Maquoketa Studios

 “You mite be sitting for the rest of your life but you don’t have to sit still.”

Advice from a paralyzed Veteran.

   “Those hills in Iowa City killed me.” Bob Juarez laughs.

   “Oh, I was hurting too; I gave it everything I had to make it in.” Sean Mizlo replies.

   The pair work their way along the bike path in Moline, talking about cycling and life.

   On Friday July 29, Juarez and Mizlo (and possibly a third) will travel to Coralville, Iowa, and join 15 members of the Adaptive Sports Iowa RAGBRAI Team and their support group, then ride the final 60 mile route to Davenport on Saturday.

   Mike Boone, the Director of Adaptive Sports Iowa said. “Until this team was formed, many members never viewed RAGBRAI as an event they could achieve. It has been a very rewarding process, putting it together and getting ready to go.”

   Like many cyclist making the ride across Iowa, the adaptive participants are not looking at the fitness aspect.

   “In the adaptive basketball program I run in Des Moines, I’ve observed that they are not looking for an opportunity to participate in the sport. They are looking for an opportunity to participate in a sport with their peers.” Boone said.

    “There is just as much of a social aspect to it as there is an athletic or health and wellness aspect.”

   Mizlo, of Orion, Ill., said involvement for him is different: “For me, it’s always something new, another challenge, something else to get out and do.” His enthusiasm spreads across his face in a smile, “I hope to get more people in the Quad-Cities with different disabilities to be active again.”

   While riding his motorcycle in 2005 Mizlo was struck by a drunk driver and lost his leg just above the knee. “My accident is coming up on six years, and I don’t think I have stopped yet. I looked at it as more of being blessed that I’m still alive. I try to take advantage of being here everyday.” He said.

   Juarez an 18-year veteran of the Davenport Fire Department suffered a spinal cord injury after a fall from a ladder while fighting a fire in downtown Davenport on June 12, 2008.

   Both men also play Adaptive softball and basketball teams in the Quad-Cities.

   When asked how much training they have done, Mizlo responded quickly, “Not enough!”

   Training as a group was the initial plan, but Juarez said plans changed. “We wanted to do training together but with all the work and family schedules, we ended up on our own,” he said.

   “If we can even get just one more person to come out and participate, just to see if they like it -- that would be neat,” he added.

   Mizlo and Juarez admitted that the combination of the BIX7 and RAGBRAI on the same day, creating one of the biggest events in Iowa sports-participation history, had some influence on their decision to take part.

   “Should we head for the park?” Mizlo asks.

   Juarez adjusts his sunglasses, looks up, smiles and says, “Let’s do it!”

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If you would like more information about adaptive sports in Iowa contact Mike Boone, the Director of Adaptive Sports Iowa at (888) 777-8881 Ext: 115 or by email at mike@iowasportsfoundation.org

Should the American people see the images of Osama Bin Laden?

   In the 1920s, a rye whiskey from Templeton, Iowa, became Al Capone’s drink of choice, quickly finding its way to the center of his bootlegging empire. Hundreds of kegs per month made their way from  Iowa to Chicago.

   In 2001, with a nearly century–old recipe handwritten on a small scrap of paper in hand, Scott Bush and Keith Kerkhoff, two small–town Iowa guys with a shared family bootlegging history, set out on a mission to find a production partner who could help them make a product true to the independent spirit of the original Templeton Rye.

   Just last month, Templeton Rye Distillery manager Kevin Boersma was telling callers it would be easier to win the lottery than find a bottle of Templeton Rye Batch No. 3. Looking at 200, 53-gallon barrels of Batch No. 4 in the Templeton warehouse, Boersma said, “This will help, but it’s still going to be hard to find. The demand is huge right now, and it’s still growing.”

   “A lot of people don’t understand we have been at this for almost 10 years now,” said Bush, Templeton Rye Distillery president. “We were one of the very first microdistilleries in the country, but our product has to age. It’s a very patient game in that regard.

   “We have been positioning ourselves for several years now to finally have enough product to really make a splash,” he said. “We kind of want to be the Sam Adams of this craft in the spirits world, and I think we are fairly well-positioned to do that over the next three to four years.”

