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.
