THOMAS KELLY'S GOLD

Dubuque From Kelly's Bluff

Our land is filled with legends--oft-repeated tales of happenings of long ago. Some are the truth or at least based on honest-to-gosh truth. Others are half-truths or part truths, often diluted or contaminated. And some are just products of one or more vivid imaginations.

Go to any rocky, hilly area with steep, sharp cliffs and bluffs, and you are almost sure to find one extra-forbidding precipice, colorfully named "Lovers' Leap." Just ask any of the old-timers, and they'll tell you "for sure" that once a beautiful, sorrowful young Indian maiden jumped from the top--either with or without her forbidden lover--to death on the rocks below.

You may also find an unusual rock formation that locals will swear was a sacred place for Native Americans, that they made long pilgrimages, coming together at these very rocks to pray and to talk to their gods.

And then there are always the lost mines and the buried treasure. Mines with names like "The Lost Dutchman's Mine," "The Alamo Mine," "Old Pete's Lost Mine," and "The Lost Padres' Mine." Do you prefer gold or silver ore? Take your pick. There is a lot of either out there just for the finding. Or do you have a hankering for bandit loot? There are leather bags and iron-bound chests filled with gold ingots and gold coin out there just waiting for some lucky person to stumble onto them, or for some bright person to put together all of the known clues. And to solve the puzzle.

We are often cautioned that there is no profit to be gained from dwelling too long on the past. But allowing our minds to pay a visit to those rip-roaring tales and times of the past can sometimes work wonders in helping to brighten up a dull day and a drab life.

Dubuque, with its rocky hills and caves, seems a likely and logical land for a lost-gold legend. And Thomas Kelly was just the man to provide such a legend.

THOMAS KELLY'S GOLD

There's a tale that's told today
Down in Dubuque, Ioway
Of a man whose search for wealth produced enough

Shiny coins of precious gold
To fill a big chest, so old,
That's still buried somewhere up on Kelly's Bluff.

They tell of rich veins of lead,
And at least one man shot dead...
If pushed too hard, the strong miner could play rough!

The law jailed him for awhile;
He escaped, by stealth and guile,
And returned to his "dig" up on Kelly's Bluff.

Some folks heard Tom Kelly boast
That he'd dug more lead than most,
And had built a golden fortune from the stuff.

Any person short on cash
Could come looking for his stash
Buried in that iron chest on Kelly's Bluff.

Time passed by, and Tom grew old,
Tired of counting all his gold;
Years of hard work left him rather dour and gruff,

And before he died, he wrote,
Not a will, but just this note,
"If you want my gold, look here on Kelly's Bluff!"

WASHDAY

Some of us recall a time when Monday was commonly referred to as “washday.” Farm wives and, I suppose, many others began as soon as possible after breakfast to pump their wash water and lug it in to be heated in a large wash boiler on the wood-fired kitchen range. Then they would gather up the week’s accumulation of soiled clothing, bedding, linens, etc. These were sorted into piles on the kitchen floor.

When the water was hot enough, it was “bucketed” from the boiler to the washtub, and there, starting with a white, or light colored pile, all of the laundry was rubbed and scrubbed on a washboard. In those pre-detergent days, the soap used was often a homemade concoction containing much animal-fat and some lye. After each item was washed, it was wrung out, as dry as possible, by hand.

After washing, each piece of laundry was carefully rinsed out in clean water, and once more wrung out carefully by hand. If the weather cooperated, the clean wash was then hung out to dry on outdoor clotheslines. If rain threatened, it had to be dried on lines strung across a porch, or on lines and clothes racks inside the house.

Outdoor clotheslines usually had to be wiped clean before they were used. Then the clean, wet wash was hung on the lines and held in place with clothespins. If everything went well, the wash would be dry and ready to take back into the house long before evening. But many things could go wrong. An unexpected rain could come along, and make it necessary to take everything back in and dry it in the house. Worse yet, a strong wind could come up and blow some of the items off the line and down on the ground, getting them dirty, and making it necessary to go through the whole process again.

Occasionally dogs would find flapping white bed sheets interesting. Something to play with, often leaving many muddy paw-prints, before losing interest. Cattle and hogs were known to get out occasionally and run under lines full of drying clothes, knocking them to the ground and trampling them into the dirt. On rare occasions, even small children were attracted by the clean clothing, managing to soil it before anyone noticed what was going on. And in dry weather, there was always a chance that something would stir up a lot of dust that would readily stick to the damp laundry. Even a township road grader smoothing the gravel road could stir up quite a cloud.

If nothing went wrong, the clean, sweet-smelling wash was collected and brought in when dry. A good job well done. But with the tedious job of ironing still to be taken care of.

MONDAY

The farm housewife readies
Her old galvanized washtub,
Rippled copper washboard,
And homemade soap laced with lye,

She checks out the water
Heating in the wash boiler,
Stokes the fire as she hums
A tune from days long gone by.