   Although Bush never intended the distillery in Templeton to become a tourist destination, he admits to being amazed by the number of visitors who have found their way to Templeton.

   “I would say we’ve had close to 20,000 people since we opened the doors in 2005,” he said.

   The sample bar and room was added in May 2008.

   “We try to do guided tours twice a month,” Boersma said. “When I post tour dates, a week later they’re full. We take two groups of 50 in each tour. We have guys driving from Minneapolis, Minn., Lincoln, Neb., Kansas City, Mo. They know the Templeton Rye story. They just want to see it.”

   A mention in a recent company newsletter on whether anyone wanted to come help bottle Batch No. 4 drew 150 people from California, Florida, Texas and Colorado on different dates in November and December.

   The distillery employs about 15 part-time and five full-time staff. Templeton is a town of 350 people, and for Bush and his partner it was a tough decision not to build the business in Des Moines.

   “We’ve partnered with the Templeton Community Betterment Association to put on a local summer music festival called Rock & Rye,” Bush said. “We guarantee the bands and the town get all the concessions at the event. It makes Templeton the place to be in western Iowa for one night in the summer.”

   A distillery in Lawrenceburg, Ind., is the distillation partner for the companies’ product, nicknamed “The Good Stuff.”

   “Eventually we would love to grow all of our ingredients near Templeton and distill all of our product here, and we are working hard on that,”  Bush said. “People sometimes don’t appreciate how difficult it is and how much time something like that takes. When you’re doing a specialized crop and spirits like that, you can’t just flip a switch and change it.

   “I always say good spirits are made from two things, good grain and good water, and there is no reason that Iowa is not the leading craft distilling state,” he said.

   It was late.

   WGN meteorologist Tom Skilling meanders down the main street in Winfield, Kan.; it’s near 10 p.m. The lights are still on at Captain Tony’s Pizza & Pasta Emporium. “Say, would you mind staying open a little later?” he asks the robust owner, John Butters. “We have 10 people who have not had a good sit down meal in a long time.”

   Forty-five minutes later we were sitting around a table laughing, joking and enjoying some of the best Italian food I’ve tasted in a long time. It was unanimous that the spaghetti and meatballs was second to none. Jim Reed retrieved a copy of his new book from his truck, which we all signed and left as a gift. Then with hugs and many thank yous and very full stomachs, we headed into the darkness and a 90-minute drive to Independence, Kan. Midwest hospitality, it doesn’t get any better than this.

   Checking the mirrors and turning around to look for any traffic, I calmly reached over and firmly gripped the steering wheel from the passenger side. “Slow down a little … more,” I said to my 15-year-old daughter as we drove south on Tuesday towards Maquoketa on U.S. Highway 61. “I want you to feel what the car does when the wheels go from the highway to gravel.” Her eyes grew wide and I could feel her grip tighten on the wheel. She didn’t say a word.

   Two days earlier, 15-year-old Sarah O'Connell was driving her family's van, filled with luggage and the joy of a family vacation to the West Coast, when it crashed on U.S. 61 north of Maquoketa, killing her father Joe and mother Anne and leaving her, a 13-year-old brother and a 10-year-old sister with injuries.

   The passenger tires rumbled onto the gravel with the ping of rocks hitting the underside of the car growing louder, I eased the wheel to the left, bringing the car back onto the highway, then repeated the maneuver. “Turn right up there,” I finally said. She pulled the car into a gravel parking lot just off the highway eight miles north of Maquoketa.

   “What are we doing?” she asked as I began to get out of the car. She gave me a louder “Dad” when she saw I was pulling an orange safety vest from the back seat.

   “Come on, I want to show you something on the highway.” I said as we walked up the hill to the roadway. She grabbed on to my hand tighter than I have felt in a long time.

   For a number of years while working at a newspaper in Winona, Minn., I began to ask some of the Highway Patrol, sheriff deputies and local police officers what they looked for at accident and crime scenes. Most ignored me, but a few took the time to point out the key elements that gave the most information for their investigations. With time, I learned a great deal.

   My daughter and I walked along the road, semis and vehicles of all kinds leaving us in a whirl of dust, I stopped and pointed to a tire mark on the edge of the road, “That is where the accident started,” I said. “Now turn around and look at what happened.” With a long break in the traffic we walked the skid marks on the roadway into the grass; I showed her where the van started to roll and where it landed. “It only took about three seconds.” I finished. Her grip on my hand had gotten tighter.

