By William Smith Community Editor

During the 30-hour search for Rickey Kammerer on June 21 and June 22, Yarmouth Fire Chief John Crouch and Burlington/Yarmouth firefighter Luke Griffis (Crouch’s son-in-law) never left the scene.

Crouch recalls getting about a half-an-hour of sleep in the back of an ambulance. Griffis barely got any more.

Neither was going to stop searching the wreckage of the grain silo collapse at the Agri-Way Grain Elevator in Yarmouth — not until they found Rickey.

“We were going into this with the mindset that we weren’t going to stop until we found him, or until the scene became too unstable to be safe,” Griffis said.

It was a rescue scene unlike any the two veteran firefighters had encountered before. In fact, it was unlike anything any of the firefighters had seen.&nbsp;

The urban search and rescue team of Cedar Rapids, Iowa Task Force 1, was on the scene within an hour of being requested. Griffis said it was a record-breaking response time for the team.

“It usually takes 2 or 3 hours. You have to request them through the emergency management agency after you’ve exhausted all your resources, and they have to go through the governor,” Griffis said.

Due to the precarious nature of the scene&nbsp;&nbsp;— with one collapsed silo threatening to take down the others —&nbsp;&nbsp;Iowa Task Force 1 sought guidance from another rescue team in Wisconsin that had dealt with a similar situation. All they could offer was encouragement.

“They (the task force team out of Wisconsin) said to be careful, that it was a no-win situation,” Griffis said.

Iowa Task Force 1 had never dealt with anything like this accident before, and they specialize in those kinds of rescue&nbsp;operations. Task force members almost always like to stabilize the scene before rescue workers are put at risk, but there was no way to stabilize the tons of concrete and metal.

The wreckage shifted a total of 8 inches during the search effort, closely monitored by a surveying device from the Des Moines County Secondary Roads department and the task force itself.&nbsp;

“We had people like Travis Sours and multiple other people just watching the facility for safety issues,” Crouch said.&nbsp;

Within an hour of the accident, fire departments around the area had responded to the scene or took over fire duties for other departments so they could assist as well.&nbsp;

Griffis estimates about 80 emergency personnel were there. He counts 35 responding agencies, including excavation companies.

But there was no way to count everybody. Local construction companies showed up, ready to lend their equipment.&nbsp;

Volunteers came with armloads of food and bottled water — so much that some of the firefighter’s spouses and families started a makeshift auxiliary group for the scene just to manage it all. Local stores donated supplies as well.&nbsp;

“There were just pallets and pallets of water and drinks, four or five tables full of food, and it was stacked high. There were three cattle troughs they put bottled water and ice in,” Griffis said.

Crouch had no idea the donations had come in so quickly.&nbsp;

He was making plans to have food purchased at a grocery store until he looked inside the fire department. Then he had to kindly ask volunteers to stop bringing supplies.

“It was like, ‘jeepers!’ We sent water home with every fire department,” Crouch said.

Griffis said anything they needed arrived nearly as soon as Des Moines County Emergency Management Coordinator Gina Hardin called for it.&nbsp;

He credited her as the best emergency management coordinator in the state and said she was vital to the effort.

“Gina was able to get us anything. The joke is, if you need a purple elephant, Gina will get it to you,” Griffis said.

The work was slow and deliberate, and vibrations of vehicles and machinery would cause the wreckage to shift.&nbsp;

Crouch said most of the debris was cleared using hand tools that cut through rebar and concrete.&nbsp;

Louisa County Millwright used a crane and workers to attach cables to the top of a grain storage bin, eventually tipping it over so rescuers could access the scene.

The heat index reached 104 degrees that day (June 21), and firefighters rotated in 10-minute shifts. Full turnout gear was discouraged.

“Every department that showed up, we had them take their thermal layers out to help reduce the heat,” Griffis said. “Our only requirement was long pants, steel toes, and eye protection.”&nbsp;

Search dogs found several points of interest during the search, and crews worked outside the scene into the interior, ensuring escape routes if anything were to collapse.

Later that night, as tower lights were put up and the search continued, a thunderstorm with possible 60 mph winds approached.&nbsp;

“The storm dissipated,” Griffis said. “We barely had to stop.”&nbsp;

About a week prior to the accident, a yellow Labrador retriever showed up in town. Neither Crouch nor Griffis had ever seen the pooch before.

Neither of them gave it much thought until the dog showed up again in the wake of the accident. Kammerer’s family was on site for the entire 30-hour operation, spending hours in a grassy area just outside the caution tape.

The dog approached them, then lay beside them, as if he knew he was needed.

“That dog laid with the family and laid with the daughter for hours at a time,” Griffis said.

The dog became kind of a mascot for the rescuers and for Kammerer’s family. Griffis said he was remarkably well trained — shaking hands-on command — and could seemingly sense when someone was troubled. That included the firefighters, who found solace in petting the pooch.

“Animals fix everything,” Griffis said.

Crouch and Griffis figured the dog must have been dumped, and the firefighters weren’t about to leave him behind. After checking the dog for a microchip to make sure the owner couldn’t be found, he was adopted by the Danville fire chief.

The firefighters are still recovering from the operation, especially mentally.&nbsp;

Crouch said he hasn’t had time to process the events, but he will. Counseling sessions were made available during critical debriefings.

As difficult as that 30 hours were, Crouch and Griffis said it would have been much harder without the full-throated support of their fellow firefighters and the community.

Some of the construction companies lost equipment, but they didn’t complain. They didn’t ask for money. They told Crouch that they would be available anytime they were needed.

It’s an attitude the entire town carried. The entire county.&nbsp;

Fire departments from Illinois and across Iowa offered their support. U.S. Rep. Mariannette Miller-Meeks called to offer anything that was needed.&nbsp;

“It wasn’t just southeast Iowa. It was a statewide response,” Griffis said.

Crouch wants to thank everyone, including a few specific people.

“I would just like to thank Gina Hardin, Hanna Siegworth, and my daughter Jamie,” Crouch said.

Griffis has pages of notes he went through to write the report for the accident, and in those notes are the names of all the responding agencies and volunteers. They have all earned the gratitude of a community.

They are Yarmouth Fire, Mediapolis Fire, Mediapolis Community Ambulance, Danville Fire, Burlington Tech Rescue, ALS Ambulance, West Burlington Fire, Mount Union Fire, Olds Fire, Wapello Fire, Wapello Ambulance, Denmark Fire, Des Moines County CERT, Cedar Rapids Iowa Task Force 1, Des Moines County Sheriff, Wayland Fire, Winfield Fire, Mount Pleasant Fire, New London Fire, Crawfordsville Fire, Washington Fire, Ainsworth Fire, Morning Sun Fire, Oakville Fire, Brewer Wrecking Service, Newberry Towing, Des Moines County Emergency Management, DESCOM, Louisa County Millwright, Fye Excavating, Four Seasons Excavating, Des Moines County Secondary Roads MABAS No. 62, New London Utilities, and the National Weather Service.

Rickey Ryan Kammerer, 30, passed away June 21, 2022, in Yarmouth. A Celebration of Life will start at 3 p.m. Saturday, July 9, at 301 South Maple Lot 9, Winfield. The Snyder &amp; Hollenbaugh Funeral and Cremation Services of Morning Sun is caring for the family. A memorial has been established at the funeral home in memory of Rickey. Donations may also be made at&nbsp;<a href="https://www.gofundme.com/f/rickey-kammerer-memorial-fund">https://www.gofundme.com/f/rickey-kammerer-memorial-fund</a>. Online condolences may be left at www.sandhfuneralservice.com.

He was born Dec. 16, 1991, in Muscatine, to Adam Kammerer and Tammy Estabrook Spencer.

Rickey married the love of his life, Megga Brown Kammerer, on Oct. 31, 2020, in Winfield. Rickey was a devoted father to his daughter, Remedy LouAnn Jo Kammerer.

Rickey got his GED in 2013. He worked several jobs to support his wife and daughter. Rickey was a devoted husband and father. Rickey was loved by many and he impacted the lives of those he met.

Rickey loved to spend time with family and friends, camping, fishing, smoking, and loving life. Rickey was a huge St. Louis Cardinals and Oregon Ducks fan. He never missed a game. Rickey collected Coca Cola memorabilia.

