Zachary Taylor’s Worst Day? The Chaotic Battle of Credit Island

 

Zachary Taylor

The upper Mississippi River was a dangerous place to be wearing an American uniform in the fall of 1814.

The British controlled Prairie du Chien. Sauk and Fox warriors controlled the area around the Rock River. American settlements farther south lived with constant rumors of raids, ambushes, and attacks. St. Louis was about as far north as American power reached. Beyond that, things got shaky fast.

So, the American Army hit back.

Major Zachary Taylor loaded 334 men into eight fortified keelboats and pushed north up the Mississippi in late August 1814. The mission was simple enough on paper: move toward Rock River, destroy the Sauk and Fox villages, burn corn supplies, and remind everybody who controlled the river.

The farther north Taylor went, the more warriors appeared along the shoreline. Canoes slipped back and forth across the river, and men watched from the trees.

Taylor noticed horses near the shore and smelled trouble, saying they were “doubtless placed” there to lure American troops into landing parties. He wasn’t wrong. The Sauk and Fox knew where boats could land, where sandbars sat hidden under the water, and where a man could disappear into the willows, never to be seen again.

Murder At The Roosevelt Hotel

 

Roosevelt Hotel in Cedar Rapids

Byron Hattman, a 29-year-old aerospace engineer with Emerson Electric, was murdered in room 729 of the Roosevelt Hotel in Cedar Rapids on December 14, 1948. The crime scene showed evidence of a violent struggle, with blood splattered on all four walls and knife marks etched into the plaster. Hattman was found face down on the floor, with a stab wound in his lower chest and several gashes on his head, face, and hands.

A maid discovered the body shortly after 7 a.m. the next morning. Detectives noted the door was locked from the outside, but Hattman’s key was found under the bed. The locked door seemed puzzling until a bellhop explained keys from nearby rooms could open others; for instance, the key for room 725 could unlock room 729.

As investigators dug into Hattman’s life, they uncovered several oddities. His landlord, Alvin Steinke, mentioned Hattman had recently been the victim of several “annoyances,” including someone placing a stud-filled plank in front of his car just a week earlier. And his personal life had taken a hit. Hattman, once an active dater, had become more withdrawn in recent months, dating once a month, if that.

Adding to the mystery was a peculiar chicken sculpture found in the trunk of Hattman’s car—two chicken bones attached to a cloth with the words “Lest you forget” underneath. Coworkers Paul Deam and Fred Gaez explained a woman Hattman dated gave him the bones as a playful reminder of a picnic where they enjoyed fried chicken together. That seemed strange and stalkerish.

Tom Harkin: The Iowa Senator Who Quietly Changed America

 

Tom Harkin when he was in the House of Representatives

If you’ve followed Iowa politics for any stretch of time, you’ve heard of Tom Harkin.

 

He wasn’t flashy. Didn’t follow headlines. More like… he was just there.

 

You’d hear his name come up—farm bill, labor fight, disability rights—and think, yeah, that tracks. That’s a Harkin thing.

 

Harkin was born in 1939 in Cumming, Iowa. His dad was a coal miner. His mom took whatever jobs she could get. They got by. That was the deal.

 

He went to Iowa State University. Studied government. Then he joined the Navy and became a pilot. That gave him an edge. He wasn’t intimidated by people just because they had titles or nicer suits.

 

After the Navy, he landed in Washington, working for congressional representative Neal Smith. That’s where things started to click—and also where things began to bother him.

 

He saw how slowly everything moved. How easy it was for something important to just… stall out. Get buried. Forgotten.

 

So he ran for office and won a seat in the House.

Before Walmart And The Internet We Had The Sears And Montgomery Ward Christmas Wish Books

 

Montgomery Ward Christmas Catalog 1967

The first actual sign of Christmas wasn’t snow or  lights. It wasn’t even the tree. It was the sound of something heavy hitting the kitchen table.

 

You knew that sound.

 

You came running from the living room or outside. From wherever you were. Because if you didn’t grab it first, your brother or sister would.

 

The Christmas Wish Book had arrived.

 

Sears. Montgomery Ward. Sometimes both, if the timing lined up just right. And when they showed up, the entire house changed.

 

Christmas had officially started.

 

You didn’t ease into those catalogs. You dove in headfirst. Spread it out. Flip fast at first, almost frantic, like you were afraid it might disappear. Then slow it down. Because now you were looking. Really looking.

 

Page by page, the world opened up.

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.

15 Iowa Restaurants You Loved… That Are Gone Forever

 

There was a time Iowa had its own flavor.

 

Not chains or copy-paste menus. Actual places where the carpet smelled like grease, the coffee never stopped, and somebody knew your name—or at least your order.

 

Most of them are gone now.

 

Not because they were bad. Because time moved on, highways shifted, big chains rolled in, and little by little… they disappeared.

 

If you grew up here, you probably remember a few of these.

Chuck Grassley. The Iowa Senator Who Refused To Fade Away

 

Chuck Grassley

If you’ve followed Iowa politics for any length of time, you’ve heard of Chuck Grassley.

He’s not just part of the system—he’s part of the backdrop. Like a courthouse clock that’s always been there, ticking whether or not you notice it. You go to a town hall, a fair, some random meeting in a school gym…there’s a decent chance he’s been there or is about to walk in.

But he didn’t start out powerful.

Grassley grew up on a farm in Butler County, where he milked cows and hauled hay. Did the same chores over and over until they were just part of the day. You can see that in him now. Same rhythm. Get up early. Keep moving. Don’t complain. Don’t slow down.

He didn’t come from a political family. No connections. No uncle who knew a governor. No shortcut.

He worked his way through school, landed at the University of Northern Iowa, and paid his way however he could. Factory shifts. Teaching. Farm work. Nothing about how an early life screamed future power broker.

When he got into politics, it was small stuff.