   “Do you see where we drove on the gravel?” I asked. “The same area,” she responded.

   She looked surprised.

   We returned to our car and I gave back the keys to Tori, saying, “You have to drive with confidence, not arrogance, and always pay attention.”   

   “This was an accident of inexperience,” I continued as she drove towards home “No one really to blame; things like that just happen. The sad part is that the deaths may have been avoided by someone making the choice to wear seat belts.”

   Tori’s driving on the way home was better than it had been. It seemed like something was different.

   “Maybe, just maybe,” I thought.

   Smoke begins to trail from the plane.

   “OK, Kevin, here comes that little sideslip I was talking about,” stunt pilot Greg Poe’s voice crackles through the headset Thursday as the ethanol-powered Fagen MX2 slides into place low and behind the A36 Bonanza at about a thousand feet for our late afternoon flight over the Quad-Cities.

   “A beautiful view, isn’t it?” he continues.

   “Oh, yes,” I respond. “I never get tired of views like this.”

   With a pause and a sense of emotion, Poe responds, “Yeah … no kidding.”

   Poe is one of the featured performers in this weekend Quad-City Air Show at the Davenport Municipal Airport. The 24th annual Air Show will include the United States Navy Leap Frogs parachute team and aircraft including F/A-18, F/A-18 E, the Air Force F-15 Strike Eagle and A-10 Thunderbolts.

   “What do you hope the audience gets from the air show?” I ask Poe.

   “My hope is that the audience comes away thinking ‘I didn’t know what these new high-tech airplanes could do.’ That they are a little bit awed. Hopefully, inspired.”

   After two passes over the Mississippi River and two knife edge maneuvers, we fly west where the real flying awaits.

   “Honestly, this is a culmination of a dream come true,” Poe responds when asked what he gets from doing air shows. “When I was a youngster in school, I dreamed of flying.”

   He smiles and looks out at the cotton-white clouds passing by. “I pursued it very passionately, and now this is what I get to do,” he says.

   “Some people go into the office; some pound nails or drive a dump truck …” he smiles again. “I fly airplanes, and I’m a very fortunate guy.”

   After we do a loop that put 4 Gs of pressure on us, I begin thinking this flight is not bad — if I could keep up and down straight.

   “How you doing?” Poe asks after each stunt. I think he is expecting me to scream “Uncle,” but I am enjoying myself too much.

   Into an aileron roll we go, then straight up, performing a hammerhead stall. Incredible, simply incredible.

   “What’s the most memorable?” I ask.

   “A lot of it is the sights,” Poe answers. “Breaking through a layer of clouds and a ray of light is coming through that illuminates the side of a cliff or a mountain.”

   The excitement in his voice grows.

   “The bright reds, yellows and gold colors, things you would not see if you had not been there at exactly that moment.”

   Poe goes on to explain that what flying does best for him is provide a “magic carpet.”

   “It has taken me all over the world, and I have had an opportunity to meet and spend time with people from all walks of life. That’s the best experiences I’ve had.”

   We touch down and roll toward the hangar.

   A magic carpet ride, I think. One fantastic carpet ride.

   “Heyyy ya! Hup, hup, hup,” a woman’s voice echoes down a heavily wooded ravine. Bellowing cattle crash through thick brush in response, only to be turned in another direction by the fervent whistles and “whoops” of several horse-mounted cowboys waiting at the bottom of the draw.

   This is not in Texas or an old Western movie. It’s the yearly Ewoldt cattle roundup and branding a few miles west of Davenport.

   Donning a well-worn pair of leather chaps, Jennifer Ewoldt leans forward on her horse, peering up the hill into the trees.

   “Today we are rounding up and branding our calves,” she says. Then she stops, grins, looks up, “which means we get to have fun with all of our friends … and have a good day … and get muddy and dirty and injured, probably … who knows.”

   Sitting high in the saddle, Chris Hausch counts cattle moving up the hillside as Jessica Riley slides off her horse to pull barbed wire from an old fenceline into a pile. Fellow riders and horses pass by. The nine cowhands continue moving the small herd of animals out of the woods into a rolling grass section of land toward the open gates of the corral.

