed it up best when she said, “This is a PW, personal worst.”

But we knew when we laced up that morning, it wasn’t about us, it was about Marilynn . . . and that little minx did wonderfully! Just after Mile 19 as we approached the final bridge off Arsenal Island, Marilynn started bee-bopping off ahead of us, smiling and chit-chatting with a runner who joined us a few miles earlier.

About a mile ahead of us, we saw her again after she passed under the inflatable Wall, smiling and waving at us heading into the 23rd mile.

When Laura and I eventually crossed the finish line, we’d logged one of our slower marathons, but for me, it was one of my most enjoyable. Having been so wrapped up in dread beforehand, I’d forgotten how fun running for the heck of it could be.

We accomplished our goal, seeing Marilynn through her first marathon, the rest was icing on the cupcake!

Originally published 4 Oct 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Luck be not the lady for me

I tend not to pay attention to luck as I’ve resigned myself to having very little of it. That’s not to say I’m a pessimist, I’m just not the one to win playing scratch tickets and my number is rarely drawn for a prize.

However, I’ve got a pretty great life, but luck has very little to do with it. For me, I think it’s more about simply doing the best I can and trusting that things will work out. And they always do . . . just usually not according to my plan or timeline.

Take my string of bad luck last week. It was a classic case of “if it could go wrong, it did.”

bad luck lpIt started on Thursday afternoon. I was in Milan for an appointment when I received a call from the school, my son was laid up in the nurse’s office with back pain. He woke that morning complaining his lower back hurt so I gave him some ibuprofen and sent him on his way.

Maclane is rarely one to cry wolf so I cancelled the appointment and headed back home. While in route, I contacted our chiropractor in Clinton who told me to bring him in.

When I got to Northeast to fetch Maclane, the boy was in tears. Unfortunately, once we got to the chiro, he said Maclane’s muscles were too locked up to be adjusted and suggested we visit our doctor and have him x-rayed, though Maclane could remember no trauma.

I opted to try one more thing before heading to the doctor, my soft tissue therapist in Davenport who has also treated both kids for posture and muscle issues.

I started seeing this guy a year ago and his ability to find the problem, workout the pain then identify exercises to strengthen the affected area is AMAZING. Luckily, he was able to see Maclane yet that night.

Back to the Quad Cities we went and after a number of strength tests, the therapist opted to do a cupping on Maclane’s back which involved placing 12 plastic vacuum cups over his lower back. Leaving them in place for 10 minutes, the therapist explained the technique creates negative pressure on the skin’s surface allowing the soft tissue underneath to release.

Within seconds Maclane started joking and giggling about how weird it felt. The boy was getting relief! After removing the cups, the therapist covered Maclane’s lower back with an analgiesic then kinesiology tape, assigned him some exercises and scheduled him for a follow-up.

Maclane practically danced out of the office and to the car only to have another monkey wrench thrown at us: my car wouldn’t start. Two hours later, with an auto service looking it over and Marty waiting in the wings to rescue us, the service guy reprogrammed my key fob and brought the car back to life. Whew!

But the next morning my car barely started so we took it directly to DeWitt’s Bauer Repair. Eventually we’d learn it was a battery issue—that as a battery weakens, it shuts off service to various systems. I’m just grateful it was such a simple fix.

But the luck issue was far from over.

Last Friday, if you’ll remember, was a gorgeous day, and since I had no transportation, it was perfect for catching up on laundry and mowing the lawn. My plan was to quickly mow around the clothes line and lp tank which was nearby, hang a couple of loads of on the line and then proceed with mowing.

Our 1,000 gallon lp tank had been listing terribly and literally mere moments before jumping on the mower, I’d been looking at it, its left side sinking into the ground, knowing it needed to be moved.

Well . . . it got moved alright.

As I was mowing around it, the back tire of the lawn mower may have made contact with the tank. If it did, it was a light nudge, hardly a push, in fact, it was likely the wind, but whatever it was, as I drove my new mower away from it, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. The tank was rolling after me.

It sounds horrible, but it only rolled forward a foot or two, the line didn’t disconnect and all was well. (My lack of luck? Maybe I’m luckier than I thought because several people said it could’ve easily resulted in an explosion. Yikes!)

As it turned out, Eastern Iowa Propane was able to move it to a different spot and all is well.

Except one final “grrr” happened before my bad luck streak would be complete.

While a writer really only needs pen and paper, in today’s world, computers are vital. Mine seized Sunday as I was working on a project and stayed frozen until Wednesday when I was able to get it to a tech person. Of course it started right up for them! The techies claimed it was a glitch in one of my programs, but it solidified the disdain I have for my dependence on technology!!! (And my belief that computers have personalities and that mine is a passive-aggressive jerk.)

That said . . .

My son is again chasing soccer balls,

My car is purring like a kitten.

My fuel tank is sitting solidly safe

And my computer isn’t giving me fit(ten)s.

I sure hope these days of bad luck are done,

That blue skies and happy faces return.

But I guess it helps to count my blessings

And consider this week a lesson learned. . .

Originally published 27 Sept 2014 in The Observer.