Rickey is survived by his wife, Megga Kammerer (Winfield); his daughter, Remedy Kammerer (Winfield); his dad, Tom Jones (Morning Sun); his mom, Tammy Spencer (Morning Sun); bonus parents, Russ and Karol Adamson (Mediapolis); his father-in-law, Jerry Brown (Winfield); his brothers, Travis Jones (Morning Sun), Andrew Estabrook (Ottumwa), Ryan Adamson (Indianola), Riley Kammerer (Morning Sun), Leroy Kammerer (Morning Sun) and Justin; his sisters, Tara Jones (Connor Stratton) (Winfield), Sonya Jones (Morning Sun), Cassie Adamson (Zach Waddell) (Indianola), Jessi Lanfranco (Mt. Pleasant) and Cheyenne Kammerer (Morning Sun); his brother and sister-in-law, Michael and Heather Cupps (Winfield); his grandmother, Debra Watson (Mama) (Mt. Pleasant); grandparents, Gerald (Papi) and Dianne Kammerer (Morning Sun); grandparents, Jim and Judy Strasser (Morning Sun); his fur baby son, Hunter James; his lifelong buddy; special friends, Brendan Stillwell and Carly Hodges (Winfield), Jessica Hoots and Bugg (Burlington), Jontue Wonders (Ft. Dodge), Jessica and Stephen Robertson (Morning Sun), Daryl Bryant (Morning Sun) and Nathan Geise and family; several nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, cousins and many other family and friends.

Rickey was proceeded in death by his son, Bayne Ryan Kammerer; his brother, Christopher; his mother-in-law, Jackie Cupps; grandfather, Roger Estabrook; grandfather, Richard Jones; great-aunt and -uncle, Dretha and Wade Watson; niece, Kiley Bugg-Broadway; and childhood friend, Travis Stewart.

<figure>
 <img src="https://d2eftiauov6o73.cloudfront.net/public/2022/7/1656806751970.jpeg" alt="Citizens and emergency responders never stopped searching for a man trapped in a grain bin in Yarmouth. (Photo submitted by Barbara Kerr)" />
 <figcaption>Citizens and emergency responders never stopped searching for a man trapped in a grain bin in Yarmouth. (Photo submitted by Barbara Kerr)</figcaption>
 </figure>By William Smith Community EditorDuring the 30-hour search for Rickey Kammerer on June 21 and June 22, Yarmouth Fire Chief John Crouch and Burlington/Yarmouth firefighter Luke Griffis (Crouch’s son-in-law) never left the scene.Crouch recalls getting about a half-an-hour of sleep in the back of an ambulance. Griffis barely got any more.Neither was going to stop searching the wreckage of the grain silo collapse at the Agri-Way Grain Elevator in Yarmouth — not until they found Rickey.“We were going into this with the mindset that we weren’t going to stop until we found him, or until the scene became too unstable to be safe,” Griffis said.It was a rescue scene unlike any the two veteran firefighters had encountered before. In fact, it was unlike anything any of the firefighters had seen.&nbsp;The urban search and rescue team of Cedar Rapids, Iowa Task Force 1, was on the scene within an hour of being requested. Griffis said it was a record-breaking response time for the team.“It usually takes 2 or 3 hours. You have to request them through the emergency management agency after you’ve exhausted all your resources, and they have to go through the governor,” Griffis said.A deliberate searchDue to the precarious nature of the scene&nbsp;&nbsp;— with one collapsed silo threatening to take down the others —&nbsp;&nbsp;Iowa Task Force 1 sought guidance from another rescue team in Wisconsin that had dealt with a similar situation. All they could offer was encouragement.“They (the task force team out of Wisconsin) said to be careful, that it was a no-win situation,” Griffis said.Iowa Task Force 1 had never dealt with anything like this accident before, and they specialize in those kinds of rescue&nbsp;operations. Task force members almost always like to stabilize the scene before rescue workers are put at risk, but there was no way to stabilize the tons of concrete and metal.The wreckage shifted a total of 8 inches during the search effort, closely monitored by a surveying device from the Des Moines County Secondary Roads department and the task force itself.&nbsp;“We had people like Travis Sours and multiple other people just watching the facility for safety issues,” Crouch said.&nbsp;Within an hour of the accident, fire departments around the area had responded to the scene or took over fire duties for other departments so they could assist as well.&nbsp;Griffis estimates about 80 emergency personnel were there. He counts 35 responding agencies, including excavation companies.But there was no way to count everybody. Local construction companies showed up, ready to lend their equipment.&nbsp;<figure>
 <img src="https://d2eftiauov6o73.cloudfront.net/public/2022/7/1656807931537.jpeg" alt="Crews worked through the night on the search effort. (Photo submitted by Barbara Kerr)" />
 <figcaption>Crews worked through the night on the search effort. (Photo submitted by Barbara Kerr)</figcaption>
 </figure>Volunteers came with armloads of food and bottled water — so much that some of the firefighter’s spouses and families started a makeshift auxiliary group for the scene just to manage it all. Local stores donated supplies as well.&nbsp;“There were just pallets and pallets of water and drinks, four or five tables full of food, and it was stacked high. There were three cattle troughs they put bottled water and ice in,” Griffis said.Crouch had no idea the donations had come in so quickly.&nbsp;He was making plans to have food purchased at a grocery store until he looked inside the fire department. Then he had to kindly ask volunteers to stop bringing supplies.“It was like, ‘jeepers!’ We sent water home with every fire department,” Crouch said.Griffis said anything they needed arrived nearly as soon as Des Moines County Emergency Management Coordinator Gina Hardin called for it.&nbsp;He credited her as the best emergency management coordinator in the state and said she was vital to the effort.“Gina was able to get us anything. The joke is, if you need a purple elephant, Gina will get it to you,” Griffis said.The work was slow and deliberate, and vibrations of vehicles and machinery would cause the wreckage to shift.&nbsp;Crouch said most of the debris was cleared using hand tools that cut through rebar and concrete.&nbsp;Louisa County Millwright used a crane and workers to attach cables to the top of a grain storage bin, eventually tipping it over so rescuers could access the scene.The heat index reached 104 degrees that day (June 21), and firefighters rotated in 10-minute shifts. Full turnout gear was discouraged.“Every department that showed up, we had them take their thermal layers out to help reduce the heat,” Griffis said. “Our only requirement was long pants, steel toes, and eye protection.”&nbsp;Search dogs found several points of interest during the search, and crews worked outside the scene into the interior, ensuring escape routes if anything were to collapse.Later that night, as tower lights were put up and the search continued, a thunderstorm with possible 60 mph winds approached.&nbsp;“The storm dissipated,” Griffis said. “We barely had to stop.”&nbsp;The mysterious dogAbout a week prior to the accident, a yellow Labrador retriever showed up in town. Neither Crouch nor Griffis had ever seen the pooch before.Neither of them gave it much thought until the dog showed up again in the wake of the accident. Kammerer’s family was on site for the entire 30-hour operation, spending hours in a grassy area just outside the caution tape.The dog approached them, then lay beside them, as if he knew he was needed.“That dog laid with the family and laid with the daughter for hours at a time,” Griffis said.The dog became kind of a mascot for the rescuers and for Kammerer’s family. Griffis said he was remarkably well trained — shaking hands-on command — and could seemingly sense when someone was troubled. That included the firefighters, who found solace in petting the pooch.“Animals fix everything,” Griffis said.Crouch and Griffis figured the dog must have been dumped, and the firefighters weren’t about to leave him behind. After checking the dog for a microchip to make sure the owner couldn’t be found, he was adopted by the Danville fire chief.<figure>
 <img src="https://d2eftiauov6o73.cloudfront.net/public/2022/7/1656806947922.jpeg" alt="Yarmouth Community Methodist Church sits in the shadow of the Agri-way grain storage facility, the site of a tragic accident that claimed the life of Rickey Ryan Kammerer. (Photo courtesy of Keith Turrill)" />
 <figcaption>Yarmouth Community Methodist Church sits in the shadow of the Agri-way grain storage facility, the site of a tragic accident that claimed the life of Rickey Ryan Kammerer. (Photo courtesy of Keith Turrill)</figcaption>
 </figure>Expressing gratitudeThe firefighters are still recovering from the operation, especially mentally.&nbsp;Crouch said he hasn’t had time to process the events, but he will. Counseling sessions were made available during critical debriefings.As difficult as that 30 hours were, Crouch and Griffis said it would have been much harder without the full-throated support of their fellow firefighters and the community.Some of the construction companies lost equipment, but they didn’t complain. They didn’t ask for money. They told Crouch that they would be available anytime they were needed.It’s an attitude the entire town carried. The entire county.&nbsp;Fire departments from Illinois and across Iowa offered their support. U.S. Rep. Mariannette Miller-Meeks called to offer anything that was needed.&nbsp;“It wasn’t just southeast Iowa. It was a statewide response,” Griffis said.Crouch wants to thank everyone, including a few specific people.“I would just like to thank Gina Hardin, Hanna Siegworth, and my daughter Jamie,” Crouch said.Griffis has pages of notes he went through to write the report for the accident, and in those notes are the names of all the responding agencies and volunteers. They have all earned the gratitude of a community.They are Yarmouth Fire, Mediapolis Fire, Mediapolis Community Ambulance, Danville Fire, Burlington Tech Rescue, ALS Ambulance, West Burlington Fire, Mount Union Fire, Olds Fire, Wapello Fire, Wapello Ambulance, Denmark Fire, Des Moines County CERT, Cedar Rapids Iowa Task Force 1, Des Moines County Sheriff, Wayland Fire, Winfield Fire, Mount Pleasant Fire, New London Fire, Crawfordsville Fire, Washington Fire, Ainsworth Fire, Morning Sun Fire, Oakville Fire, Brewer Wrecking Service, Newberry Towing, Des Moines County Emergency Management, DESCOM, Louisa County Millwright, Fye Excavating, Four Seasons Excavating, Des Moines County Secondary Roads MABAS No. 62, New London Utilities, and the National Weather Service.Obituary for Rickey Ryan Kammerer<figure>
 <img src="https://d2eftiauov6o73.cloudfront.net/public/2022/7/1656807529107.jpeg" alt="Rickey Ryan Kammerer" />
 <figcaption>Rickey Ryan Kammerer</figcaption>
 </figure>Rickey Ryan Kammerer, 30, passed away June 21, 2022, in Yarmouth. A Celebration of Life will start at 3 p.m. Saturday, July 9, at 301 South Maple Lot 9, Winfield. The Snyder &amp; Hollenbaugh Funeral and Cremation Services of Morning Sun is caring for the family. A memorial has been established at the funeral home in memory of Rickey. Donations may also be made at&nbsp;<a href="https://www.gofundme.com/f/rickey-kammerer-memorial-fund">https://www.gofundme.com/f/rickey-kammerer-memorial-fund</a>. Online condolences may be left at www.sandhfuneralservice.com.He was born Dec. 16, 1991, in Muscatine, to Adam Kammerer and Tammy Estabrook Spencer.Rickey married the love of his life, Megga Brown Kammerer, on Oct. 31, 2020, in Winfield. Rickey was a devoted father to his daughter, Remedy LouAnn Jo Kammerer.Rickey got his GED in 2013. He worked several jobs to support his wife and daughter. Rickey was a devoted husband and father. Rickey was loved by many and he impacted the lives of those he met.Rickey loved to spend time with family and friends, camping, fishing, smoking, and loving life. Rickey was a huge St. Louis Cardinals and Oregon Ducks fan. He never missed a game. Rickey collected Coca Cola memorabilia.Rickey is survived by his wife, Megga Kammerer (Winfield); his daughter, Remedy Kammerer (Winfield); his dad, Tom Jones (Morning Sun); his mom, Tammy Spencer (Morning Sun); bonus parents, Russ and Karol Adamson (Mediapolis); his father-in-law, Jerry Brown (Winfield); his brothers, Travis Jones (Morning Sun), Andrew Estabrook (Ottumwa), Ryan Adamson (Indianola), Riley Kammerer (Morning Sun), Leroy Kammerer (Morning Sun) and Justin; his sisters, Tara Jones (Connor Stratton) (Winfield), Sonya Jones (Morning Sun), Cassie Adamson (Zach Waddell) (Indianola), Jessi Lanfranco (Mt. Pleasant) and Cheyenne Kammerer (Morning Sun); his brother and sister-in-law, Michael and Heather Cupps (Winfield); his grandmother, Debra Watson (Mama) (Mt. Pleasant); grandparents, Gerald (Papi) and Dianne Kammerer (Morning Sun); grandparents, Jim and Judy Strasser (Morning Sun); his fur baby son, Hunter James; his lifelong buddy; special friends, Brendan Stillwell and Carly Hodges (Winfield), Jessica Hoots and Bugg (Burlington), Jontue Wonders (Ft. Dodge), Jessica and Stephen Robertson (Morning Sun), Daryl Bryant (Morning Sun) and Nathan Geise and family; several nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, cousins and many other family and friends.Rickey was proceeded in death by his son, Bayne Ryan Kammerer; his brother, Christopher; his mother-in-law, Jackie Cupps; grandfather, Roger Estabrook; grandfather, Richard Jones; great-aunt and -uncle, Dretha and Wade Watson; niece, Kiley Bugg-Broadway; and childhood friend, Travis Stewart.