   Branding, Ewoldt says, is for when the calves are sold in the fall to a feedlot. The Rafter E brand on the animals’ hips tells everyone where they came from. If a buyer thinks the cattle look good, they know where to go to get more.

   “I only know of one other person around here who brands their cattle like we do, but that’s not to say that there aren’t more out there,” says Ewoldt, who writes a farm column published every other Monday in the Quad-City Times.

   “We are a very small minority who use horses to work our cattle and brand and rope calves. Working from horseback as opposed to using four-wheeler is low-stress for the cattle.”

   The cattle are herded through a feedlot into a corner pen where several cowboys wait.

   “Let’s get them against the back fence, don’t ya think, Jim?” Robb Ewoldt, Jennifer’s husband, yells at Jim Seifert of Donahue, Iowa. Then with a horizon-wide grin he adds, “Work smarter not harder has always been my theory.”

   Then, one by one the cattle are separated, leaving only calves in the pen.

   Monte Alkire of Cazenovia, Ill., tosses his lariat, snaring the back legs of a calf.

   “No matter how many times I make a good throw, there’s nothing like it,” he says. “It doesn’t get any better than this for a cowboy. This is like the Super Bowl for us, and it’s a great chance to help Robb and work my horse.”

   Under a nearby awning, family friends watch the action. 

   Helpers pull a calf a few yards outside the pen, where five individuals pounce, each with a specific purpose. One holds the head and a front leg, one controls the back legs, another gives an injection just under the front leg; a second is administered if it’s a male. The ear is tagged, males are castrated and each animal is branded.

   “We use freeze branding on 95 percent of our cattle,” Robb Ewoldt says. The iron brand is placed in liquid nitrogen. “It’s different from a hot brand because we are not going into the skin, the cold changes the color pigment of the hair from black to white. The cold brand pops out more so than a hot brand would.”

   With the constant bawling of calves, the process repeats itself for hours: roping, wrestling, injecting, tagging, cutting, branding.

   Branding in general is less common now as most ranchers and farmers use ear tags of some sort, electronic or otherwise, Robb Ewoldt says. “It is still quite common in the western states, which follow long-standing branding laws.”

   The last calf bellows as it’s released, and a young boy chases it across the pen.

   “Ya, ya, ya,” he bellows back.

   “Who’s drivin’, who’s ridin’?” Robb Ewoldt looks around as several hands indicate who would be riding horses back to the house where the day began.

   The six amble their way across the grassy hillside and disappear into the tree line.

   By no means is my son perfect but, from time to time, he has stood taller than many I look up to.

   It had become clear that our nearly 16-year-old sheltie, Ted, was having more and more difficulty than he or we could deal with. So on a Friday afternoon Nick, his mother and older sister made the sad trip to the local veterinarian. My wife (Carole) recounted that she and Katie broke down into tears as soon as they touched the door to the office but Nick seemed to stand a little taller, and for better words, he became, “the man of the family,” she said. A lady just leaving with her pet stopped and said, “What a beautiful dog.” This caused Carole and Katie to sob even more. Nick stood quietly next to his mother.

   They were escorted into an exam room and sat Ted onto the table, laying him on his side. Nick later told me, “He kept trying to get up,” He said, “I put my hand on his chest to try and calm him; his heart was beating so fast.”  Nick stood there with his hand on Ted’s chest through the end. Next to his tearful mother and sister, he stood quietly strong.

   It wasn’t until later in the darkness of the downstairs hallway did Nick break down and cry. He had called his best friend to tell of the afternoon’s event, and during the conversation he broke into tears and let his emotions gush out.

   I caught up with Nick later that night at the local high school football game. He spotted me from a distance and he greeted me with a smile and a fist-to-fist hand shake. “Mom told me how you handled yourself today,” I said. “I’m very proud of you.” His head dropped a little. “It was sad, just really sad.” he replied.

   Putting my arm around his shoulder, I quietly said into his ear, “I know, but you were there and stood strong when others needed you most; not many people have that kind of character.” A glance and slight smile was his response.

