William B. Allison Iowa Senator

William B. Allison took his Senate seat in 1873 and settled in like a man who knew he wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

Presidents cycled through. The country lurched forward. Crashes. Booms. Wars. Allison just kept showing up, year after year, doing the same thing—watching, listening, waiting for his moment.

He wasn’t built for speeches. No table pounding. No grandstanding. While other senators filled the room with noise, Allison leaned back, counted votes in his head, and worked people one at a time. Quiet conversations. Closed doors. That’s where things actually got decided.

If you wanted to know where the actual power sat, you followed the money. And Allison had his fingerprints all over it. As head of Appropriations, he helped steer federal spending wherever it needed to go—or wherever he decided it should go. Rail lines, river projects, the military—nothing moved without passing across his desk.

Herman A. Breithaupt Des Moines Expert Zither Soloist and Chef

 

(colorized photo from the Des Moines Register. April 15, 1928)

Herman A. Breithaupt, an expert Zither Soloist, was featured in the Des Moines Register in April 1928. Born in Germany in 1896, he began playing the zither when he was ten. 

Breithaupt's other passion was cooking. He worked in the kitchen at the Hotel Savery III in Des Moines, where he cooked and trained new chefs in the culinary arts. He told his students, "A meal correctly combined, scientifically prepared, and properly masticated is necessary for a healthy body."

In his spare time, he lectured at schools and clubs on food preperation, recipes, and health.

He was fifty years ahead of his time in his belief that one day, high schools would train young men to be chefs and food scientists.

Colonel John W. Rankin 17th Iowa Infantry Civil War

 

(Colorized image from Iowa Colonels and Regiments by A. A. Stuart. 1865)

John W. Rankin helped raise the 17th Iowa Infantry in 1862 and went in as one of its field officers. They got little time to settle in. By fall, they were in Mississippi. At Iuka in September, the fighting came quick in broken ground. Lines blurred. Men fired at shapes more than targets.

A few weeks later came Corinth. October 4 hit hard. Confederate attacks drove into the line and shook it. The 17th Iowa took heavy losses. Parts of the regiment gave ground. Some were captured. Still, enough held for the army to recover and push back. Rankin was there at Corinth, where the fighting broke and reformed under pressure… and at Champion’s Hill, where Grant later wrote the battle was “stubbornly contested at every point.”

In 1863, they moved with Grant into Mississippi. Jackson fell after a quick fight. Then came Champion Hill on May 16. That was the one that decided things. The ground was rough. The fight didn’t move cleanly. Units went in, stalled, shifted, and went in again. The 17th stayed in it as the line bent and pushed forward.

After that came the Big Black River and then Vicksburg. The work changed there. No charges. Just digging, holding, and waiting under fire. They spent weeks in the trenches. Heat, dirt, sickness. Rankin stayed with the regiment through it, part of the long grind that ended when Vicksburg finally gave up in July 1863.

Albert Baird Cummins Iowa Governor and Senator

 

(Watercolor drawing after photo in The Worlds Work. January 1909)

Albert Baird Cummins was born in 1850 in Pennsylvania. He studied law on his own and built a career in Des Moines.

He entered politics as a reformer, and fought railroad power and political control. He was elected governor in 1901 and served three terms.

As governor, he pushed fair railroad rates and cleaner government. He supported laws that gave voters more control. He faced strong opposition and didn’t back down.

Cummins later served in the U.S. Senate for nearly twenty years. He died in 1926.

Augustus Caesar Dodge Iowa Politician

Augustus Caesar Dodge was a delegate to Congress from Iowa Territory in 1840. After Iowa became a state in 1846, he became one of its first United States senators.

In 1855, President Franklin Pierce appointed him minister to Spain. He ran for governor when he returned to the country, and later served as mayor of Burlington.

Robert Gordon Cousins Eight Term Iowa Congressman

 

Watercolor after a photograph in the Des Moines Register. February 16, 1908.

Robert Gordon Cousins grew up on a farm near Tipton where people argued politics as seriously as they planted corn. By the time he left Cornell College in 1881 he knew two things: how to work and how to talk.

 

He started in the Iowa House in 1886, cut his teeth in an impeachment trial, and proved he could prosecute a case without blinking. In 1892, he landed a seat in the U.S. House of Representatives and stayed there for eight straight terms.

 

Washington at the turn of the century was loud, partisan, and spoiling for big arguments. Cousins thrived on it. He memorized his speeches and delivered them like a man who trusted his own voice. When he stood up, people listened.

 

After the Spanish-American War, the country split over what to do with the Philippines. Cousins backed expansion and said America couldn’t grab global power and then pretend it was shy. Strength meant responsibility. Retreat meant weakness.

 

His showpiece was a speech called The Glory of the Republic. It was red meat patriotism, wrapped in constitutional language. He talked about sacrifice, duty, and the price of liberty. Newspapers picked it up. Crowds asked to hear it again. He became one of the Republican Party’s go-to voices when the subject was national pride.

