Lucielle, age 3, usually performs as a man, and Erma, age 4, as a woman. They have performed at Red Cross benefits, automobile shows, and numerous conventions.
He belonged to the Poetry Society of America and the Authors’ Club of London, alongside writers who shaped modern literature. Locally, he was active in Des Moines intellectual circles like the University Club and the Prairie Club. That mix—Midwest roots with international reach—defined him. He was proof that you didn’t have to live on the coasts to think seriously about culture.
Smith
wrote eighteen books, ranging from criticism to broader reflections on language
and civilization. Ships in the Port used metaphor and
reflection to explore stillness, waiting, and transition. The Mechanism
of English Style broke writing to its moving parts, treating prose
like a machine that had to work cleanly and efficiently. The Skyline in
English Literature examined how writers used cities, horizons, and
modern landscapes to express ambition, anxiety, and change.
He
didn’t chase trends. He asked how English actually worked—and what it revealed
about the people using it.
 |
| Evelyn Lee |
Two days later, E.M.
Wessels stumbled upon Evelyn’s battered body while digging up shrubs in the
same woods, just south of the Youngstown Bridge on Scott Street. Investigators
quickly determined she had been choked to death by a left-handed attacker. Footprints
found at the scene matched Evelyn’s shoes, and showed her attacker might have
been a man with a crippled right foot.
Detectives wasted no
time in narrowing their search to two suspects—Carl McCune, 34, and Elmer
Gibson, 35—scrappers who had been spotted driving a beat-up 1926 Ford roadster
loaded with barrels and scavenged items. Witnesses recalled seeing the pair in
South Des Moines that Saturday, drinking heavily and behaving erratically.
The manhunt ended on May 15 when police
apprehended McCune and Gibson at McCune’s mother’s house in Des Moines.
Evelyn’s parents were devastated. Her stepmother
learned of Evelyn’s death when Agnes Arney, a reporter for the Des Moines
Register, showed up at her door.
The straw stack murder mystery broke in Des
Moines in early August 1925. A red-haired woman was clubbed her to death and then
burned in a straw stack on the George Patterson farm near Carlisle.
Man running from straw stack
murder scene
Investigators had little evidence to go on—a
pile of bones, an expensive brooch, a string of pearls, and a tuft of red hair.
Earl Leverich and Harlan Cain found the charred
skeleton at the top of Watts Hill. Leverich was driving home when he saw a
skull in a pile of ashes in the field.
“Harlan thought I was seeing things,” said
Leverich. He stopped the truck a couple of hundred feet down the road and
walked back to investigate. “As we got closer to the skull, we could make out
the rest of the body, which was badly burned.
“It looked to me as if someone was having a
party that ended in murder.” He saw a partial bottle of ginger ale, alcohol,
and some sandwiches nearby.
Paul Eberle was crazy. No one questioned that.
Katherine and Paul Eberle
His chauffeur, Harry Schultz, heard Eberle tell his wife, “I don’t see why I don’t kill you, Katherine.”
Schultz watched Paul Eberle threaten the lives of
his wife and child again and again. Once, he saw Eberle on the edge of killing
himself. Another time, he said, “I’m going down in the basement to cut my
arteries.”
Schultz and Katherine followed Eberle downstairs
and watched him sit in a chair next to the furnace with a razor blade pressed
to his wrist.
Eberle had many strange obsessions and addictions.
He was a cigarette fiend, buying them in boxes by the tens of thousands. He
drank coffee constantly and used drugs. His moods swung so fast, you never knew
how he’d act.
Others noticed it too. John McDonnell said Eberle
acted like a man with a permanent chip on his shoulder, ready to do battle at
any time.
Talbert said long life ran in her family. Her mother lived to be 120.
She’d
been sold three times in her 66 years as a slave. Her second owner, a man
named Alford, sold Talbert and one of her daughters to John Bird Hamilton of La
Grange, Missouri. Hamilton paid $1,000 for Talbert and $500 for her daughter.
The sale separated her from her other children.
When
Hamilton moved west, he sold Talbert to a man named Price, who also owned her
husband. Hamilton kept four of her children—two sons and a daughter.