   “Hey, where is your sweatshirt?” I asked. A bigger smile ripped across his face. “Oh um….” His eyes glanced over to a group of classmates. And there, to one side, was a young lady wearing Nick’s sweatshirt. “She said she was cold.” He shrugged.

   I laughed and gave him a hug.

   “Call me when the game is over. I’ll pick you up.” I said “I love you” as I walked away. “I love you too, Dad.” He responded with a smile.
  
   "It's hard to walk in a crowd with tears in your eyes."

1947  

The most memorable sports event came during the intramural basketball tournament my freshman year. Our first game was against the junior class team. They were good, but could have been much better if they could have gotten their mind off their girls. They fully expected to wipe the gym floor with the freshmen. As it turned out we won 54-35 and I scored 27 of the 54 points.

   The best part was when I looked over to the bleachers and saw my dad sitting there. He was building a TB sanitorium in Ottumwa, Iowa, at the time and generally didn't get home till well after six.

   To this day I don't know why he was home early. At the end of the game I walked over to where he was sitting to say hi, and being the master of superlatives that he was he responded, "Good game."

   I showered and we walked home together. I have often wondered what his thoughts were as he watched me play in the building he had built in 1927.

   To my knowledge it was the only time he got to see me play.

Paul J. Schmidt (Nicks’ Grandfather)

It’s amazing how a few words can clear up years of questions.

   Two and a half years before, Nick played summer baseball. The last game of that season ended with his team receiving medals for their third place finish in the season tournament. It also ended with Nick having a batting average of .000 for the season. I had been at every game. We practiced each week but it didn’t matter, his shoulders slumped as he walk away from the field that day. The team had won but he felt a loser.

   Now to everyone’s surprise, Nick went out for the wrestling team this fall. But a few days before his first match he made the request. “I don’t want anyone coming to my matches; I don’t want you to see me lose.”

   I saw the bus pull up in front of the school, returning from the third wrestling meet of the season. As I watched the team file into the school, I recalled the sad distant sound of Nick’s voice telling of the two previous competitions. “I lost, I got pinned, I lost, I lost, I lost.”  Two meets, five opponents, five losses. He climbed into the van with an unusual look on his face.

   “How’d you do?” I asked. It was dark as we pulled away but I could hear the smile on his face. “I won, I won both.” he said. “Tell me about it.” I responded.

   He started: “The first was a good match, I beat him on points, then before the second match, I thought, 'OK, I proved I can do this, (win), now I’m going to prove I can contribute to the team.' I beat the second guy on points too.”

   He had become what I had seen for a long time -- a winner -- and he did it alone. I was sure he couldn’t see my eyes welling up with tears as we drove home.

   I was in a conversation with an Obama staffer in Des Moines, talking about what was coming next now that the Iowa Caucus was soon to be over. I mentioned that my son and I had been photographing the candidates since the March 10, 2007, Obama event in Dubuque, Iowa.

   She stopped me. “I remember you,” she said. I put my hand up to show Nick's height. “You asked my son if he was my little helper,” I said. Her facial expression changed to reflect her words, “Oh, I bet that didn’t go over well,” she said. “No, that wasn’t bad,” I said, “It was when you told him he could go get some cookies downstairs that ticked him off.”

   We both laughed. I went on to explain the variety of candidates we had covered since then and that Nick was 200 miles away photographing a Republican caucus on his own. Then my cell phone rang. Nick was on the line with a technical question, which we quickly solved. I looked at the Obama staffer as I asked Nick if he remembered the lady from our first outing. “Oh yes” he responded. She was already saying out loud, “I’m so sorry.” I held the phone out to her. She went on to apologize to Nick and said, “I hear you have become quite a political reporter.”

   “She has no idea” I thought.

   Over the past 10 months that 12-, now 13-year-old boy had given up time with his friends to suffer through long political speeches from eight different candidates. Several he endured two or three times. He pushed through sickness to show he could complete a task he promised to do. He read and discussed background information on people his classmates saw as old and completely uninteresting. Nick learned how to gain the advantage over many of the professionals he encountered at each event. And now, he was on assignment, on his own, 200 miles away. The thoughts ran through my head in a moment as I took my phone back.

   “What did you think of that?” I asked him. All I could hear was his laughter. “I’ll see you when I get home. Good job, Nick.”

We had come full circle, together.