 

He chaired the House Committee on Foreign Affairs, stayed firm on America’s role in the world, and then stepped away in 1909. He went back to Iowa, took to the Chautauqua circuit, and kept preaching citizenship under canvas tents.

 

Cousins died in 1933.

 

Herbert Hoover During World War I

 

Before he was president, Herbert Hoover was a mining engineer. A numbers man. A logistics wizard who’d made a fortune digging minerals out of the ground on three continents. Then, in 1914, war exploded across Europe.

Thousands of Americans were stranded with no cash and no way home.

Hoover organized emergency loans. Chartered ships. Set up offices. Within weeks, he’d helped get tens of thousands of Americans out of Europe.

He became chairman of the Commission for Relief in Belgium after it had been overrun by Germany. Millions of civilians faced starvation. Britain’s navy blockaded food shipments. Germany occupied the land. Hoover negotiated with both sides to move grain across oceans and through battle lines.

Under his direction, ships crossed the Atlantic loaded with wheat and flour. Warehouses rose. Distribution networks spread across occupied territories. The commission fed millions of people every day.

When America entered the war in 1917, Woodrow Wilson made Hoover the U.S. Food Administrator, a post he held from 1917 to 1919.

Hoover didn’t want heavy-handed rationing laws. He believed in voluntary cooperation. So he made food patriotic.

Charles Nigg The Maquoketa Wheelman

 

Charles Nigg of Maquoketa, Iowa, pushed a wheel barrow called the Iowa Special from Maquoketa to the American Legion convention in San Antonio, Texas in 1928. He served in the Spanish American War with his two brothers. (picture from Des Moines Tribune. October 11, 1928)

Fox War Chief Sogonapothanji

Sogonapothanji was a Meskwaki (Fox) war chief in what is now eastern Iowa. His name meant “He Slew Three Sioux,” and it wasn’t a metaphor. It was a record.

Among the Meskwaki, names like this marked what a man had done, not what he hoped to be remembered for. Sogonapothanji’s reputation came from direct conflict with the Dakota (Sioux), longtime enemies in a region where raids and counter-raids were part of daily reality. Survival depended on speed, strength, and nerve. Leaders proved themselves in action.

He was not a council chief. His authority came from warfare—planning attacks, leading fighters, and defending Meskwaki territory when violence broke out. Killing enemy warriors was dangerous, personal work. Doing it more than once mattered. Doing it three times gave him a name people remembered.

By the time Americans began building forts and pressing westward, men like Sogonapothanji were already veterans of another kind of struggle. Intertribal warfare didn’t pause for treaties or survey lines. It continued even as a new and far larger threat crept into the region.

Meskwaki Chief Taimah

Chief Taimah was a Meskwaki (Fox) leader in the early nineteenth century, known less for fighting than for dealing with Americans face to face. That alone made his job dangerous.

He was a civil chief. A negotiator, expected to sit through long councils, listen to translators stumble through his words, and answer to officials who already believed the outcome was decided. Taimah understood that once something was said, it lived on paper. And paper lasted longer than promises.

He spent years moving through that system. Treaty talks. Delegations. Repeated demands that the Meskwaki give up land and move west. Saying no often brought soldiers. Saying yes brought regret. Taimah chose his words carefully because there were no good options left—only less immediate disasters.

He wasn’t naïve. When he signed treaties, it wasn’t trust. It was calculation. Delay could mean another season on familiar ground. Another year to plant corn. Another chance to keep families together before removal became unavoidable.

George Catlin said he was calm, dignified, and deliberate. He noticed how carefully Taimah dressed and carried himself. That wasn’t vanity. It was strategy. Appearance spoke before words did.

Lewis Worthington Smith Drake University Poet

Lewis Worthington Smith was an English professor at Drake University from 1906 to 1940. He believed writing mattered. Style wasn’t decoration. Ideas should stand up to pressure.

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.

Mary Allen Talbert: Remembering Slavery

Mary Allen Talbert of Ottumwa, Iowa, was featured in the Des Moines Register on July 5, 1924. Born on Christmas Day in 1799, she was believed to be 115 years old. She had been born into slavery in Garrett County, Kentucky.

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.

Iowa Poet Edwin Ford Piper

Edwin Ford Piper joined the faculty at the University of Iowa in 1905 and stayed there for decades, writing and teaching until his death in 1939.

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.

Samuel J. Kirkwood: He Mobilized Iowa For The Civil War

When Samuel J. Kirkwood became governor of Iowa in 1860, the country was already sliding toward civil war. He acted fast, calling for volunteers, forming new regiments, and getting those men ready to serve the Union.

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.

Author David Morrell: Rambo Was Just The Beginning

David Morrell

David Morrell published First Blood in 1972. It introduced John Rambo. The original Rambo was wounded, furious, and lost. The story was a pressure cooker.

