Top Ten Cartoons Every Iowa Kid Watched In The 1960s

If you were a kid in Iowa in the 1960s, cartoons weren’t this magical all-day buffet. There were no choices. No DVR or VCR. You got what you got. Couple channels. Maybe three if things were going your way.

The weather could mess it up. So could wind. Half the time you were standing there messing with rabbit ears like you were cracking a safe. Especially if you were trying to pull in that one UHF channel from Rockford. Or Minneapolis.

 

And when something finally came in—maybe a little fuzzy. You watched it. Didn’t matter what it was.

Top Ten Toys Iowa Boys Played With In The 1960s

 

You won’t believe how much fun kids had with this stuff—and none of it plugged in or connected to the internet.

 

Iowa kids didn’t sit still long in the 1960s. If you weren’t outside, you were in the basement making your own action.

 

These toys got dirty. They got dropped, smashed, and dragged across gravel.

 

No rules. No instructions. Just imagination and whatever you had on hand.

 

These were the must-haves. The ones every kid either owned—or wished he did.

Something Big and Wooden Is Happening in Iowa

 

Fjord Ferryman at the Museum of Danish History in Elk Horn

Something weird showed up in Iowa, and for once it wasn’t a rumor or a blurry photo of something out in a cornfield.

It was a troll.

 

A big one.

 

If you’ve been near Elk Horn lately, you’ve probably seen it or at least heard someone mention it. It’s become a thing to take your picture next to it and post it on Facebook.

 

They named it Fjord Ferryman. Sounds like something out of a storybook, which doesn’t exactly scream “western Iowa,” but here we are.

 

It went up at the Museum of Danish America, which makes sense once you think about it. Elk Horn leans into its Danish heritage. Windmills, festivals, all of it. So if a giant wooden figure was going to land anywhere in Iowa, that’s one place it wouldn’t feel completely out of left field.

 

Still, it’s something to see.

 

It’s sitting in a wooden boat, holding what looks like a tree branch for an oar, like it’s rowing across… nothing. Just prairie. No water. No river. Just dirt, grass, and sky. And somehow it works.

 

When you get closer, the scale hits you. It’s bigger than it looks in pictures. Way bigger.

Aviator Lieutenant E. Earle Burgess

Lieutenant E. Earle Burgess

E. Earle Burgess, a First Lieutenant in the aviation service at Ellington Field in Texas, thrilled Southerners with a display of aerial gymnastics. 

he put on a show for 6,000 Houston residents in early July 1919. A few days later, he parachuted from 6,000 feet, thrilling a crowd of onlookers. Two days later, he leaped from one plane to another at 2,5000 feet over Galveston. 

Later that week, he dropped from the landing gear of a Curtis D plane to the rounded top of a Pullman sleeping car pulled by a Southern pacific special.

Burgess was born in Allerton, Iowa, and lived in Des Moines before going into the iar service. Sources said he was leaving the service to become a barnstormer.

Vintage Adventureland: The Rides Every Iowa Kid Remembers

 

Silly Silo was a classic Adventureland attraction for nearly thirty years

If you grew up in Iowa, Adventureland was the place to go. Summer vacation. School trips. Boy or Girl Scout outings.

 

Adventureland had something for everyone. Food. Rides. Games. People watching.

 

All of that was fun, but the rides are what you remember most.

 

The Silly Silo (1974–2013) looked like an ordinary farm silo. Until you walked inside.

 

Then things went crazy.

 

Riders were crowded against a wall while the room spun faster and faster. When it got up to speed, the floor dropped away. It was simple engineering, but first-time riders felt like the world was ending. Or at least your little part of it.

Iowa's Own, The Orton Brothers' Circus

 

Orton Brothers' circus tent, circa 1900

If you lived in Iowa in the late 1800s and heard a brass band coming down the street, you  grabbed your hat and headed for town.

The circus was here.

Kids came running. Shopkeepers drifted outside. Farmers tied off teams and squinted into the dust. Dogs barked, and horses rolled their eyes.

Then the parade came around the corner.

Painted wagons. Glittering harnesses. Clowns. Riders perched high on horses. Cages rumbling along. Brass horns blaring like they were trying to wake the dead.

And if the wagons said Orton Brothers Circus, people knew they were seeing one of the biggest homegrown shows Iowa ever produced.

Who Remembers Duane Ellet And Floppy WHO TV Des Moines

 

If you grew up in Iowa anytime between the late 1950s and the late 1980s, there’s a good chance you knew exactly what time The Floppy Show came on.

From 1957 to 1987, Duane Ellett and Floppy were a huge part of daily life on WHO-TV in Des Moines. For a lot of Iowa kids, Duane and Floppy were as familiar as the kitchen table, the school bus, and snow boots lined up by the back door.