One
of her sons joined the army and was killed. Another son, John Hays, also served
in the army and later fought with Custer in the Big Horn. By 1924, Hays was 90
years old. One of Talbert’s daughters, then 87, was living in Kentucky. She did
not know what had become of her other daughter.
Howard Drenter lived at home with his parents.
Howard Drenter
He was twenty-eight years old, a Scott County
farmer, and he’d never lived anywhere else. He worked the fields during the day
and came back to the same house every night. People described him as reliable.
A man who didn’t waste words or draw attention. He didn’t drink, fight, or have
a record. If anything, he blended in.
For a while, he kept company with Edna Smith, a
teacher at the Argo School. She was young, attractive, and well liked. Parents
trusted her their children. She and Drenter had been seeing each other since
the spring of 1925. Things appeared good. They talked, danced, and went to the
movies.
Over time, the questions started. At first, they
sounded casual, almost playful. Until they didn’t. Drenter wanted details.
Names. He watched her every move, wanted to know who she spoke to, who walked
her home, and who sat near her at school functions. Edna noticed it. So did her
friends.
By January 1926, she’d had enough. She broke
things off, but Drenter didn’t let go. He kept asking her out. He showed up.
Sent messages through others. She kept refusing. Each time, the refusals seemed
to harden him. He stopped sounding disappointed and started sounding offended.
At some point, the requests turned into warnings.
He wrote about the Midwest the way it really felt. Dirt roads. Wind. Work. And long days that didn’t care if you were tired.
Barbed Wire was published in
1917. The Land of the Aiouwas followed in 1922. Then
came Paintrock Road in 1927.
People compared him to
Robert Frost and Carl Sandburg. Maybe. But Piper had his own style. He favored
simple words, sharp images, and no fake drama.
And here’s the wild
part. He didn’t just write poems. He collected Americana—828 folk songs, work
songs, ballads, and little rhymes people sang without thinking.
Edwin Ford Piper wasn’t
just writing Iowa’s story. He was recording its voice.
 |
| Miss Elizabeth Werblosky |
The program featured thirty-three numbers, each one designed to illustrate a different phase of dance. Werblosky shaped the show from top to bottom, conceiving all but five of the pieces herself.
One of the evening’s most striking moments came in “Death and the Maiden,” with Julius Goldensen appearing as Death, wearing a mask that gave the number its eerie edge. The mask was designed by Clara Jane Goddard of Drake University, adding a strong visual punch to a performance built around movement, mood, and storytelling. (colorized pictures from the Des Moines Register. May 25, 1930) |
| Dancers (from left to right) Dorothy Abramson, Margaret Ann Chambers, and Jean Schneider |
Council Oak in 1921
Council Oak, often described as the most famous tree in Iowa,
was nominated for a Hall of Fame for trees in 1921 by Miss Susie Brown of
Marion.
The 265-year-old tree tree in Sioux City’s Riverside Park is located a few hundred yards from the
junction of the Missouri and the Big Sioux Rivers. The surrounding area
includes summer cottages and the lodges of two area boat clubs.
Tradition
holds that white settlers and Native Americans met under the tree to plan wars
against other tribes and to plan proposed raids on settlements of encroaching
white men.
The
oak measures nearly four feet in diameter and rises nearly 100 feet high. The tree died out in the 1970s.
Some criminals aren’t born in the dark. They’re
trained there.
Everett Burzette
And Everett Burzette—sitting in a jail cell in
Mason City, Iowa, accused of first-degree murder—was raised in the shadow of a
name that carried fear like a headline.
Burzette.
A name tied to stolen automobiles, gun smoke, and
a man who didn’t plan on surrendering. A name made infamous by Everett’s older
brother—Red Burzette—who, as one account put it, “met his death with a belching
revolver in his hand,” fighting the police in Sioux City.
That was the family legacy Everett inherited. Now
it was his turn to face the rope.
His cousin, Melvin Burzette, was locked up on the
same charge in the cell next to him. They were accused of murdering Morris G.