Courage in the Face of Tragedy

By Rita Hartman for The Beacon

In 1978, nearly every tween girl in America was in love with Shaun Cassidy, and I was no exception.&nbsp;&nbsp;

He was a cute teen idol with feathery blonde hair, brown eyes, a charming smile, and oodles of syrupy, wholesome cuteness. He enjoyed huge success with his multi-platinum, self-titled album which contained several chart-topping hits including “Da Doo Ron Ron.”&nbsp;&nbsp;

Last Friday night, I met up with two high school friends at the Hoyt Sherman Place concert venue in Des Moines to see Cassidy on his summer tour titled “Magic of a Midnight Sky.”&nbsp;

The Des Moines show was the seventh of a 12-date tour.&nbsp;

The Hoyt Sherman Place is an impressive 1252-seat, historic theater in the heart of the Sherman Hill district with domed, gilt ceilings, and red velvet seats.&nbsp;

Before the show, we witnessed mostly fifty-something ladies meandering around buying merchandise; some carried large signs to hold up during the show.&nbsp;

The signs read, “I’ve waited 45 years for you to come to Iowa!” and “You’re the Justin Bieber of my mom’s generation.”&nbsp;&nbsp;All but the smallest signs were confiscated by the ushers before the show began so as not to block the view for others.

The show started about ten minutes late with the crowd squealing and clapping in excitement the moment Cassidy stepped onstage alone with his electric-acoustic guitar.&nbsp;&nbsp;

He was dressed all in black and appeared as slim and fit as when he was at 18.&nbsp;

From our sixth-row seats, it was clear that although the 64-year-old Cassidy has grayed and aged as much as the rest of us, he still has the charming smile and “all-American boy” quality about him.&nbsp;&nbsp;From the comments I heard around me, no one seemed disappointed.

He opened his eleven-song set with, “That’s Rock ’N’ Roll” which got the crowd clapping, squealing, and singing along.&nbsp;&nbsp;

He was then joined by his keyboard player, Kathleen Sieck and guitarist and nephew, Cole Cassidy, who accompanied him for most of the show.&nbsp;&nbsp;Shaun Cassidy, who comes from a talented, musical family, played piano on several numbers including a new song he wrote for the tour, “Magic of a Midnight Sky,” a poetic ballad about the twists and turns of life.&nbsp;&nbsp;His voice sounded slightly deeper and more mature than I remembered, but he could still hit the notes and his voice sounded fantastic and familiar.

