Grouse Hollow Journal for June 18, 2015 by Greg Koelker

My '67 Rambler after its last ride.

Grouse Hollow Journal for June 18, 2015 by Greg Koelker

I've been a father for some 35 years. I have lots of good memories of our boys growing up, their accomplishments, and their stories. It is a good feeling.

I think the first best memory I have of my dad was riding along with him in his red and white Chevy as he raced from farm to farm to breed cows for Tri-State Breeders. I was a tyke but I had my own striped coveralls with a Tri-State patch on them and my own slip over rubber boots to clean up after we trudged through this barnyard and that. I remember his easy going, but often profane banter with every farmer we met and how he teased their kids and befriended their dogs. I used to love stopping with him at Spic and Pearl's in Potosi for a hamburger and a pop. I also have early memories of going ice fishing with Dad. We would hike down the railroad tracks for what seemed to be miles and miles to me to Bertrom Lake and he would chip out holes in the ice with a spud. I remember I hooked into a big crappie once during a fisheree. Dad grabbed the auger to make the hole bigger to get that fish. I think we won a six-pack of Blatz. He would clean our fish in the laundry room in the basement, handing me the bowl of scaled panfish to take upstairs for mom to fry. He bought me my first electric train set and bike. But maybe the biggest thing for me at least was my first guitar in 1964; after falling head over heels for the Beatles, after hounding my parents for weeks to let me get a guitar, I got an Eddie Phillips “instrument” with lots of chrome and three pickups that I picked out from their catalog. The guitar's electronics didn't work, so I had to send it back. It took 20 years - or so it seemed - to get the money back and go shopping at Fabers - a real music store in Dubuque. We shopped and looked at fine new Fender and Gibson instruments that cost well beyond what I deserved or could afford. We settled on a used Gibson ES 140 and a used Guild practice amplifier. I learned to play guitar with that. I also played trumpet, as did my dad, and I was okay at it. After high school I played trumpet and guitar in the Mississippi Mud Band, doing Chicago numbers and such. Dad and Mom put in a lot of time taking money at dances and such over the years to support my bands. Dad and Karl Wallin's dad, drove us to the then rough East Dubuque for a cold, cold New Year's Eve gig. We played while go-go dancers danced and then took a break to visit us because it was so cold there was no one out and about. We got paid - twice. The owner got so inebriated he paid the band leader and the he paid Dad. Both checks were made out of Flubber. The owner moonlighted as a high school teacher in Dyersville, IA and Dad stopped there and hounded him and we finally got our money, with the help of the superintendent of schools and my dad. My dad (and granddad) let me drive machinery and trucks and cars before I maybe should have. I had a '49 Chevy coupe that Dad bought for $50 from a farmer the year before I got old enough to legally drive. I would drive it down to Kruger's, the supper club at the bottom of the hill where I bussed tables, and then go joy riding after I got off with my friends. Dad taught me a lesson or two as well. I got arrested for underage drinking and property destruction when I was a sophomore - I was mostly innocent, sort of by the way. My poor mom got the worst of it that day as Dad was on the road, but anyway, I sweated out my a court date for nearly a year, before I found out that the charges had been dropped against me but my dad forgot to tell me. The lesson worked, and I never got arrested again. He was the one who called from Madison one day to tell me he had found just the right muscle car he and I had been looking for - a 1967 Rambler Rogue at Gobin Motors. Don't laugh, it was a two-door granny car on the outside with a 350 horse, 343 cubic inch v-8 Scud missile under the hood. It had an Iskenderian cam, Offenhauser heads and headers and a 411 rear end. It was a screaming machine. (If you don't believe me, those of you in Viroqua can ask Ambrose Timmerman. Am drove that Rambler and worked on it often enough. Dad and I spent hours together repairing the carnage I did to it. Oh yeah, for the record, I only wrecked it twice.) I learned how to use a hammer and lots of tools and to garden from my dad, and while I am admittedly a slacker when it comes to physical work (except maybe casting and pulling back a bow) I got a pretty good work ethic from him - he retired from his work life at 78 and regretted it. I am a Badger and Packer fanatic because of him. I think my ability to get along with kids while I was teaching came from him too.

Anyway, we had our differences as do all dads and kids. I loved rock and roll and he loved country. I loved baseball and he loved basketball. He didn't like my long hair, and he wanted me to go to veterinarian school; I wanted to go to art school. There is more, but anyway, he's been gone since 2007 and I still often think I wish I could call him and tell him about some scheme or problem or news. I am glad our sons got to know him a little before he was gone.

Until next time, get out - I think the best thing about my life - besides my better half, is being a dad. Happy Father's Day to all you dads out there. Enjoy.