Life After

1 Iowa Roots “The only thing we had in common was that she was from Iowa, and I had once heard of Iowa.” Ray Kinsella Field of Dreams Perched comfortably on the steel spring seat of his Farmall tractor, LaVern McMains first turned his steel blue eyes to the well-worn pasture and then the tall prairie of big bluestem and Indian grass. Dapper and disciplined, LaVern always wore a wool suit and tie to church, and even on the tractor, he wore a leather belt, with his linen shirt neatly tucked-in. Known to many by his nickname of “Shorty Mac,” LaVern was an affable and hard-working man. He wore a simple straw-woven hat to shade his eyes, and he surveyed his land with the thorough, experienced gaze of a farmer. It was a look of contentment. With seed money, literally, from his father – and a loan from Farmer’s State Bank in nearby Bloomfield – LaVern and his new wife had purchased the three hundred acre farm with an eye to the future. The purchase of the battleship-gray tractor with steel wheels stretched them further. Brand-new, it cost $595.00 and had the power of ten horses. This was decades before the Iowa landscape would be dotted with red and green tractors with multiple gears and air-conditioned cabs, and the young couple was rightly proud to have one of the few tractors in the area. Neither LaVern nor his wife doubted their ability to turn the tall prairie grass into a well-manicured field of Iowa corn. LaVern often picked-up rocks on the prairie, a by-product of grinding glaciers that had at last retreated some 10,000 years ago. Walking the fields, he sometimes found sharp, hand-chiseled arrowheads and spearheads among the smooth, round glacial stones. He turned them over in his hand, admiring the craftsmanship of the American Indians who once roamed his land. One tribe of American Indians – the “Ioway” – gave their name to the region. LaVern imagined the Ioway Indians revered the rolling hills and woodlands, teeming with buffalo and elk now long gone. With lean, strong shoulders and hands that would never know a desk job, LaVern was well suited for the hardscrabble work of an Iowa farmer. He’d inherited an indefatigable work ethic from his father, learning and living the Midwest values of faith, family and work – in that order. LaVern’s faith in God guided his love of family and friends, even his work. He embraced the Bible as “God’s Word” and heeded its warnings against idleness, committing the words of the Apostle Paul in Thessalonians to memory: “If a man will not work, he shall not eat.” This triad of beliefs – faith, family and work – fit LaVern like a pair of well-worn calfskin gloves – not that he ever wore any. He was an Iowan. LaVern was an inquisitive, learned man, but it’s doubtful he gave much thought to the history and geology of the area that shaped his upbringing. In the country school he attended through the 8th grade, he learned the United States obtained control of the area in 1803 as part of the famed Louisiana Purchase. Settlers quickly converted much of the fertile territory to farmland, though there was continued fighting between settlers and Indians through the end of the century. Iowa became a state in 1846, her borders set by the Mississippi River to the east and the Missouri and Big Sioux Rivers to the west. Rolling hills and prairie dominated the landscape, sprinkled with growing farms and separated by dense woodlands and river valleys. It was not as flat as outsiders expected, yet no one ever labeled Iowa as “mountainous.” The state’s highest point – known as “Hawkeye Point” – was but 1,670 feet above sea level. Years later, a hog feed bunker would be placed on the high point, shaded by a corrugated tin roof. It was a spot often visited by tourists, the bunker adorned with license plates from all 50 states. A grain silo stood nearby, stretching Iowa’s highest point another 30 feet skyward. Farmers, though, aren’t really interested in hills or mountains. They like dirt. Tillable. Fertile. Rock-free. As it happened, Iowa was home to the richest and deepest topsoil in America, a product of the glacial melt from the Pleistocene Epoch and centuries of cyclical growth and decay of prairie grasses. This nutrient-rich dirt attracts farmers like honeybees to pollen-rich violets, a fact Iowans acknowledged with pride and prejudice. For decades to come, Iowa farmers would lead the Nation in grain production and livestock, earning title as the "Food Capital of the World." This environment – this dirt – suited the farmer LaVern McMains quite well. Up by 5:00 a.m. nearly every day of his life, he wasted little time in attending to the myriad needs of the farm near the small town of Mark, Iowa. With the help of friends and neighbors, LaVern planted nearly 80 acres of corn. He circled the pasture nearest the farmhouse with a three-strand, barbed wire fence suitable to enclose his “herd” of pigs. He always called it a herd, though a well-read farmer once told him otherwise: “Sounder,” he said. “That’s what you’re supposed to call a group of pigs.” “Well, thank you Professor,” replied LaVern. The sounder numbered about 50. Eight milk cows also roamed the pasture, as did a small “brood” of chickens that had escaped from the makeshift henhouse. “What do you call a bunch of chickens?” LaVern wondered aloud to Helen, standing by his side. “About 12 dollars,” she replied, grinning at her husband the farmer. Helen was always by his side. Like the man she would marry, Helen was an Iowan, born and raised. Her parents Lewis and Jeannette Kimball had likewise embraced faith, family and work as their mantra. Lewis Kimball ran a chain of grocery stores in southeast Iowa and Helen would sometimes accompany him on routes, visiting other small towns like West Grove or Unionville. On occasion, they would venture north on the new U.S. 63 to the big city of Ottumwa, at the time a growing community of about 25,000 people. She cherished time with her father and was devastated when Lewis Ross Kimball later succumbed to leukemia, in 1941. Helen was 27 years old. Her brother Harold had long been closer to their mother, who never remarried. Like the McMains family, the life and times of the Kimballs were centered in Davis County. Though named for distinguished U.S. Senator Garrett Davis, Davis County was borne of a dubious reputation. In its early days, the area was referred to as “Hairy Nation” due to the shaggy, unkempt appearance and rude manner of the men that resided in the area. This reputation did little to draw pioneers and entrepreneurs – or certainly, the attention of marriage-minded women. Bloomfield was situated at the junction of U.S. 63 and IA 2. It was and is the largest city in Davis County and also served as the county seat. Bloomfield was given its name when County Commissioners pulled a slip of paper out of a hat. In 1843, voters chose Bloomfield over Richmond as the “headquarters” for Davis County. For Bloomfield, the reward was the design and construction of the Davis County Courthouse, a magnificent building that would serve as the city center for decades to come. Designed by Thomas Nolan & Sons, the courthouse was completed in 1879. It was Second Empire architecture, as evidenced by its distinctive mansard roof, sandstone veneer and dormer windows. It also featured a Seth Thomas clock in the tower. The Davis County Courthouse later put Bloomfield on the map for another reason. In August of 1924, Henry “Dare-Devil” Roland came to town and attempted to climb the northwest corner of the courthouse. It was an event that captured the imagination and lived on in infamy. Roland was a German born to self-promotion and also called himself “The Human Fly.” He began quickly on his ascent of the Davis County Courthouse but lost his grip around a cornice and fell 35 feet to the sidewalk below. The fall broke his hip – and his ego. It’s not known if Helen...