Cassidy has spent the bulk of his career writing for television and film since leaving the pop-rock world in the 1980s, so he was right at home storytelling in between songs.&nbsp;&nbsp;

He included songs and stories from his late half-brother, David Cassidy and his mother, Shirley Jones.&nbsp;

He included funny anecdotes about his famous family — like sharing a childhood bedroom with David and his experiences as a teen idol in the late 1970s.&nbsp;&nbsp;

One thing Cassidy does not do is take himself or his fame too seriously.&nbsp;&nbsp;

He talked about his children ribbing him about going out on a rock concert tour at 64 years old and being chased by starry-eyed girls who tore at his clothes and hair at the height of his music fame. “You scared me,” he joked to the crowd.&nbsp;&nbsp;

He took a detour from humorous anecdotes when he spoke of his close relationship with David, the influence he had on Shaun’s life, and the heartbreak when he died from alcoholism in 2017.&nbsp;

&nbsp;The show included a lovely acoustic rendition of “Do You Believe in Magic,” a song from 1965 by the band Lovin’ Spoonful.&nbsp;

Cassidy reached the top 40 with the song on his first album in 1978.&nbsp;

The finale’ was the song most people in the auditorium were waiting for, “Da Doo Ron Ron,” which brought everyone to their feet with many singing along and dancing in the aisles.&nbsp;&nbsp;

A few minutes later, the crowd left elated.&nbsp;&nbsp;

They had come to see their first crush, relive a bit of their youth, and hear him sing those memorable songs.&nbsp;&nbsp;

But they left with much more — they got to know Cassidy for an hour or so, hear his life stories and his humble words of appreciation to his fans.&nbsp;&nbsp;It truly was a magical night.&nbsp;&nbsp;

<figure>
 <img src="https://d2eftiauov6o73.cloudfront.net/public/2022/6/1656427160774.jpeg" alt="Shaun Cassidy appeared at the Hoyt Sherman Place, the seventh stop of a 12-date tour. (hoytsherman.org)" />
 <figcaption>Shaun Cassidy appeared at the Hoyt Sherman Place, the seventh stop of a 12-date tour. (hoytsherman.org)</figcaption>
 </figure>By Rita Hartman for The BeaconIn 1978, nearly every tween girl in America was in love with Shaun Cassidy, and I was no exception.&nbsp;&nbsp;He was a cute teen idol with feathery blonde hair, brown eyes, a charming smile, and oodles of syrupy, wholesome cuteness. He enjoyed huge success with his multi-platinum, self-titled album which contained several chart-topping hits including “Da Doo Ron Ron.”&nbsp;&nbsp;Last Friday night, I met up with two high school friends at the Hoyt Sherman Place concert venue in Des Moines to see Cassidy on his summer tour titled “Magic of a Midnight Sky.”&nbsp;The Des Moines show was the seventh of a 12-date tour.&nbsp;The Hoyt Sherman Place is an impressive 1252-seat, historic theater in the heart of the Sherman Hill district with domed, gilt ceilings, and red velvet seats.&nbsp;Before the show, we witnessed mostly fifty-something ladies meandering around buying merchandise; some carried large signs to hold up during the show.&nbsp;The signs read, “I’ve waited 45 years for you to come to Iowa!” and “You’re the Justin Bieber of my mom’s generation.”&nbsp;&nbsp;All but the smallest signs were confiscated by the ushers before the show began so as not to block the view for others.The show started about ten minutes late with the crowd squealing and clapping in excitement the moment Cassidy stepped onstage alone with his electric-acoustic guitar.&nbsp;&nbsp;He was dressed all in black and appeared as slim and fit as when he was at 18.&nbsp;From our sixth-row seats, it was clear that although the 64-year-old Cassidy has grayed and aged as much as the rest of us, he still has the charming smile and “all-American boy” quality about him.&nbsp;&nbsp;From the comments I heard around me, no one seemed disappointed.He opened his eleven-song set with, “That’s Rock ’N’ Roll” which got the crowd clapping, squealing, and singing along.&nbsp;&nbsp;He was then joined by his keyboard player, Kathleen Sieck and guitarist and nephew, Cole Cassidy, who accompanied him for most of the show.&nbsp;&nbsp;Shaun Cassidy, who comes from a talented, musical family, played piano on several numbers including a new song he wrote for the tour, “Magic of a Midnight Sky,” a poetic ballad about the twists and turns of life.&nbsp;&nbsp;His voice sounded slightly deeper and more mature than I remembered, but he could still hit the notes and his voice sounded fantastic and familiar.Cassidy has spent the bulk of his career writing for television and film since leaving the pop-rock world in the 1980s, so he was right at home storytelling in between songs.&nbsp;&nbsp;He included songs and stories from his late half-brother, David Cassidy and his mother, Shirley Jones.&nbsp;He included funny anecdotes about his famous family — like sharing a childhood bedroom with David and his experiences as a teen idol in the late 1970s.&nbsp;&nbsp;One thing Cassidy does not do is take himself or his fame too seriously.&nbsp;&nbsp;He talked about his children ribbing him about going out on a rock concert tour at 64 years old and being chased by starry-eyed girls who tore at his clothes and hair at the height of his music fame. “You scared me,” he joked to the crowd.&nbsp;&nbsp;He took a detour from humorous anecdotes when he spoke of his close relationship with David, the influence he had on Shaun’s life, and the heartbreak when he died from alcoholism in 2017.&nbsp;&nbsp;The show included a lovely acoustic rendition of “Do You Believe in Magic,” a song from 1965 by the band Lovin’ Spoonful.&nbsp;Cassidy reached the top 40 with the song on his first album in 1978.&nbsp;The finale’ was the song most people in the auditorium were waiting for, “Da Doo Ron Ron,” which brought everyone to their feet with many singing along and dancing in the aisles.&nbsp;&nbsp;A few minutes later, the crowd left elated.&nbsp;&nbsp;They had come to see their first crush, relive a bit of their youth, and hear him sing those memorable songs.&nbsp;&nbsp;But they left with much more — they got to know Cassidy for an hour or so, hear his life stories and his humble words of appreciation to his fans.&nbsp;&nbsp;It truly was a magical night.&nbsp;&nbsp;

An Evening with a Former Teen Idol

When West Burlington Pool General Manager Bethany Nannen heard a single gunshot in the West Burlington pool parking lot, she thought it was fireworks.&nbsp;

She never thought a man had been shot in the parking lot. Not until she looked outside.

“When we had the debrief, I told the kids (lifeguards), ‘This is something you should never have to witness. I am sorry that you have to go through this. This is not normal, and this is not something that will ever be normal,’ ” she said of the June 14 shooting incident.

Nannen and her team of lifeguards, all between the ages of 14 and 19, became heroes that day. Nannen rushed to the parking lot with a med-kit in her hand while the pool staff calmly got everyone out in an orderly evacuation. At first, Nannen feared a child had been shot.

“At the time, we didn’t know what was happening. We didn’t know if it was another mass shooting. We didn’t know,” she said.&nbsp;

Nannen, a Burlington Community School District teacher, fell back on 30 years of emergency training. She went to the side of the man who had been shot.

A person on the scene was applying pressure to the victim’s gunshot wound with a towel, doing their best to keep him alive. But the pressure was applied to the man’s jaw rather than his neck.

“I knew from what I could see on his face that the wound I did not need to worry about was this one,” she said, gesturing at her jaw.

“It was this one back here,” she said, pointing to the back of her neck.

Nannen felt bad about what she had to do next. But there was no other choice.

“I scooped the towel and applied pressure as hard as I could to the back of his head. And he was not real happy with me at the time because it hurt. I did apply pressure and waited until the ambulance and EMS got there. I tried to keep talking to him and make sure I kept him conscious,” Nannen said.&nbsp;

Word of the shooting quickly spread at the pool, but the scene stayed orderly.&nbsp;

Nannen commended her staff, 15 of which were working that day. She directed some of them to break up the crowd gathering outside the pool.

“I cannot tell you enough good things about my staff. And these are all really young kids. The oldest one I have on staff is 19, and she just turned 19,” Nannen said.&nbsp;

The day was blistering hot, and the pavement was even worse. Nannen and others on the scene tried to keep the victim cool with water, placing towels on him to shade him against the sun.

“All he wanted to do was stand up, and I was like, ‘Oh honey, you can’t stand up yet,” Nannen said. “My knees and feet were scalding hot.”

Nannen’s heart goes out to the children who could see through the chain-link fence into the parking lot.

“The community has been great, thank goodness. They have been so gentle,” she said. “It was very traumatic for those kids who were there. That was very hard for the kids on the other side of the fence.”&nbsp;

The pool reopened Friday, June 17, and Nannen hasn’t had time to process what happened. But she will, eventually.

