November 13, 2007
Dear Mother,
	Happy Birthday to you. It is with a heavy heart (isn’t that what Lyndon 
Johnson always said when he was in trouble) that I must say, it appears we are 
going to miss your 90th birthday bash. Writing a letter is less than you deserve but 
I’ll try. If I remember correctly, you seemed to enjoy my letters when I was in the 
Army. What to write here will be a challenge for sure.
	You are 90 and I am 60. Nice round numbers. You and I have been attached 
now for 2/3 of your life and all of mine. First of all, I hope you know that I love you 
dearly and that having you as a mother has enriched my life. Maybe that sounds 
more like Mother’s day talk but it seems appropriate to me at this point. Together, 
we have laughed, cried, worried and generally always enjoyed one another’s 
company and conversation. Perhaps some reminiscing is in order.
	When I think of you and your life in the first 30 years, the 1/3 in which you 
were unburdened by me, even events of your life then, as you related them to me, 
have provided me with context, inspiration and understanding. So what happened 
in those years certainly became a part of me. I often recall that, as a girl, you lost 
your home to fire, that the depression attacked your family with a vengeance, that 
war racked your world and that nothing came easy or could be taken for granted. I 
remember and like to tell the story about my mother walking to country school in 
the snow and uphill both ways. I like to relate stories of you delivering loaves of 
bread for a dime in the snow. I am proud that you withstood the harsh realities of 
life with such a loving attitude. Thanks 
	Recently I have set my mind on trying to recall the events in our lives that 
particularly bound us together not only as a mother and son but as friends. We are 
quite similar. That may scare you. I know it did me when I saw my children 
emulate me. It was ok when they were doing well but on occasion, when they would 
stumble, I could see my own short comings a bit more clearly. But be assured, you 
were a positive and effective influence on me and I can only hope that most of the 
time you saw in me what was good in you.
	I have a friend who teases (I hope) that he can remember being born. And can 
remember being slapped on the butt. Well I don’t remember that far back. My 
earliest memories are living in your Mother’s home. I am guessing age 2 or so. The 
upstairs was never visited by me, it seemed a little scary. Brother Chuck and Uncle 
Jack lived up there I believe. The house had loose laid linoleum floors. No carpets. 
The kitchen floor sloped badly to the east and you did the laundry in the basement, 
a dank and dark area accessed from outside with a ringer washing machine. It all 
seemed ok to me at the time but I suspect much below what we expect today.
	Some “Maude” lady often babysat for us and made pop corn. We really liked 
her and were never unhappy to be left with her. I remember a dark red long coat 
with a light colored curly furred collar that made you look so pretty. A scene of that 
era that I can recall still makes me smile is Dad on the kitchen floor on his hands 
and knees chasing a mouse about with great drama and bluster (something he 
seemed good at) and you were on the kitchen table screaming. That was obviously 
no fun for you but lifelong entertainment for me. Thanks. 
      Also of that era, it seems to me, was the television set. It was small with a 
somewhat oval picture and always snowy. I recall watching, sitting on little stools 
close to it and remember Mary Beth Petersen watching with me and I remember 
this with some pride as I believe we were among the first to get a TV. Little did I 
and I believe you, know how much TV would change our lives. And of course I could 
not leave this era without mentioning something I am sure you have not forgotten. 
That being my ride in reverse across the street and up into the neighbor’s driveway 
in our car. Cars then, left in gear, could be somewhat powered by the starter button. 
You were aghast! I think you “flipped out” as they would say today. No wonder I 
like to drive so well. I started early. But anyway, I recall no time where I was not 
loved, well fed or well cared for and I suspect our means were meager at this time. 
Thanks.
	After a time, we “moved up town”. You and Dad built us a nice home. The 
“Halbur addition” comes to mind but I suspect that’s not exactly correct. I was 
starting school. 5, I believe. I “helped” work on the new house after school. Uncle 
Bill Darrow, also helping on the house, always saved a dried beef sandwich for me 
and right after school that hit the spot! Across the street lived Wanda and Tiny 
Flathers with a son my age, Craig. Craig’s backyard looked over the dump grounds. 
Craig and I, pretending to be adults, sat back there, snapped off the stock of hemp 
weeds, lit them and smoked them like cigarettes. Not often, because it burnt our 
throats. Took me 15 years to learn about hemp weed.