She puts on a sweater,
Hurries out to the roadside,
Checks the mailbox for the
Newspaper and today’s mail.

Then, back in the kitchen,
Decides the water’s ready,
Transfers it to the tub
With a small, old five-quart pail.

Then she rubs and she scrubs
Her husband’s dirty work clothes
To free and release them
From a week’s grease, dirt, and grime.

Then she goes out and pumps
And lugs in some fresh water
To rinse clean her wash, then
Wrings out each piece one more time.

She puts on her sweater,
And goes out to the clothesline,
Wipes the number-nine wires
Clean of bird droppings and rust.

Next she hangs out the clothes
To dry in the fresh spring breeze.
The road grader had best
Not come by, stirring up dust.

By mid-afternoon, she
Checks to see how well they’ve dried,
Collects all the clean clothes
Then folds and puts them away.

Then she starts to gather
Up the evening meal’s “makings.”
Such chores are all part of
A farmwife’s long, hard workday.

‘Though not well reimbursed,
At least not in cash money,
She still feels quite well-paid
In life’s blessings, goodness knows,

Nothing in this whole world
Can rival the sweet smell of
The sun and fresh air in
Newly hand-washed, line-dried clothes.

Your Can't Go Home Again

“You Can’t Go Home Again,” is the title of a biographical novel written by author Thomas Wolfe. The words have also become a popular cliché that has been all but worn out by overuse, but is still as true as ever. If we grow up in a neighborhood and then leave, it is only natural to remember it as it was when we left. Our homes, the schools, the playgrounds, and various business places will remain unchanged in our memories.

As a rule, the majority of our memories will be of the more pleasant things we knew, the good times we had in childhood and youth, the neighbors we knew, our good friends, as well as our parents and other family members who loved us. We tend to remember our successes much more vividly than we do our failures.

If we leave the home town, those memories go with us. They remain with us, ready to be called on any time they are desired or needed. And if things out in the real world get tough, those warm, fuzzy memories of home become extra precious and, if need be, provide us with a soft crutch that is nice and comfortable to lean on.

But going back to that home town or neighborhood can bring a rude awakening. We find many of the old business places are gone, replaced by newer and bigger establishments. The pool halls, dance halls, drive-ins, and other such places that were once a large part of our young lives are gone. Or are completely changed and now attract a different category of customers.

If we’re lucky, our parents will still be there to greet us and make us feel welcome and loved. But most of the old neighbors will have moved away. If we look around for our old friends, we learn that most of them have left for a larger town or city. The ones who remain will now be busy with their own families, jobs, or businesses. No longer will they be carefree as they once were, and just waiting for evening to come so they can go out and have some fun. We may talk for awhile about the “old days,” and all of the fun we had. But before long we are likely to recognize the fact that we no longer have much, if anything, in common.

Re-visiting the old home town and the haunts of youth will most likely afford little consolation to an extremely lonely person,

YOU CAN’T GO BACK

Old “Fritz” Tesch gets mighty lonely
Since his dear wife “Sal” passed on.
When he’s feeling down, Fritz tells folks,
”All the good times are long gone.”

”Our kids left for the big city
Once they were schooled and full grown.
A man don’t have much incentive
For life when he’s left alone.

”As our married years just flew by –
Happy times for Sal and me –
We mostly just concentrated
On our home and family.

”Sally and I never noticed
How the world around us changed.
Nothing’s quite the way it was. Now
Everything’s been rearranged.

”Precious old familiar faces
Mostly have faded away.
My neighbors are complete strangers.
With changes ‘most every day.

”I suppose I need a hobby,
Maybe cards or shooting pool.
Out on a golf course, I fear I
Would look like a complete fool.

”I’ve tried listening to ball games
On my little radio,
But there’s too darned many teams now
And no players that I know.

”I’ve gone looking for my old haunts.
But each search ends as I’d feared,
They’ve all fallen prey to progress
And completely disappeared.

”When younger, I’d sometimes visit
One of the small local bars,
There’s no neon lights there now, just
A sales lot filled with used cars.

”What was once Green’s big cow pasture,
Where we young lads all played ball,
Is the empty parking lot of
A deserted shopping mall.

”Once I hunted squirrels and rabbits
Around here, ‘most anywhere
Without asking for permission.
Then, landowners didn’t care.

”I’m told now I need a license
Just to go and catch one fish.
I long for the good old days, but
That’s a futile, empty wish.”

THIS OLD CAR

Wreck makes one ponder if these wheels could talk

I noticed an old abandoned car recently, parked in a fence corner, surrounded by weeds and being slowly eaten away by rust. It brought back some old memories, and seemed to be a kind of composite of a lot of autos I have known, owned, driven, or ridden in at one time or another .
I often wonder: If these old rattletraps could talk, what weird tales would they tell? After years of associating with human beings, they should have some dandies. I'm sure most would boast of holding a few unofficial speed records. Some would be proud to be organ donors if there was still a demand for their obsolete pistons and gears. And what
would they have to say about their owners and drivers?