“I know that it’s not OK. I know that I’m not OK. And I’m OK with that. I know that I’m going to need time, and I’m going to need to be gentle with myself and take care of myself as well,” she said.

<figure>
 <img src="https://d2eftiauov6o73.cloudfront.net/public/2022/6/1656278385441.jpeg" alt="West Burlington Pool General Manager Bethany Nannen poses at the pool. Photo by William Smith" />
 <figcaption>West Burlington Pool General Manager Bethany Nannen poses at the pool. Photo by William Smith</figcaption>
 </figure>By William SmithIt wasn’t supposed to happen.When West Burlington Pool General Manager Bethany Nannen heard a single gunshot in the West Burlington pool parking lot, she thought it was fireworks.&nbsp;She never thought a man had been shot in the parking lot. Not until she looked outside.“When we had the debrief, I told the kids (lifeguards), ‘This is something you should never have to witness. I am sorry that you have to go through this. This is not normal, and this is not something that will ever be normal,’ ” she said of the June 14 shooting incident.Nannen and her team of lifeguards, all between the ages of 14 and 19, became heroes that day. Nannen rushed to the parking lot with a med-kit in her hand while the pool staff calmly got everyone out in an orderly evacuation. At first, Nannen feared a child had been shot.“At the time, we didn’t know what was happening. We didn’t know if it was another mass shooting. We didn’t know,” she said.&nbsp;Nannen, a Burlington Community School District teacher, fell back on 30 years of emergency training. She went to the side of the man who had been shot.A person on the scene was applying pressure to the victim’s gunshot wound with a towel, doing their best to keep him alive. But the pressure was applied to the man’s jaw rather than his neck.“I knew from what I could see on his face that the wound I did not need to worry about was this one,” she said, gesturing at her jaw.“It was this one back here,” she said, pointing to the back of her neck.Nannen felt bad about what she had to do next. But there was no other choice.“I scooped the towel and applied pressure as hard as I could to the back of his head. And he was not real happy with me at the time because it hurt. I did apply pressure and waited until the ambulance and EMS got there. I tried to keep talking to him and make sure I kept him conscious,” Nannen said.&nbsp;Word of the shooting quickly spread at the pool, but the scene stayed orderly.&nbsp;Nannen commended her staff, 15 of which were working that day. She directed some of them to break up the crowd gathering outside the pool.“I cannot tell you enough good things about my staff. And these are all really young kids. The oldest one I have on staff is 19, and she just turned 19,” Nannen said.&nbsp;The day was blistering hot, and the pavement was even worse. Nannen and others on the scene tried to keep the victim cool with water, placing towels on him to shade him against the sun.“All he wanted to do was stand up, and I was like, ‘Oh honey, you can’t stand up yet,” Nannen said. “My knees and feet were scalding hot.”Nannen’s heart goes out to the children who could see through the chain-link fence into the parking lot.“The community has been great, thank goodness. They have been so gentle,” she said. “It was very traumatic for those kids who were there. That was very hard for the kids on the other side of the fence.”&nbsp;The pool reopened Friday, June 17, and Nannen hasn’t had time to process what happened. But she will, eventually.“I know that it’s not OK. I know that I’m not OK. And I’m OK with that. I know that I’m going to need time, and I’m going to need to be gentle with myself and take care of myself as well,” she said.

Poolside Heroes

By William Smith Community Editor

Like thousands of Americans throughout the country, West Burlington native and retired social worker Dan Grinstead was profoundly affected by the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11, 2001.

“In my mind, that was our generation’s Pearl Harbor,” he said.

Seven years later, Grinstead joined the Iowa National Guard at the age of 57. He had no military experience. His experience with firearms was nil. In his college days, when his hair stretched down to his shoulders, he was against the Vietnam War.

“I was never against the soldiers. They were just doing what they had to do,” Grinstead said.

But Grinstead was a good social worker and could apply his unique skill set to help American soldiers much younger than himself. He knew it was time to join the fight.

A 1968 graduate of West Burlington High School, Grinstead attended Wartburg College, got a job through the University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics, and went on to earn a master’s degree in social work in Minnesota. That brought him back to Iowa City, where he began his career as a social worker in 1975.

“I always knew I wanted to help people, and that was the best way to do it,” Grinstead said.

Roughly 25 years later, after 9/11, Grinstead was waiting for President George W. Bush to call for volunteers. A few years passed, and when that didn’t happen, he volunteered himself.

Grinstead heard there was a need in the service for more social workers, and despite his age, it seemed like a natural fit.&nbsp;

He talked to a National Guard recruiter and learned there was an age waiver for joining.&nbsp;

All he had to do was pass a physical fitness test that consisted of situps, pushups, and a two-mile run.

Grinstead, who always stayed in shape, grinned to himself. He was already running 3 to 4 miles a day. The physical test wasn’t a problem.

“It made me one of the oldest people to join the guard since World War II,” Grinstead said.

Just like his younger counterparts, Grinstead had to go through officers’ basic training. That meant daily exercise, which he was accustomed to, and learning to use firearms, which was foreign to him.

“I had never fired a rifle,” he said. “In basic training, it was mostly people who were younger than me. And at my base in Camp Dodge, in Iowa, I was by far the oldest.”

After getting through basic in Texas, Grinstead went to Camp Shelby in Mississippi for more advanced training before going to Afghanistan.

Because of the generation gap, Grinstead was a lot different than his fellow soldiers. But he learned to enjoy those differences.

“I lived with a bunch of kids,” he said. “Those kids, they all listened to rap music all the time. They all played video games as much as they could. They called everybody and themselves, ‘Dude’ or ‘Bro.’ ”

Before going to Afghanistan, Grinstead was promoted to captain and learned that he would be running a combat stress clinic at Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan.

“I remembered that Afghanistan is known for its beautiful mountains. As we got closer to Bagram, you couldn’t see any of the mountains because of the smog. When I got off the plane at Bagram Air Base, I said to myself, ‘What’s that smell?’ It was worse than Cedar Rapids on a hot, sunny day,” he said.&nbsp;

The air base came under a rocket attack on his fourth day, and Grinstead remembers running outside with his fellow soldiers to look for the rockets after the sirens stopped.

“It was just like sitting at home on the porch, looking for the tornadoes,” he said.

After that, Grinstead was transferred to a forward operating base in the middle of the desert, where temperatures typically reached 120 degrees. A 10-foot-high wall of sandbags surrounded the base, protecting the soldiers from occasional bouts of enemy fire.

Grinstead compared it to the wild west army forts, where days blended endlessly.&nbsp;

“Pretty soon, it was hard to remember what day of the week it was. It didn’t matter, because we worked every day,” he said.

In April 2011, Grinstead got a call to go to the troop operation center. There had been a bombing at a nearby base called Gamberi.&nbsp;

“When I got to the operation center, there was a live feed coming in from a blimp that hovers over Gamberi, and what we could see was the aftermath of a bombing,” he said. “I knew I had to get to Gamberi as quickly as possible.”

Grinstead had friends at Gamberi and booked a helicopter to get there, knowing it would take a few days for him to arrive. Once he arrived, the plan was to do a critical incident debriefing, which meant talking to the medics and soldiers who survived.

Grinstead learned that a suicide bomber dressed in an Afghan National Army uniform had set off his explosive vest, killing seven people immediately and wounding more. Grinstead talked to the medics first, and that’s when he first learned of the soldiers’ valor.

“(The medic) told me that despite being wounded and having their eardrums blown out, (the soldiers’) first instinct was to help and help somebody who was hurt worse than they were,” Grinstead said.&nbsp;

“The soldiers who ran toward that explosion had a similar attitude. Their thought was, ‘Somebody needs help over there. It doesn’t matter whether I’m safe or not. That’s where I’m going.’ ”

Compared to himself, Grinstead thought of those soldiers as kids. But only in age. Not in virtue or bravery. They were far more than youth with modern hobbies.

“The kids that day, in my mind, grew up,” he said. “They proved they could do their job when they were under pressure. In fact, those kids were just like me. They joined the Army, put their lives on hold, left Iowa, and went someplace they didn’t know to help out.”