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. 

Author John Irving New Hampshire Born Iowa Bred

John Irving

Iowa City looks harmless. Bookstores. Brick streets. Workshop gossip. Then John Irving shows up and says, “Sure, but what if we make it weird?”

He comes to the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in the mid-60s, and ends up studying under Kurt Vonnegut—who’s basically a human smoke alarm with a typewriter. Funny. Furious. Allergic to fake seriousness.

 

Irving’s young. Full of big-story energy. A writer who loves accidents, coincidences, and fate like they’re all cousins at the same chaotic family reunion.

 

At Iowa, he drafts Setting Free the Bears. A thesis that turns into a full-blown novel. Europe. Wild turns. That shaggy, runaway-cart feeling that becomes his signature. Kirkus called it “a wonderfully fresh, wildly imaginative notion of a book,” which is reviewer-speak for this kid might be trouble in the best way.  

 

Then he cranks out The Water-Method Man and drags the chaos closer to home. Iowa City shows up. Graduate school creeps in. Relationships get messy. The jokes get sharper. The plot keeps slipping sideways like it’s trying to escape the room.

Wicked Liz and the Bellyswirls Rocking Davenport for 30 Years

Davenport, Iowa. 1998. Back when bands still had to earn it. No algorithms. No “content.” You played until your fingers hurt and the bartender hated you and the sound guy stopped pretending he was going to help. You played until people finally went, “Alright. Fine. These maniacs are for real.”

Liz Treiber sings like she already knows what you want. Behind her: Leo Kelly on lead guitar, Bob Kelly on bass, Greg Hipskind on drums.

That’s the BellySwirls. The name sounds like something you get from gas station nachos, but onstage it’s a tight machine built to wreck a room. These guys don’t float through songs—they kick the door in.

Genre? Call it blues-rock if you need a label—greasy, hooky, and mean enough to make you forget you were going to leave after one drink. Big riffs, fat groove, stomp-on-the-floor energy. Stuff that makes you spill your beer and not care.

Their songs have that “we’ve done this the hard way” feel. “Believe.” “Mary Kate.” “Nick of Time.” “Ruby.” “Wicked Waltz.” “Break Me” is exactly what it sounds like—not a poem, not a diary entry, more like somebody slamming a door and daring you to follow.

Buffalo Bill Cody Frontier Scout Wild West Performer

Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show

Buffalo Bill Cody was born in Le Claire on February 26, 1846—the same year Iowa became a state.

The family left for Kansas in 1853, searching for freedom because Iowa was feeling a little too crowded. That wanderlust followed Bill for the rest of his life.

The Pony Express was Bill’s first brush with fame. It only ran for about eighteen months, but it changed everything. Riders hit relay stations at full speed, swapped horses, and kept flying. Mail moved across the country faster than anyone thought possible. It was dangerous, brutal work. A boy could vanish on the prairie and no one  would know.

Bill said he rode for it. People still argue about whether he did, but it doesn’t matter. The Pony Express fit the image he sold the rest of his life: an inexperienced rider in empty country, living on speed and nerve.

After that, he trapped, scouted, and rode with soldiers. Then he picked up the name that turned him into a brand.

Iowa Governor Kim Reynolds

Kim Reynolds didn’t burst into politics. She edged in. Her first job was Clarke County treasurer, a position built entirely on numbers and trust. Taxes came in. Bills went out. If the math worked, no one noticed. If it didn’t, the phone rang. The job taught her a useful lesson: government feels very different when you’re the one people call after it fails.

In 2008, she ran for the Iowa Senate from a rural district. Voters wanted someone dependable, conservative, and unremarkable in the best way. Reynolds fit neatly. She didn’t chase attention. She listened, voted with her party, and avoided turning routine decisions into public drama.

That made her an easy choice when Terry Branstad returned as governor in 2011. He needed a lieutenant who would compete for the spotlight, someone who understood the machinery and wouldn’t touch the dials unless told to. Reynolds filled the role comfortably. For six years, she learned the rhythms of state government by staying just offstage.

When Branstad became ambassador to China in 2017, Reynolds stepped into the governor’s office. She kept the cabinet intact and promised continuity. Her early months were careful, almost cautious, focused on proving she could hold the job without dropping it.

John Wayne: Born In Iowa, Built For America

John Wayne had a problem growing up. He lived in Winterset, Iowa, and his name was Marion. Marion Michael Morrison.

He grew up poor. His father struggled with health problems. Money was nonexistent, and nothing came easy. He worked odd jobs, and learned not to complain when things didn’t go his way.

That mindset stuck.

When the family moved west, Marion grew into a big kid—tall, strong, athletic. Played football. Earned a scholarship to USC. And for a while, it looked like his future might be on the field.

Then fate intervened. A football injury ended his athletic dreams. The scholarship money dried up, and he found a Hollywood job. Nothing glamorous.