	Problem with Craig is he liked to beat up on me. He weighed about twice 
what I did. No matter what you did, he seemed to be able to get his licks in. Finally 
you and Dad suggested I defend myself more aggressively. Next time, wearing my 
two gun and holster set, I was able to whack him a couple times. As you suggested, 
our relationship improved after that. Not until Wanda complained however. I even 
became somewhat of a Flathers family member and was taken along each time they 
went to visit his grandmother, Heymom (Grandmother Bengaard). Now who would 
call their grandma Heymom, I ask you? But, after all, Craig always called his 
mother Wanda and his dad, Tiny.
	Of course, you could see that Craig alone or Johnny Bob (another neighbor) 
would not be enough to keep me busy and out of your hair all the time, so I suspect 
you and Maxine Wells conspired to introduce me to their son Jim. Hell, that 
relationship could be a book alone. I don’t know if it takes a village to raise a child 
but it took several families to get me raised it seems. While “uptown”, you 
determined that I was too scrawny. You got me to Dr. Ankeny. A few medicines, 
supplements and your tender loving care and I quickly became not so scrawny. By 
the time I graduated from high school, you had me up to 145 pounds! Probably that 
wash tub full of rabbits (a winter hunt by Dad, Chuck, et al.) you cooked helped. I 
will always remember your cooking. Bread and gravy, bread pudding (with raisins 
of course), creamed chipped beef, creamed chicken, hamburger/pea casserole and 
fried chicken all quickly jump to mind. You always made a good home. Thanks.
While in this home, I recall the good friends you entertained, the Saturday night 
card parties. You taught me the value of friendship and the value of fun. Your 
friends were so good that for many years I thought they must be relatives. You were 
gracious and giving. The Mays, the Eagans, the Petersens, the Paynes, the 
Jacobsens, etc. Their children seemed like cousins. 
      On Friday’s you got the car parked in just the right spot at the football field 
to watch Chuck play and to agonize when he got hurt, of course. It could not be easy 
to watch a child take the punishment of that game. For these memories and more, 
thanks.
	Perhaps I should move along to the next mother / son era. I was about 10 and 
we moved to another home, higher up, but not so “up town”. Fighting the pride 
became difficult. It was such a pretty home and nicely decorated. But it was, as you 
will recall, plan B. Plan A was to buy and occupy the Hensley house adjacent. What 
a stately home. Cold feet and a kindly seller enabled us to drop back to plan B. You 
must have been anxious during this change of eras but you didn’t show it. You 
seemed to roll with punches or go with the flow, as they say. I remember you 
helping me try gardening. Out behind the garage we planted carrots, beans and 
dead dogs. Life has a way of teaching us so much but without the hand of a mother 
we would miss too much of it.
	Inside the garage I had projects, carpentry projects, go carts, bicycles, etc. 
Your garage quickly became mine for a good time. And then came the horses. Tony, 
the biting Shetland, Tony, the black gelding and you may have forgotten Ann Foss’s 
difficult steed as well as Jim Wells’ quarter horse. There was Thielen’s Timber, 
sledding, ice hockey, band, drums, and the rumblings of cold war turning hot. Lucky 
you. You had kids, horses and dogs and I suppose some chaos. I don’t recall noticing 
any distress on your part on account of these activities. Maybe I missed it. What 
exciting times. Thanks
	Speaking of drums. I begged to get that drum set. With your help, Dad was 
convinced. I waited and waited for them to arrive. At one point, given the news of 
the day, I asked Dad if we were going to war. He responded, probably. After that I 
just hoped I got the drum set before we were annihilated via nuclear holocaust. I 
was too young to be worrying about such things, I suppose. Anyway … that all 
worked out and those drums provided me huge enjoyment and more. Thanks.
	Maybe I’m a little out of order here but I must mention Aurora, Illinois. It 
was a huge deal for me and, I suspect, very difficult for you. Your eldest moving 
away with your first grandchild, you trekking there to visit and then agonizing over 
the living conditions. Those had to be disconcerting times. But I recall that you 
remained “cool”, as they say. For my part, however, exciting times. A train trip to 
Chicago alone at 10 yrs old. What excitement. Living with Chuck and Karen and 
the new nephew, what excitement. Thanks.