Grinstead wasn’t the same after the war. Neither was anyone else he served with. Many of those who survived the attack harbored guilt. They felt like they should have done more to stop the suicide bomber.&nbsp;

Grinstead did his best to help assuage that guilt as he talked to soldiers.&nbsp;

The event happened so quickly, he said, that preventing the bombing was nearly impossible. Instead, he reminded them of their stellar response to such a traumatic event. He reminded them to focus on the current day, to keep their situational awareness, instead of dwelling on past events they couldn’t change.

“I’ve kept track of them over time. They’ve all grown up now. They’ve gone to college and got their bachelor’s degrees. Some of them have gotten advanced degrees. Some have gotten married. Some have started families. They are exactly the kind of people, that if you were an employer, you would want to hire. And the kids are still playing video games,” he said.

With his six years of National Guard service finished in 2014, Grinstead continued as a social worker in Iowa.&nbsp;

Moving back into civilian life is a tough adjustment for almost every soldier, and Grinstead was no exception. While most civilians are aware of that hard adjustment, they tend to think only of post-traumatic stress disorder.

That’s a big part of it, Grinstead said, depending on each individual soldier’s experience.&nbsp;

But there’s also a degree of institutionalization. Grinstead experienced it himself.

“All you did was work, and then in the evening, you were free to do what you wanted. You didn’t have to think about cutting the grass or going down the cereal aisle of the grocery store and having 150 choices. You didn’t have to worry about choices,” he said.&nbsp;

“When it was time to eat, you either did or you didn’t. When you wanted your laundry done, you just dropped off your laundry.”

It got to be a comfortable experience, broken up by the stress of gunfire and enemy attacks.&nbsp;

In social work, Grinstead said, you are taught to look at faces. In the military, you are taught to look at people’s hands.

“It’s the hands that can hurt you,” he said.

Though it wasn’t as much of a problem for him as it was for other soldiers, turning off that situational awareness can be daunting. Having too many choices at the grocery store is overwhelming. But watching the hands of every customer inside that store can be a far worse feeling.

“One of the things we learned was how to spot improvised explosive devices. Looking for anything that is on the side of the road that might harm you,” he said.

A grocery bag on the side of the road in America is likely errant trash. A grocery bag on the side of the road in Afghanistan could be a bomb.

Grinstead kept a diary during his six years in the National Guard, which allowed him to tell his story a few years ago in front of 1,000 people on a stage in Des Moines.&nbsp;

The speech was part of The Des Moines Register’s storyteller project, and Grinstead worked with a reporter on his speech and had to memorize it ahead of time.

Grinstead found his story resonated with people, especially as he injected humor about his age and his pithy thoughts on the generation gap between him and other soldiers. He loves retelling the story of how he first joined the National Guard.

“It was a cold winter day in 2008. I raised my right hand, was about to take the oath of office, and was about to join the Iowa Army National Guard. Before I could do that, my recruiter turned to my mom and said, ‘Is it OK if Dan joins the Army? ’ ” Grinstead said to laughter from the crowd, before continuing his story.

“Now, this was a bit of an odd question, because, at the time, my mom was 82, and I was 57. So, my mom said, ‘Sure, it’s OK if he joins the Army, as long as he doesn’t play with guns or go to war,’ ” he said to more laughter.

In the years since he gave his speech, Grinstead has been working on turning his journal into an autobiography.&nbsp;

He knows his children and grandchildren would enjoy it, as well as his mother, who is now 95 years old.

He’s hoping others can take something away from his story, as well.

“I’m adding more stories and expanding it, to make it something more,” Grinstead said.&nbsp;

“It has been a very positive experience.”

<figure>
 <img src="https://d2eftiauov6o73.cloudfront.net/public/2022/6/1655846510888.jpeg" alt="Retired Iowa Army National Guard soldier Dan Grinstead says goodbye to his mother at a send-off ceremony before shipping off to Afghanistan in 2010. (Photo submitted)" />
 <figcaption>Retired Iowa Army National Guard soldier Dan Grinstead says goodbye to his mother at a send-off ceremony before shipping off to Afghanistan in 2010. (Photo submitted)</figcaption>
 </figure>By William Smith Community EditorLike thousands of Americans throughout the country, West Burlington native and retired social worker Dan Grinstead was profoundly affected by the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11, 2001.“In my mind, that was our generation’s Pearl Harbor,” he said.Seven years later, Grinstead joined the Iowa National Guard at the age of 57. He had no military experience. His experience with firearms was nil. In his college days, when his hair stretched down to his shoulders, he was against the Vietnam War.“I was never against the soldiers. They were just doing what they had to do,” Grinstead said.But Grinstead was a good social worker and could apply his unique skill set to help American soldiers much younger than himself. He knew it was time to join the fight.Not a typical soldierA 1968 graduate of West Burlington High School, Grinstead attended Wartburg College, got a job through the University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics, and went on to earn a master’s degree in social work in Minnesota. That brought him back to Iowa City, where he began his career as a social worker in 1975.“I always knew I wanted to help people, and that was the best way to do it,” Grinstead said.Roughly 25 years later, after 9/11, Grinstead was waiting for President George W. Bush to call for volunteers. A few years passed, and when that didn’t happen, he volunteered himself.Grinstead heard there was a need in the service for more social workers, and despite his age, it seemed like a natural fit.&nbsp;He talked to a National Guard recruiter and learned there was an age waiver for joining.&nbsp;All he had to do was pass a physical fitness test that consisted of situps, pushups, and a two-mile run.Grinstead, who always stayed in shape, grinned to himself. He was already running 3 to 4 miles a day. The physical test wasn’t a problem.“It made me one of the oldest people to join the guard since World War II,” Grinstead said.Learning to be a soldierJust like his younger counterparts, Grinstead had to go through officers’ basic training. That meant daily exercise, which he was accustomed to, and learning to use firearms, which was foreign to him.“I had never fired a rifle,” he said. “In basic training, it was mostly people who were younger than me. And at my base in Camp Dodge, in Iowa, I was by far the oldest.”After getting through basic in Texas, Grinstead went to Camp Shelby in Mississippi for more advanced training before going to Afghanistan.Because of the generation gap, Grinstead was a lot different than his fellow soldiers. But he learned to enjoy those differences.“I lived with a bunch of kids,” he said. “Those kids, they all listened to rap music all the time. They all played video games as much as they could. They called everybody and themselves, ‘Dude’ or ‘Bro.’ ”Before going to Afghanistan, Grinstead was promoted to captain and learned that he would be running a combat stress clinic at Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan.Afghanistan“I remembered that Afghanistan is known for its beautiful mountains. As we got closer to Bagram, you couldn’t see any of the mountains because of the smog. When I got off the plane at Bagram Air Base, I said to myself, ‘What’s that smell?’ It was worse than Cedar Rapids on a hot, sunny day,” he said.&nbsp;The air base came under a rocket attack on his fourth day, and Grinstead remembers running outside with his fellow soldiers to look for the rockets after the sirens stopped.“It was just like sitting at home on the porch, looking for the tornadoes,” he said.After that, Grinstead was transferred to a forward operating base in the middle of the desert, where temperatures typically reached 120 degrees. A 10-foot-high wall of sandbags surrounded the base, protecting the soldiers from occasional bouts of enemy fire.Grinstead compared it to the wild west army forts, where days blended endlessly.&nbsp;“Pretty soon, it was hard to remember what day of the week it was. It didn’t matter, because we worked every day,” he said.Helping outIn April 2011, Grinstead got a call to go to the troop operation center. There had been a bombing at a nearby base called Gamberi.&nbsp;“When I got to the operation center, there was a live feed coming in from a blimp that hovers over Gamberi, and what we could see was the aftermath of a bombing,” he said. “I knew I had to get to Gamberi as quickly as possible.”Grinstead had friends at Gamberi and booked a helicopter to get there, knowing it would take a few days for him to arrive. Once he arrived, the plan was to do a critical incident debriefing, which meant talking to the medics and soldiers who survived.Grinstead learned that a suicide bomber dressed in an Afghan National Army uniform had set off his explosive vest, killing seven people immediately and wounding more. Grinstead talked to the medics first, and that’s when he first learned of the soldiers’ valor.“(The medic) told me that despite being wounded and having their eardrums blown out, (the soldiers’) first instinct was to help and help somebody who was hurt worse than they were,” Grinstead said.&nbsp;“The soldiers who ran toward that explosion had a similar attitude. Their thought was, ‘Somebody needs help over there. It doesn’t matter whether I’m safe or not. That’s where I’m going.’ ”Compared to himself, Grinstead thought of those soldiers as kids. But only in age. Not in virtue or bravery. They were far more than youth with modern hobbies.“The kids that day, in my mind, grew up,” he said. “They proved they could do their job when they were under pressure. In fact, those kids were just like me. They joined the Army, put their lives on hold, left Iowa, and went someplace they didn’t know to help out.”The aftermathGrinstead wasn’t the same after the war. Neither was anyone else he served with. Many of those who survived the attack harbored guilt. They felt like they should have done more to stop the suicide bomber.&nbsp;Grinstead did his best to help assuage that guilt as he talked to soldiers.&nbsp;The event happened so quickly, he said, that preventing the bombing was nearly impossible. Instead, he reminded them of their stellar response to such a traumatic event. He reminded them to focus on the current day, to keep their situational awareness, instead of dwelling on past events they couldn’t change.“I’ve kept track of them over time. They’ve all grown up now. They’ve gone to college and got their bachelor’s degrees. Some of them have gotten advanced degrees. Some have gotten married. Some have started families. They are exactly the kind of people, that if you were an employer, you would want to hire. And the kids are still playing video games,” he said.Adjusting to home lifeWith his six years of National Guard service finished in 2014, Grinstead continued as a social worker in Iowa.&nbsp;Moving back into civilian life is a tough adjustment for almost every soldier, and Grinstead was no exception. While most civilians are aware of that hard adjustment, they tend to think only of post-traumatic stress disorder.That’s a big part of it, Grinstead said, depending on each individual soldier’s experience.&nbsp;But there’s also a degree of institutionalization. Grinstead experienced it himself.“All you did was work, and then in the evening, you were free to do what you wanted. You didn’t have to think about cutting the grass or going down the cereal aisle of the grocery store and having 150 choices. You didn’t have to worry about choices,” he said.&nbsp;“When it was time to eat, you either did or you didn’t. When you wanted your laundry done, you just dropped off your laundry.”It got to be a comfortable experience, broken up by the stress of gunfire and enemy attacks.&nbsp;In social work, Grinstead said, you are taught to look at faces. In the military, you are taught to look at people’s hands.“It’s the hands that can hurt you,” he said.Though it wasn’t as much of a problem for him as it was for other soldiers, turning off that situational awareness can be daunting. Having too many choices at the grocery store is overwhelming. But watching the hands of every customer inside that store can be a far worse feeling.“One of the things we learned was how to spot improvised explosive devices. Looking for anything that is on the side of the road that might harm you,” he said.A grocery bag on the side of the road in America is likely errant trash. A grocery bag on the side of the road in Afghanistan could be a bomb.Telling his storyGrinstead kept a diary during his six years in the National Guard, which allowed him to tell his story a few years ago in front of 1,000 people on a stage in Des Moines.&nbsp;The speech was part of The Des Moines Register’s storyteller project, and Grinstead worked with a reporter on his speech and had to memorize it ahead of time.Grinstead found his story resonated with people, especially as he injected humor about his age and his pithy thoughts on the generation gap between him and other soldiers. He loves retelling the story of how he first joined the National Guard.“It was a cold winter day in 2008. I raised my right hand, was about to take the oath of office, and was about to join the Iowa Army National Guard. Before I could do that, my recruiter turned to my mom and said, ‘Is it OK if Dan joins the Army? ’ ” Grinstead said to laughter from the crowd, before continuing his story.“Now, this was a bit of an odd question, because, at the time, my mom was 82, and I was 57. So, my mom said, ‘Sure, it’s OK if he joins the Army, as long as he doesn’t play with guns or go to war,’ ” he said to more laughter.In the years since he gave his speech, Grinstead has been working on turning his journal into an autobiography.&nbsp;He knows his children and grandchildren would enjoy it, as well as his mother, who is now 95 years old.He’s hoping others can take something away from his story, as well.“I’m adding more stories and expanding it, to make it something more,” Grinstead said.&nbsp;“It has been a very positive experience.”