Van Note, a well-to-do farmer, shot down in the yard of a rural school building
near Mason City. He’d tried to stop them from stealing school property,
and—bang . . . Van Note was dead.
 |
| (colorized image, from a black and white photo) |
There had been may confessions since then. All of them false. The most recent confession had come from Frank Carter, the "Omaha Sniper." He took credit for the murders before his execution in the electric chair, saying they were his "most notorious kill." Officials ignored the confession, figuring it was a last ditch effort to buy himself more time.
Previous supects were Sentor Frank Jones, William "Blackie" Mansfield, and Reverend Lyn George J. Kelly. None of the leads panned out--114 years later the case is still open.
 |
| Albert Girardi and his family |
“For God’s sake, hit him again!” John Stewart
screamed. “He is raising up.”
Austin hit Girardi with the king bolt. “This blow
finished him,” he said. “I didn’t notice any more life to him.”
Austin rifled through Girardi’s billfold. He
counted $82 in cash, pocketed the money, and tucked the wallet back in
Girardi’s jacket. No sense taking evidence with him.
That was the second time they killed Girardi. But
let’s start at the beginning.
Albert Girardi was a produce salesman from the
Little Italy district of Omaha, Nebraska. He had a wife, two small children,
Arto, 4, and Lucrezia, 9 months—and a booming business.
 |
| Visitors at Monkey Island |
On April 16, 1861, Washington ordered Iowa to send
a regiment for immediate service. Kirkwood didn’t have time to ease into the
war; he began organizing at once.
The United States didn’t have a large army. That
meant the states had to do much of the work. Iowa had willing men, but supplies
were scarce. Guns and ammunition were the biggest problem. Even when volunteers
poured in, the state couldn’t outfit them properly.
Kirkwood’s job became a constant scramble for
equipment. At first, he wasn’t sure he could raise a full regiment. When
volunteers flooded in by the thousands, the number of men ready to serve was
larger than the state could quickly arm and outfit.
That created a fresh crisis. Kirkwood and other
leading Iowans took unusual steps to get the state moving. They pledged
personal property to borrow money for supplies, because waiting meant wasting
time the Union didn’t have.
Ozzy Osbourne is onstage. Lights slicing through smoke; guitars loud enough to rearrange your organs. The crowd is packed in tight. Denim and teenage adrenaline fill the auditorium.
Then something comes flying onto the stage. Small.
Dark. Flopping wings.
A bat.
Depending on who you ask, it was a rubber toy or
the real deal—a dead bat someone had brought like a twisted party favor. Either
way, it lands near Ozzy’s boots, and that’s when reality shifted.
Ozzy picks it up. And bites it. The crowd watches,
unsure how to react. They aren’t horrified. Just stunned. Like their brains
need a second to catch up and decide—is it part of the show or some new-fangled
Ozzy Voodoo ritual?
Then it hits. Screams. Cheers. Confused people,
unsure how to react.
Afterward, Ozzy said he thought it was rubber.
Maybe, but— There’s something unsettling about it. Grabbing something off the
ground and biting it.
The moment lives on, one of those stories
that’s too ridiculous to die. Forty years later, the legend persists. And the
question—reality or sideshow.
The contest drew twelve professional riders from different parts
of the country, along with over 30 riders from Iowa and neighboring states.
Several well-known hill climb riders entered the contest.
Petrali of Chicago was listed as a national hill climb champion. Reiber of
Milwaukee entered as the runner-up from the previous year’s championship climb.
Art Erlenbaugh of Milwaukee also competed. He was reported to hold a hill climb
record of 6.25 seconds.
 |
| David Morrell |
Vietnam was still fresh. America was jumpy. The country felt like it was cracking at the seams. And here was a novel about a returning veteran who couldn’t fit back into normal life, colliding with a small-town system that didn’t know what to do with him.
Morrell
wasn’t guessing about any of this. He taught literature at the University of Iowa
and knew how stories work and what themes do when you tighten them like a vise.
He just aimed that knowledge at a new target: suspense.
Morrell
taught American literature at the University of Iowa from 1970 to 1986, became
a full professor in 1977, and wrote bestselling novels during that same
stretch.
So
picture it. He lectured on American writing and culture during the day… then
went home and wrote chase scenes, manhunts, and plots with real teeth.