This Old Car

This rusty automobile
With one badly bent wheel
And four tires so
Thin that they almost show air

And in its shabby trunk
An assortment of junk –
Rusty, dusty –
With some well-used parts to spare.

Lord knows, it’s seen better days
Out there on the highways.
It looks so sad
And all alone here today.

And what wild yarns might it spin –
Tales of goodness or sin?
If you asked, this
Just might be what it would say:

“At one time I was hot!
Yes, believe it or not.
Just about the
Classiest thing on the road.

"I've chased many a raccoon
By the light of the moon,
And have flattened
Many a big, fat, slow toad.

"Once my big chrome headlights beamed
And my glossy paint gleamed,
Shiny and bright
As a brand-new Cadillac.

"I have traveled coast-to-coast,
Racked up more miles than most.
One might say I
Have been clear to hell and back.

"I've caught many people's eye
While swiftly passing by
On the highways
And byways, both bad and good.

"I've climbed up hills that were steep,
Splashed through mud puddles deep,
And plowed through some
Snowdrifts as high as my hood!

"I have had owners galore -
A half-dozen or more -
And once changed hands
In a mean, nasty divorce,

"Suffered one small 'rear-ender,'
And crumpled a front fender
While avoiding
Poor old Jesse Lester's horse.

Once my driver - fogged by beer
Encountered a few deer.
One big old buck
Slid right through under my frame.

"Almost every other time
I could stop on a dime;
And that was just
One of my main claims to fame.

"I drove folks to proms and balls
And all the great dance halls,
Moonlight Gardens
And good old Melody Mill.

"I was as fast as could be.
No one ever passed me
When I zoomed down
That big old Gillespie Hill.

"But years and miles took their toll
On my body and soul
Until you can't
See much of me now but rust.

"Still my memories live on,
Of those days now long gone,
Back when I could
Leave everyone in the dust.

SOMETHING FOR NOTHING

Every now and then we run into a familiar “old saying” – a few words of wisdom that strike a chord or bring back an old memory. When in print, such a sentence or short paragraph often includes the name of the person who originated the thought. When repeated in conversation, we may recognize it as an example of the creative thinking of Benjamin Franklin or Will Rogers. Or even the writers of the “Beverly Hillbillies” TV show who created Jed Clampett’s salty observations. But, too often, we are left guessing.
Recently I heard a friend repeat one of my favorites that goes something like this: “The darkest point in anyone’s life is the moment that he or she sits down and tries to figure out a way to get something for nothing.” I don’t know the exact wording or who created this bit of sage advice, but it is interesting, to say the least.
At this point in time, some of the political leaders here in this great land of ours are insisting that more gambling casinos are absolutely necessary to the financial welfare of quite a number of municipalities and even a few states. But if a large percentage of our people were to suddenly agree with the above statement, and no longer look for a way to get “something for nothing,” wouldn’t this drastically cut down on casino betting? And, in turn, seriously decrease the “tax relief” we currently get by way of taxes paid by the casinos? And, eventually, force us all to go back to paying taxes in the regular old-fashioned way?
Some people seem to feel that paying taxes is less painful when accompanied by flashing lights and bells and whistles.

SOMETHING FOR NOTHING

I met a gray-haired old codger

On a bench out in the park

And he gave me this

One bit of good advice:

“Don’t expect something for nothing –

Life just don’t work out that way –

For each thing you get,

You have to pay the price.”

I laughed, saying, “You old duffers

Just don’t keep up with the times.

Look around and you’ll

See winners everywhere.

“There are lots of gamblers out there

With the guts to take a chance.

I’ve watched. They always

Have plenty bucks to spare.

”I decided I’d try gambling

A few bucks on games of chance,

Certain that old

Lady Luck would smile on me.

I forgot the old man’s warning

And soon was casino bound.

Why work when the best

Things in life may be free?

I first tried the blackjack table,

Put my fifty dollars down,

Gave the dealer a

Smile and my best regards.

I envisioned great big winnings

But my fifty soon was gone.

I guess somehow it

Just wasn’t in the cards.

I found the craps table busy,

But soon found an empty space.

To win a tall stack of

Chips there would be nice.

But my hopes and chances faded

As my money disappeared

With each roll of those

Highly unfriendly dice.

The casino’s bingo hall was

The next place I’d have to try,

But found no

Cooperation there at all.

At roulette, I found that big wheel

Was against me from the start,

Just the same as was

That small white bouncing ball.

When my life’s savings had dwindled

And I had no money left,

The old man’s words came

A-drifting back to me:

“You don’t get something for nothing.

You must pay up all your dues.

”I’m convinced those words

Are true as true can be.

Now, since re-doing my thinking

As to what life’s all about,

I am back here in

The unemployment line.

My billfold’s flatter than road kill,

But once more, my head’s on straight.

If I can find work,

Things may turn out just fine.