	Vacationing was new to our family during this time. Well, except for the trip 
when I was perhaps 4 years old, to Missouri to visit Uncle Tommy. We forded a 
stream and found them in a cozy tarpaper shack in the back country. But we ate 
pancakes and that’s about all I remember about that trip. You always stayed 
connected to your siblings it seems. As an aside, I will mention, because it occurs to 
me here, you taught me that family is the most important aspect of life. Thanks
      The vacation trips to which I referred are the trips to Colorado. Again to visit 
Uncle Tommy and do some sight seeing. I suspect that’s when you planted the seed 
of the southwest in me although, I have been told, your grandfather also enjoyed 
some form of wander lust, if I have the story right. I love those mountains. I have 
always yearned a bit for them. Now I feel re-connected to them. You have been 
patient with my desire to wander. Thanks.
      Charity and compassion are terms we hear much about today. Those are not 
so easy always to define. Giving someone something that is bad for them certainly is 
not charity. But being there when someone is truly in need must be considered 
charitable. It would be impossible to recount the times I saw that spirit in you, with 
me, with friends and even people with whom you had little connection. I could never 
forget, well unless my memory gets really bad, a night, a dark, thunderous 
downpour of a night the likes of which I had never experienced. A night of which I 
am always reminded when I hear the 40 days and 40 nights mentioned. The floods 
came and you opened your home to its victims. Victims scared to death and in need 
of shelter and companionship. This is but an example of the acts of kindness, the 
charitable clubs, the commitment to community that I saw in you. Thanks.
      The house without a basement era comes next. That was quite unusual in our 
area. Thinking “out of the box” is not a new concept obviously. It, of course, was 
another fine home made cozy and comfortable by you. A two sided fireplace, a 
pegged hardwood floor, a bedroom for me decorated in red and black flocked wall 
paper and Danish modern furniture (now its going to appear as though you might 
have been a little too tolerant of my whims), a corner lot but yet, a detached garage. 
Dad didn’t want mice getting in the house from an attached garage. And 
remembering him chasing them on hands and knees for you, one could understand 
that of course.
      You brought music into this home. Hi Fi type music. LPs. Skitch Hendersen 
and the likes. Also Debussey, etc. You got me interested in reading. Never as 
seriously as you, but yet interested enough to help educate me in the ways of the 
world. Some of our most difficult years were of this era. JFK was assassinated but 
we talked about it. We came to grips with it. You helped me understand. However, 
during this period, you lost the love of your life and I lost my hero. This was not so 
easily mended. But, we dealt with it, we moved on, day by day, week by week, then 
the years accelerated but it has never been far from our consciousness. You 
struggled emotionally but you prevailed. You taught me the meaning of life and love 
in so doing. Thanks. 
       The Army decided they needed me more than you did. They may have been 
right. In any event, you might recall, that I chartered an airplane to DC to see my 
congressman. I never took no as an answer very well. He kindly arranged to get me 
into the National Guard so I could continue to manage your business. That worked 
a little while. Long enough for you and I to market the business and prepare to 
change life’s direction. Well, Lyndon Johnson, I believe I have already mentioned 
him once, decided soon, that I would be more helpful on active duty and activated 
my National Guard unit. Isn’t there some saying about the best laid plans of men 
and mice or some such thing that would be appropriate here?
      In this era, you purchased the jewelry store from Donavan Nelson. It was 
good timing and a good diversion for you and for me as well. We played Yahtzee, 
and King’s Corners, a little Bridge, we discussed business and we ate lunch and 
banana cream pie at the uptown café. We started to heel. I got a little college in and 
found the love of my life. I know you are already at this part. Alice Mary forever 
changed both of us. We both were soon showered in her devotion, given new 
strength and a fresh outlook with new hope. You smiled and welcomed her to our 
family and made her an integral part of our lives. Thanks.
      Uncle Sam has a unique ability to altar lives forever. We probably can 
attribute a new era to him. He separated us at least physically for a few years. 
During that time we faced another challenge together. We faced uncertainty and 
fear once again. Chuck’s disappearance rocked our worlds. We didn’t know where to 
start or if we should start for that matter. But piece by piece and via your 
perseverance, the mystery was untangled. We compared notes, we communicated 
conversations and no one gave up. A good part of the reason we purchased a 
California home was to make up for a little lost time and to strengthen a family tie. 
As you know, that worked for a good time and that time is treasured by me and 
Alice. When he passed, the California home was no longer of value to us.