From Social Worker to Soldier

William Smith Community Editor When Burlington resident Larry Derry commissioned a new Amish-built shed/garage that would serve as a home for his pontoon boat, he had more altruistic ends in mind. He envisioned a space where he and his fellow parishioners at First Christian Church could build beds for children who need them, a place where they could become God’s hands. “I want to be of service to the Lord somehow, someway. I just feel that the need is there. Kids need to have a place to sleep. That can affect a child in so many different ways,” Derry said. Considering how much larger the shed is than his actual boat, Derry’s motives are obvious. He got the idea from the First Christian Church in Keokuk, which started the A Bed for Every Child program a few years ago. Now Derry and his fellow church members are heading up their own ministry around providing beds for kids, succinctly titled Build-A-Bed. Working on advice from the Keokuk congregation and in partnership with Southeastern Community College, the ministry is looking to address the most immediate of local needs: parents and children who need beds. “This whole vision has taken about two years, and it’s now just starting to develop. Anything construction takes time,” Derry said. Derry invited his fellow parishioners and SCC President Michael Ash to a recent meeting at the shed earlier this month, where tools were already in place to begin the bed-building process. The college is working on creating a dedicated phone number for the project. “We just want to build a bed. But there are a zillion and one details,” Ash said.&nbsp;

Though the project is in its infancy, Derry has already started working on some twin beds. “It’s not just for people who can’t afford a bed. It might be for a family who has some kids coming to live with them and they need some help,” Derry said. Right now, the ministry is looking to build up its finances. Derry estimated that a twin bed can be built and fitted with a mattress for roughly $250, though there was less than $1,000 in the coffers when Derry invited the congregation to meet. The ministry is reaching out to local stores for construction materials and donations – particularly lumber. The financial information of those they help is of no importance to the ministry. They are not there to sit in judgment. "If the need is there, we want to focus on that,” Derry said. “Will we be taken advantage of? Absolutely. But we have to trust in the Lord.” Derry, who is semi-retired from Aspen Grove Cemetery, said he has plenty of time to work on the project. So much time that his fellow church members have started referring to the ministry as “his baby.”&nbsp;While the compliment humbles Derry, it makes him a bit uncomfortable. &nbsp; "This is the Lord's baby," he said. Derry doesn’t care much for personal publicity, though he’s happy to promote the Build-A-Bed ministry in any way possible. He considers himself nothing more than the hands and feet of the Lord. “I’ve always felt it needs to come from the church. Because this what the Lord would do,” he said. “Once something like this gets out. People want to help. There’s still a lot of good people in the world.” Those who are interested in the project or want to help should contact&nbsp;<a href="mailto:BuildABedBurlington@gmail.com" target="_blank">BuildABedBurlington@gmail.com</a>. To be eligible for a&nbsp;bed, you must live in Des Moines County and have a child between the ages of 3 and 17 living in your household who does not have a&nbsp;bed.&nbsp;&nbsp;