This was back when television wasn’t endless. There were only a few channels. If you missed something, you missed it forever. No rewinding. No watching whenever the spirit moved you. If Floppy was on at a certain time, you got there.

Usually with cereal, in pajamas, and yelling for somebody to stop touching the rabbit ears because the picture was just right.

Duane Ellett had a face people trusted right away. Calm, friendly, never trying too hard. He wasn’t loud or  fake cheerful. He seemed like a decent fellow who had somehow wandered onto television and stayed.

Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show Comes To Davenport July 9, 1913

The Daily Times. July 8, 1913.

Buffalo Bill brought his Wild West Show to Davenport on July 9, 1913, and gave the city a front-row seat to the Old West.

The show had played in Moline on July 8, then crossed the river for a July 9 stop in Davenport. The grounds were set up on Telegraph Road next to the baseball field, but the real action started downtown.

Thousands packed the streets for the parade. Kids climbed curbs. Men tipped hats. Women craned their necks for a better look. Leading the procession were Buffalo Bill and Pawnee Bill.

The parade had about everything you could imagine. Cowboys, cowgirls, ropers, riders, old stagecoaches, soldiers, and performers from all over the world. A cowboy band played on horseback. Mexican Rurales rode in formation. Elephants and camels lumbered along behind them.

Native American performers were a major draw. Iron Cloud led the procession. Reports said he had been twelve years old at the time of Custer’s defeat at Little Big Horn in 1876. Another man, Yellow Hand, was the son of a chief who fought there.

The Davenport Democrat and Leader called it “a pleasing blending of the Wild West.”

After the parade, everybody headed for the showgrounds. The afternoon performance kicked off at 1 p.m. The evening show opened at 8.

Iowa Restaurants Everyone Loved ... Until They Disappeared

 

Eating out used to meet something different. You didn’t rush. You sat down, grabbed a tray, or waited for a carhop. 

 

Some of these places were everywhere. Others were local legends. Most are gone now—but people still talk about them.

 

Bishop’s Buffet (1930s–1990s). If you grew up in Iowa, you ate at Bishop’s. Cafeteria line, trays, mashed potatoes, fried chicken, pie at the end. It was cheap, and everywhere—especially in malls.

 

You could feed a family without thinking about it. And the best part was everyone got what they wanted, no arguing about where to go.

 

They threw the towel in as fast food got faster, malls declined, and buffet-style dining felt dated.

Bishop's Buffet Was There, And Then It Wasn't

 

As a kid, you wanted McDonald’s. Maybe Henry’s. That felt like a win—bright, loud, fast, and fun. Instead, you got dragged to Bishop’s.

Not that Bishop’s Buffet was bad. It just wasn’t cool. No Happy Meals. No noise. No reason for a kid to get excited. It was where your parents and grandparents went.

You’d walk in already annoyed.

Then the smell hit you. Roast beef, fried chicken, rolls, gravy, something sweet in the background. That helped.

Black Hawk's Watch Tower Outing Resort Moline

(The Daily Times. June 24, 1905)

This advertisement for Black Hawk's Watch Tower amusement park in Moline, Illinois, was published in The Daily Times on June 24, 1905.

Free admission. Free movies. Free concerts. And a roller coaster to compete with the new one at Suburban Park in Davenport. I didn't see a price listed here, but from what I've seen elsewhere, rides were 25 cents and the lines were out of this world.

Roller Coaster at Suburban Island Davenport

(Davenport Democrat and Leader. April 9, 1905)

The Davenport Democrat and Leader printed this picture of the roller coaster that was to be erected at Suburban Park in April 1905. The roller coaster was purchased from the Ingersol Park Company in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania at a cost of $16,500.

The coaster was seventy feet high and ninety feet wide, and had a total length of nearly 300 feet. The paper said readers could view three cities from the top of the roller coaster. 

It was to be erected north and west of the pavillion and was expected to be in operation by June 1.

Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show Visits Muscatine 1896

 

Buffalo Bill Cody brought his Wild West show to Muscatine in October 1896. Twenty thousand people crowded the streets on the morning of October 1, watching the parade of characters; 16,000 attended the afternoon performance.

The show was big and fast, with over 500 horses and riders from different countries. Native American performers, Mexican riders, and Russian Cossacks all took part. Most people in the crowd had seen nothing like it.

The shooting act led the show.

Annie Oakley stepped out and hit target after target. Small targets. Moving targets. She worked quick and clean. The crowd stayed quiet while she shot, then broke into applause.

