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I miss my friends. Somewhere in the middle of the pandemic and politics of the last few years, we lost the boys who had known each other since Little League and who boated and caught walleye together on Storm Lake in Iowa.
For years, we gathered around the pool table several times a week to watch where the fish were biting, find out who was building that building on the outskirts of town, and exaggerate the feats of days gone by. did. Our political discussions were limited to Hawkeyes (University of Iowa) vs. Cyclones (Iowa State) football and how City Hall didn’t know Sickum.
There were complaints that Barack Obama was trying to take away our guns. And those lazy people should get jobs and stop complaining. And when big companies started hiring illegal workers to do local work at lower prices, the little guy could no longer compete in the industry.
But it was mostly jokes shouted over classic rock. When things get too heavy, Rooster, our resident sage, takes over the discussion and storms the room with a rant about how most of the world’s problems would be solved, or at least avoided, if marijuana were made legal. It will suck out the oxygen inside.
Even Rooster couldn’t talk about Donald Trump. A would-be tyrant barricaded himself on a Florida golf course with a bunch of sycophants changes the conversation at a metal warehouse. Its walls could not prevent an attack of propaganda, lies, and false fear fueled by half a century of legitimate grievances caused by consolidation, decline, and loss.
The pandemic has kept us apart. I was lonely. I visited Rooster’s little bachelor cabin and watched a rerun of “Wagon Train.” He wasn’t feeling the best. We returned to the shooting pool and it didn’t take long for Rooster to put down his gun and die. Cancer helped him understand quickly. It was supposed to rock us straight, but all hell kind of broke loose. The debate has begun over vaccines, masks, and Trump. The rodeo clown was no longer there to distract the rampaging bulls released by the gunfire.
So I stopped shooting.
One of my old friends or acquaintances recently called me out on Facebook for my lack of integrity after I posted a newspaper editorial complaining about Trump’s contempt for the democratic process and the rule of law. Ta. I’ve been a community newspaper editor for decades, pissed off the agribusiness gods and endured disciplinary action, so I’m no stranger to controversy, but I have to say the barb stuck. not. Our mothers were good friends. They would never have talked about each other like that, at least not in public.
We were old enough to understand Social Security and remember scooping the loop in a jacked-up Chevelle, waiting for “Beaker Street” to come on the AM airwaves in Little Rock, Ark. Or remember when Storm He Lake He brought a shotgun to High. You can go to school and put it in your locker, then after school you can bag pheasants in a freshly picked corn field. Rush Limbaugh took over AM, and the shotgun was replaced by an assault rifle.
You would think we could understand each other’s differences. Can not do that. We have been programmed by constant propaganda. That’s especially true for the presidential campaign and the people of Iowa, who are struggling with the wedge issue in the presidential election. Instead of trying to hash things out, I just stopped trying. It is bad. I’m tired.
Small town hack learn who your friends are. We publish uncomfortable facts and often contrary opinions that are in the public interest. Companies stop advertising because you write about a lawsuit. I understand that. It’s an occupational hazard that I regret every day. Even if you haven’t done anything wrong, commit to doing better.
Humanitarian attacks have become the norm, especially since Trump took center stage and refused to leave. We went from Iowa Nice to Iowa Nasty. Whether Trump leaves or hangs around, we’re stuck there. That is my lament.
I can no longer just talk about the weather, the smoked trout, and compliments on Solo’s pickled Polish sausage. You may make new friends, but they won’t necessarily replace the ones you lost here at home. I text my friends in New York almost every day, but I can’t take pictures of them playing pool together. I still shoot pool in the former press room bubble with Solo, a retired pressman. He once liked Congressman Steve King, who challenged the establishment. I was different. We sweated a lot together, in search of the truth, with him doing 15,000 impressions per hour, jetting ink and even bleeding a little. That’s worth more than Steve King.
I know where I live. Northwest Iowa is part of Texas, one of the most conservative places in the country. I don’t think immigration is a problem, so I consider myself a so-called woke person. I think the problem is income, or lack of income. All this talk about toilet fees and book bans is a huge distraction from how global corporations have stolen our franchise. I’m not the enemy of the people, dude, we were in Cub Scouts together.
Rooster would have pointed that out in an outrageous way and ridiculed us all for being so stupid and blind. We would have laughed, cracked open another glass of the cold one, and caught more of that trout. Those were the days.
Art Cullen is editor of The Storm Lake Times Pilot and author of Storm Lake: A Chronicle of Change, Resilience, and Hope From a Heartland News.
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