      Having worked closely together at the Concrete business with Chuck, he 
became more than a brother, I suppose. We struggled to keep that business going. It 
was hard work. The gravel and cement laden rail cars were a particular bone of 
contention. They were always a problem and much blood and sweat was attributed 
to them. When I noticed the rails being removed by the old plant about 20 years 
later, late one afternoon I returned to find a steel spike laying by the old gravel 
conveyor pit. I took it home, shined it up and painted something on it. At the next 
California visit I gave it to chuck and we had fun talking about those times. On a 
later visit to his office, I found it prominently displayed.
      When Chuck and I re-united, we had but only one conversation, initiated by 
him about his disappearance. I had promised myself to never ask questions or do 
anything other than to be more available and open to him. In the one conversation 
he indicated he had experienced an ugly and somewhat terrifying time. Chuck told 
me that when he landed the salesman’s job at TMC he was down to 50 cents in his 
pocket and a tank of gas in his motor cycle. We were soon interrupted by whatever 
social situation we were engaged in and that was the end of the story. We didn’t 
discuss it again. I have great pride that Chuck persevered and pulled himself up 
and became very successful. It’s a testament to our family, our strengths and to you. 
Thanks.
       Digressing a little, I would like to write a little about adventurism. When 
you moved to Colorado, found employment and established a life there I must 
confess even I was a little surprised even though I was promoting that change for 
you. You handled it beautifully, found a niche in retail sales there and joined us in 
enjoying the delightful eastern slope of the Rockies. We created wonderful 
memories there and refreshed our outlooks. What a remarkable chapter in life. 
Thanks.
      Then I suppose it had to be. I was compelled to start my own construction 
business. Time to combine the fine skills of carpentry I learned from Dad, the 
concrete business management I learned with you, and the construction 
management training I obtained in Colorado, I suppose it just had to be. So off we 
go, back to Iowa to develop the “rest of the story”. You did not drag your feet, whine 
or complain, although you had started to put down roots in Colorado. As usual, you 
were supportive and willing to face change once again. Thanks.
      You were not long at re-establishing old relationships and creating a new life 
in the midst of Audubon, the town that stole the court house, as they say. We and 
you did well there. You made yourself productive again, working at the Friendship 
Home office. You always had time for me, for chats, for friendship. You watched us 
grow our family and helped whenever asked. You remained supportive as we went 
about the difficult business of building a relatively large business in a relatively 
small town and supported me as I dabbled in local school politics and other 
landscapes strewn with land mines. 
      Of course, Gramma was there for my children as they sung and made music 
and danced and made their way to adulthood. Although you made these efforts 
seem easy, I now know as a parent, that anything done well is seldom easy. In fact, 
as I got older and dumber, you became considerably smarter. Thanks.
      Now, we find ourselves in yet another era. The son of the mother retires era, 
I guess I will term it. We are both a little fresh at this new prospect to comment too 
much. I might remind you however, that the move to Iowa was my idea. I made a 
promise to Alice that we would only be in Iowa for 10 years and then back to the 
mountain west where she preferred to be. The 10 years turned into 30, but better 
late than …. Well you know how that goes. And you I know that Alice deserves 
every consideration from both of us. One great disappointment I have now, 
however, is that you find yourself unable to enjoy the Mountain regions with us 
again. I have that thought all too often as I enjoy our surroundings. I find the 
mountainous southwest so exciting and refreshing. So healthy.
      Please remember that you were a fine mother to me, a great friend and even 
a good business partner in a way. You made me philosophical and emphasized 
logical and intelligent thought. You made me able to take risks I might not 
otherwise have taken. You supported me always, even when I did less than I should 
or could have. 
      I apologize for these ramblings. I’ll save the rest for my book or memoirs. But 
writing is about the only way I can imagine of getting any of these things said. Also, 
I apologize for the length of this letter. However, I think you will handle a little 
extra reading pretty easily. I will enclose a picture of Alice and I and the view that 
every day inspires me to remember you and days gone by. Be assured they were 
successful, productive and satisfying days.
      Enjoy your special day. You deserve it. Please give our love and good wishes 
to all.
      
      						Your loving son,
      
      						Stephen 
      
	P.S.	I have enclosed a few pictures of our surroundings here. Wasn’t sure 
you had seen any yet since you are not an e-mail recipient.
1

1