<figure>
 <img src="https://d2eftiauov6o73.cloudfront.net/public/2022/6/1654191381293.jpeg" alt="Larry Derry, who recently started the Build-A-Bed Ministry at First Christian Church in Burlington, works on a bed that will go to someone in need. (William Smith/The Burlington Beacon) " />
 <figcaption>Larry Derry, who recently started the Build-A-Bed Ministry at First Christian Church in Burlington, works on a bed that will go to someone in need. (William Smith/The Burlington Beacon) </figcaption>
 </figure>William Smith Community Editor When Burlington resident Larry Derry commissioned a new Amish-built shed/garage that would serve as a home for his pontoon boat, he had more altruistic ends in mind. He envisioned a space where he and his fellow parishioners at First Christian Church could build beds for children who need them, a place where they could become God’s hands. “I want to be of service to the Lord somehow, someway. I just feel that the need is there. Kids need to have a place to sleep. That can affect a child in so many different ways,” Derry said. Considering how much larger the shed is than his actual boat, Derry’s motives are obvious. He got the idea from the First Christian Church in Keokuk, which started the A Bed for Every Child program a few years ago. Now Derry and his fellow church members are heading up their own ministry around providing beds for kids, succinctly titled Build-A-Bed. Working on advice from the Keokuk congregation and in partnership with Southeastern Community College, the ministry is looking to address the most immediate of local needs: parents and children who need beds. “This whole vision has taken about two years, and it’s now just starting to develop. Anything construction takes time,” Derry said. Derry invited his fellow parishioners and SCC President Michael Ash to a recent meeting at the shed earlier this month, where tools were already in place to begin the bed-building process. The college is working on creating a dedicated phone number for the project. “We just want to build a bed. But there are a zillion and one details,” Ash said.&nbsp;<figure>
 <img src="https://d2eftiauov6o73.cloudfront.net/public/2022/6/1654193305715.jpeg" alt="Members of First Christian Church in Burlington gathered to hear details and lend a hand in the church's new Build-A-Bed ministry. (William Smith/The Burlington Beacon)" />
 <figcaption>Members of First Christian Church in Burlington gathered to hear details and lend a hand in the church's new Build-A-Bed ministry. (William Smith/The Burlington Beacon)</figcaption>
 </figure>Though the project is in its infancy, Derry has already started working on some twin beds. “It’s not just for people who can’t afford a bed. It might be for a family who has some kids coming to live with them and they need some help,” Derry said. Right now, the ministry is looking to build up its finances. Derry estimated that a twin bed can be built and fitted with a mattress for roughly $250, though there was less than $1,000 in the coffers when Derry invited the congregation to meet. The ministry is reaching out to local stores for construction materials and donations – particularly lumber. The financial information of those they help is of no importance to the ministry. They are not there to sit in judgment. "If the need is there, we want to focus on that,” Derry said. “Will we be taken advantage of? Absolutely. But we have to trust in the Lord.” Derry, who is semi-retired from Aspen Grove Cemetery, said he has plenty of time to work on the project. So much time that his fellow church members have started referring to the ministry as “his baby.”&nbsp;While the compliment humbles Derry, it makes him a bit uncomfortable. &nbsp; "This is the Lord's baby," he said. Derry doesn’t care much for personal publicity, though he’s happy to promote the Build-A-Bed ministry in any way possible. He considers himself nothing more than the hands and feet of the Lord. “I’ve always felt it needs to come from the church. Because this what the Lord would do,” he said. “Once something like this gets out. People want to help. There’s still a lot of good people in the world.” Those who are interested in the project or want to help should contact&nbsp;<a href="mailto:BuildABedBurlington@gmail.com" target="_blank">BuildABedBurlington@gmail.com</a>. To be eligible for a&nbsp;bed, you must live in Des Moines County and have a child between the ages of 3 and 17 living in your household who does not have a&nbsp;bed.&nbsp;&nbsp;

Building Beds For All Who Need Them

Public speaking used to be the No. 1 fear for people.

It’s understandable, then, why local chapters of the Toastmasters International organization struggle to get members.

Mary Schulte, vice president of the North Dodge club in Iowa City, said one person asked her when approached to join the club, “Do you have to speak?”

“Well ... no,” Schulte responded, “but that is kind of the point.”

Iowa City is a long way from Burlington. But the same COVID-19 virus that led to the Burlington Toastmasters group folding is the virus that led to the more frequent use of Zoom meetings.

The technology enables the lone Burlington Toastmaster, Karen Piper, to join the 11-member North Dodge club from noon to 1 p.m. every Tuesday.

It takes 20 members to start a new club, but Piper is hoping that if Des Moines County residents are willing to learn how to speak better and gain more confidence, having a remote format may be more appealing.

As for concerns about speaking in public, Toastmasters’ whole point is to practice in front of a smaller group that’s more forgiving.

It’s been a bigger plus for Piper, who was part of the Burlington club from 2001 to 2012 before leaving due to health issues.

Piper had been a licensed massage therapist before working at then-Great River Medical Center and was asked by a massage therapist there to address a “few people” about her skill.

She agreed, but then, there was the crowd.

“We walk in the door, and there was 150 people,” Piper said.

“She took me up to the stage and put a microphone on me. I swear I could see my heart pulse through my shirt and sweat go down my back, and I don’t usually sweat,” Piper said.

“The only thing that saved me was I knew the subject.”

Her son, Ryan Whitham, came to the rescue.

He told Karen that she should join Toastmasters as his corporation regularly sent its employees to Toastmasters meetings.

Piper checked around and found the local chapter.

“It helped me feel more confident,” she said. “I have given presentations to clubs, organizations. I have been able to talk to my church.”

It helped at her work, which by that time was at Great River.

She even received a raise because she could handle presentations, which came in handy for her work in cardiac, pulmonary, and hospice.

“Had it not been for Toastmasters, I would not have done a good job,” Piper said.

The dues are $52 every six months and pro-rated depending on when a person joins.

When Piper’s health began to improve, she got back into the Burlington group, but COVID concerns shut down the meetings and people gradually pulled out.

She went online and discovered the North Dodge club.

“It was one of the closest ones I could find,” she said, but there are members at North Dodge from as far away as Austin, Texas, and Seattle.

The club had met at the Pearson Education company building in Iowa City, but now, members enjoy the comforts of their own homes. Piper said she dresses up when it’s a week she gives a speech and dresses more casually when she doesn’t.

There is a downside to Zoom meetings for a public speaking group, however.

<figure>
 <img src="https://d2eftiauov6o73.cloudfront.net/public/2022/5/1653317936965.jpeg" alt="" />
 <figcaption></figcaption>
 </figure>By Chris Faulknerfor The BeaconPublic speaking used to be the No. 1 fear for people.It’s understandable, then, why local chapters of the Toastmasters International organization struggle to get members.Mary Schulte, vice president of the North Dodge club in Iowa City, said one person asked her when approached to join the club, “Do you have to speak?”“Well ... no,” Schulte responded, “but that is kind of the point.”Iowa City is a long way from Burlington. But the same COVID-19 virus that led to the Burlington Toastmasters group folding is the virus that led to the more frequent use of Zoom meetings.The technology enables the lone Burlington Toastmaster, Karen Piper, to join the 11-member North Dodge club from noon to 1 p.m. every Tuesday.It takes 20 members to start a new club, but Piper is hoping that if Des Moines County residents are willing to learn how to speak better and gain more confidence, having a remote format may be more appealing.As for concerns about speaking in public, Toastmasters’ whole point is to practice in front of a smaller group that’s more forgiving.It’s been a bigger plus for Piper, who was part of the Burlington club from 2001 to 2012 before leaving due to health issues.Piper had been a licensed massage therapist before working at then-Great River Medical Center and was asked by a massage therapist there to address a “few people” about her skill.She agreed, but then, there was the crowd.“We walk in the door, and there was 150 people,” Piper said.“She took me up to the stage and put a microphone on me. I swear I could see my heart pulse through my shirt and sweat go down my back, and I don’t usually sweat,” Piper said.“The only thing that saved me was I knew the subject.”Her son, Ryan Whitham, came to the rescue.He told Karen that she should join Toastmasters as his corporation regularly sent its employees to Toastmasters meetings.Piper checked around and found the local chapter.“It helped me feel more confident,” she said. “I have given presentations to clubs, organizations. I have been able to talk to my church.”It helped at her work, which by that time was at Great River.She even received a raise because she could handle presentations, which came in handy for her work in cardiac, pulmonary, and hospice.“Had it not been for Toastmasters, I would not have done a good job,” Piper said.The dues are $52 every six months and pro-rated depending on when a person joins.When Piper’s health began to improve, she got back into the Burlington group, but COVID concerns shut down the meetings and people gradually pulled out.She went online and discovered the North Dodge club.“It was one of the closest ones I could find,” she said, but there are members at North Dodge from as far away as Austin, Texas, and Seattle.The club had met at the Pearson Education company building in Iowa City, but now, members enjoy the comforts of their own homes. Piper said she dresses up when it’s a week she gives a speech and dresses more casually when she doesn’t.There is a downside to Zoom meetings for a public speaking group, however.“It’s hard to get the body language across,” Schulte said.She said the group hopes to have hybrid sessions, returning to in-person but allowing remote followers such as Piper to take part.

News

Features

Obituaries