Editor's Notebook

 


With Father’s Day observed on Sunday, I’ve listened as a number of friends shared stories about what they learned from their fathers and what they did with their fathers.

Their stories got me to thinking about the many things I did with my father and the many skills he taught me.

As a youngster, I learned my father could do things I would never be able to do. I’ve have less than perfect vision and am waiting for an opportunity for cataract surgery. For much of his life, my father had keen vision and was very observant. If we went for a ride, he saw and talked about things I never saw.

His sense of balance was superb. He could walk across the river or a creek on a downed tree. If I attempted to do the same, I fell in. I once photographed him walking on an overhead bridge truss. To make this feat even more difficult, the bridge had been washed from its pilings and was bobbing in the river. It was almost more than I could do to stand on the swaying bridge deck while he took my picture.

Dad was a master at adapting used items for new uses. I helped him move buildings, tanks, grain bins and all sorts of equipment.

Once we even moved a large safe just to see if we could do it.

Grandfather told a story about the time he moved a large safe from one Superior business building to another. It was a job many others had turned down but Grandfather Blauvelt accepted the challenge provided he could pick the time for the move. His offer was accepted and in the dark of night he rolled the safe out onto the unpaved street where he had placed planks and was able to roll it to its new location without having loaded it into his dray wagon.

Years later another Superior business owner had purchased a building which came with a large safe he didn’t want. After learning the owner couldn’t find anyone to move the safe, my father said to me, “Son shall we see if we are as good as your grandfather?”

I agreed and soon we had a safe moving job. Like grandfather, we chose to move the safe when other people were not around to get in our way. We successfully moved the safe but never found a use for it.

Sixty years ago this summer, I helped Dad move the Burlington depot from Hardy to Blauvelt’s Hill. I probably didn’t do my share of the work for I was the move’s photographer.

I have pictures of my father riding on top of the depot lifting wires so it could pass underneath. I have a picture of the depot going up Fourth Street passing what was then Alexander Buick.

To reduce the number of wires that had to be lifted, the depot came into Superior on First Street, went between the Burlington and Northwestern railroad tracks, up Commercial to Fourth, west to Central south to Third and then west out of town.

I have pictures of it rounding the curve and crossing the railroad tracks west of Superior and being pulled up Blauvelt’s Hill. As it was wider than the bridges, we had in advance loosen the reflectors that marked each bridge. In advance of the depot, a helper walked along and swung the signs down and one walked along behind fastening the signs back into place.

For that part of the move, this 15-year-old’s job was much like that of a flagman, I had to watch for oncoming traffic and make sure the way was clear.

Fortunately, I didn’t have any trouble. I’ve since compared my job to that of Diane Thayer. She was about five-years-old when her father asked her to flag traffic on a county road while he brought a herd of cows across the road.

An oncoming driver didn’t realize the danger the little girl was trying to warn him about. His car struck one of the cows. The flying cow, sent Diane into the grader ditch and knocked her out. Fearing she was dead, the family scooped her up and rushed her to Brodstone Hospital. She regained consciousness and was not seriously injured. But she developed an infection from all the sandburs that used her body like a pin cushion.

My father greatly enjoyed the water and he took me to swim in all the area pools. He shared with me his affection for Lovewell Lake and the Republican River. His canoeing stories encouraged me to act as the local agent for a Lincoln-based canoe outfitter. With Dad’s help, I sometimes guided canoe trips and shuffled vehicles between the launch and landing points.

While renting canoes, I helped with the canoe races held as part of Superior’s July 4th celebration.

The first races were between the Bostwick and West Superior bridges. So many people gathered on the old bridge at Bostwick, I feared their weight might bring it down. Because of that concern, the race course was moved to run between the two Superior bridges but then we had more motor vehicle traffic to contend with.

Since the last canoe race was held, plastic kayaks have become popular. I’d like to encourage someone to organize a kayak race. We never had enough canoes in the area to accommodate all the people who wanted to participate in the races. Now that the plastic kayaks are popular, a kayak race has the potential to draw far more participants than did a canoe race.

It wouldn’t have to be a real race for the river is often low at July 4th making participants get out and drag their canoes in the shallow places. The race was more like a journey. First place was a dunk in the river and all participants received a Dairy Queen treat.

Regardless of how long it took to cross the finish line, I believe most participants had fun. Some entered both the Firekracker Run and the canoe event.

As canoe races must be registered with the state game department, perhaps we could just spread the word and hold a flash mob kayak cruise. Those interested in participating could just show up at a predetermined time and place and go as a group down the river. I don’t believe such an event would require a permit as the canoe trips I used to guide did not require permits.

While reading back newspaper issues, I learned my fear of a Bostwick bridge collapse was justified. It had happened before.

In July of 1921 one span of the Bostwick bridge fell into the river. Newspapers from that time said the span fell with a crash heard over a wide area but the source of the noise was not immediately known.

Ten minutes before the collapse a man with a team had used the bridge to cross the river without incident. Then along from the south came Billie Keene driving a Ford automobile. He saw the gap in the bridge just as his vehicle’s front wheels slipped over the edge. He jumped for safety as the car went down. He landed on bridge timbers. His car flipped over and landed with its top resting on the river bottom. The top, radiator and windshield were smashed.

Keene was only stunned. He was able get up and make his was across what was left of the bridge until he reached the north side. He summoned a road overseer who posted warnings. The failed bridge had been in use since 1887 and thanks to a newspaper account we know it happened 100 years ago.

 

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