Johnny Baker followed. He fired from the back of a horse running at full speed. Shots came in rhythm with the horse’s stride. It was one of the show’s most talked-about acts.

Lulu Glaser As Dainty Dolly Varden At The Burtis Opera House 1903

 

Colorized image of Lulu Glaser
(from the Daily Times. October 24, 1903)

Comic opera star Lulu Glaser starred in Dainty Dolly Varden at the Burtis Opera House in Davenport on October 28, 1903. 

Contemporary reviews said Glaser’s strength wasn’t power—it was personality. She had a way of connecting with the audience through small gestures, expressive phrasing, and a gentle humor that suited the operetta style. The songs were delivered with clarity and elegance, not be show-stopping, but they lingerd pleasantly.

Coliseum Rollaway Grand Masquerade Davenport 1908

 

The Davenport Democrat and Leader. January 19, 1908.

This one surprised me. A masquerade skating party in 1908. if the advertisement is to be believed, everyone was required to wear a mask. And no intoxicating beverages were served.

Rollerskating must have been a big thing, because they offered a Masquerade Skate every evening and Sunday afternoon.

Balkan Princess At The Burtis Theater Davenport 1913

 

Colorized image, showing the cast of The Balkan Princess

The Balkan Princess was performed at the Burtis Opera House on March 30, 1913. The Daily Times descibed it as a "bubbling musical comedy." It was filled with sentiment and happiness and told the story of the romance between Princess Stephanie of Balavia and Grand Duke Sergius. 

Speed Boat Races at Campbell's Island Davenport 1921

 

This advertisement for Campbell's Island appeared in the Davenport Democrat and Leader on August 10, 1921.

Grace McDaniels The Mule Faced Lady

Grace McDaniels and her son, Elmer

They say every carnival needs a monster. Iowa built one on a farm.

Grace McDaniels was born near Villisca in 1888— a cold little dot of America where even the cows look bored. She came into the world with a red mark running down her face, the kind of thing that makes old women cross themselves and whisper about God’s unfinished business. The doctors didn’t have a clue. They called it a “port-wine stain” because it sounded classier than “weird, red mistake.”

 

Grace grew up hiding behind scarves and hand-me-down shame. She tried powder, veils, anything short of duct tape. Iowa is an awful place to look different — too flat, nowhere to hide. She probably spent half her childhood dreaming about disappearing into the corn.

 

At some point, she stopped fighting it. That’s the thing about humiliation — it either kills you or makes you bulletproof. Grace figured if the entire world was going to gawk, she might as well sell tickets.

 

So she packed up her pain and took it to Chicago in 1933. The World’s Fair — a temple of progress powered by electricity, gasoline, and cruelty. For a dime, you could see the future, or a human being in a cage. Grace joined the sideshow under a hand-painted banner: THE MULE-FACED WOMAN.

Stone City: The Art Movement That Almost Worked

Instructors at the Stone City Art Colony. (left to right) Grant Wood,
Dave McCosh, Edward B. Rowan, Arnold Pyle, Adrian Dornbush,
and Marvin Cone. Not pictured Florence Sprague Smith

The road to Stone City curved through corn and limestone, pale as bone. The air buzzed with heat. You could smell the river before you saw it.

Then — laughter. Wild, unfiltered laughter bouncing off the quarry walls. That’s how you knew you’d found it.

It was 1932. The country was broke. So were most of the people who came here. They brought brushes, bedrolls, debts. Hope too, the kind that doesn’t last long but burns bright.

Grant Wood was on the porch when they arrived. Round glasses, overalls, a grin that could mean anything. “Don’t just stand there,” he shouted. “Grab a brush or grab a beer!”

Someone did both. Someone else tripped on a paint bucket. It began like that.

The Stone City Art Colony. Fifty bucks for the summer — if you had it. If you didn’t, nobody asked.

Loose Ankles, A Charity Performance in Des Moines

On October 30, 1928, Des Moines theatergoers packed the house for Loose Ankles, a lively comedy starring William Walsh and Dora Clement of the President Players. Walsh called it a “jolly, peppy comedy,” the kind of fast-talking, flirtatious romp that kept audiences grinning through the curtain call.

The performance wasn’t just another night of stage lights and laughter—it had a mission. The show was staged to raise money for the Sally Joy Brown Milk Fund, a charitable drive organized by The Tribune-Capital. The fund helped struggling families, especially mothers with small children who couldn’t afford milk, a daily necessity many took for granted.

So, while Loose Ankles brought laughs to the crowd, it also brought hope to hungry homes across Des Moines. It was a night when the city’s actors proved that even a bit of Broadway-style comedy could make a difference in the lives of those who needed it most.