FROM WHERE I SIT The Marlboro Man of Pope County May, 2013 Pat Spilseth
Many girls grow up idolizing their dads. I did. Dad was my hero. I hoped I’d marry a man just like my Dad, strong and supportive of his family.
Dad looked like the tall, dark and handsome Marlboro Man of those 1950’s magazine ads. Hank DeKok was sheriff of Pope County when I was growing up in Glenwood, MN. Even though he was Dutch, the local Norwegians and Bohemians elected him to serve their community for twenty years. Serious, with a steely stare, Sheriff DeKok had a “don’t mess with me” attitude. People didn’t fool with him. When the man spoke in his firm, no-nonsense tone, everyone knew this sheriff meant business. People listened.
Dad was perfect in his role. His presence, in the regulation tan and brown uniform, carried firm assurance and confidence that he would keep the community safe. A man of few words, Hank’s hazel eyes spoke volumes. Idle chatter wasn’t his thing; it annoyed him.
At election time, every four years, Sheriff DeKok disliked the glad-handing ways of idle talk and false smiles necessary to win elections. He believed his job record should speak for itself. His deputy, with the catchy name of Lynn Krook, was the only deputy at the sheriff’s office. Lynn was a guy who enjoyed joking with the public. He also liked to read the stacks of Zane Grey paperbacks in the prisoner’s cells and scheme with them about panning for gold in the Wild West. Lynn loved adventure.
Together, Hank and Lynn were a good team who maintained a peaceful county, even in the Wild West days of power line controversy and National Farm Organization protests. The lawmen stood alone, against a raging crowd of pitchfork-wielding, shotguns-toting protestors who tried to keep the railroad trains from traveling to markets. And they made sure that those trains went through. The sheriff’s team shot out the car tires of fleeing bank robbers with their loot, confronted abusive spouses and tried to present reasonable solutions to suicidal prisoners. Usually it worked.
Several depressed prisoners attempted suicide by hanging themselves with a sheet from the steel bars. One deranged man made a successful attempt. Suicide affected our entire household at the jail. The constant turmoil of years in the sheriff office affected my dad. He wasn’t a relaxed person, and his nerves got the best of him. When baited, Dad’s temper “flew off the handle.” His fists might follow. They did when the meddling Irish newspaper man, who published “The Green Sheet” paper, interfered in Dad’s investigations. City officials suspended the sheriff for a few days as a result of that incident. But townspeople collected money to reimburse the sheriff’s salary lost during his days off. Folks had had enough of the Irishman’s busybody ways. The newsman known for his jaunty tam and kilt was run out of town.
Dad bought a farm. He needed a get-away place to relax plowing endless rows of soybeans. That fit his idea of privacy and quiet; he needed isolation from groups of people and dissention. But Hank did enjoy morning coffee downtown, when he joked and told stories with the guys over breakfast at Wimpy’s Café. Though some people found him stand-offish, too tough-minded, during his years in the sheriff’s office, his wife, Esther, often smoothed over Dad’s brusqueness. She was the people-pleaser of their union.
On duty 24/7, Dad’s office was located next to the family living quarters in the red brick jail. The old jail and living quarters were torn down when the steel bars, steel floors, thin cots and a 3’ steel walkway for exercise no longer met the new safety standards for a jail that could safely confine prisoners. Frivolous jail amenities like TV and radios were expected by more liberal thinking citizens. That wasn’t Dad’s idea. “That’s a resort, not a jail!” Coddling wasn’t in Dad’s blood. He thought that gold-mining adventure paperbacks, chatting with other prisoners about women and steak dinners, plus walking around the cellblock were enough entertainment for the guys.
Mom, the unpaid, jail matron, loved her job manning the two-way radio at the sheriff’s office. She and Dad believed that most of the men in jail were basically good men. However, as mom said, “They made some bad decisions.” At Dad’s jail, prisoners were treated like guests: Esther served weak Scandinavian coffee and home-baked cookies three times a day, morning, noon and night. On Christmas Eve, our regulars sat with our family in the living room around the Christmas tree where Dad read the Bible story of Christ’s birth and we exchanged presents. Treating the men right was important to the folks. How else would they learn how to behave?
Our way of life at the jail became passé in the early Sixties. The obsolete jail was bulldozed. The sheriff’s office was moved into the County Courthouse with other local government offices. Two tiny cells at the police station temporarily housed prisoners before being transferred to a bigger, more modern jail in a larger city.
Dad never did learn how to relax. He didn’t pick his battles; everything at the office became a battle. Life’s stresses gave him stomach ulcers. Before he reached retirement rest and enjoyment, cancer destroyed his body at sixty-one. He never knew the joys of retiring to a peaceful life with his family; he never knew grandchildren. Death claimed the life of my Dad much too early.
I hope your father was a hero to you, like my Dad. This Fathers’ Day, June 16, take time to remember and treasure those days you were able to spend with your Dad. Days of family togetherness end much too soon. 957 words
Monday, May 6, 2013
The Marlboro Man of Pope County
FROM WHERE I SIT The Marlboro Man of Pope County May, 2013 Pat Spilseth
Many girls grow up idolizing their dads. I did. Dad was my hero. I hoped I’d marry a man just like my Dad, strong and supportive of his family.
Dad looked like the tall, dark and handsome Marlboro Man of those 1950’s magazine ads. Hank DeKok was sheriff of Pope County when I was growing up in Glenwood, MN. Even though he was Dutch, the local Norwegians and Bohemians elected him to serve their community for twenty years. Serious, with a steely stare, Sheriff DeKok had a “don’t mess with me” attitude. People didn’t fool with him. When the man spoke in his firm, no-nonsense tone, everyone knew this sheriff meant business. People listened.
Dad was perfect in his role. His presence, in the regulation tan and brown uniform, carried firm assurance and confidence that he would keep the community safe. A man of few words, Hank’s hazel eyes spoke volumes. Idle chatter wasn’t his thing; it annoyed him.
At election time, every four years, Sheriff DeKok disliked the glad-handing ways of idle talk and false smiles necessary to win elections. He believed his job record should speak for itself. His deputy, with the catchy name of Lynn Krook, was the only deputy at the sheriff’s office. Lynn was a guy who enjoyed joking with the public. He also liked to read the stacks of Zane Grey paperbacks in the prisoner’s cells and scheme with them about panning for gold in the Wild West. Lynn loved adventure.
Together, Hank and Lynn were a good team who maintained a peaceful county, even in the Wild West days of power line controversy and National Farm Organization protests. The lawmen stood alone, against a raging crowd of pitchfork-wielding, shotguns-toting protestors who tried to keep the railroad trains from traveling to markets. And they made sure that those trains went through. The sheriff’s team shot out the car tires of fleeing bank robbers with their loot, confronted abusive spouses and tried to present reasonable solutions to suicidal prisoners. Usually it worked.
Several depressed prisoners attempted suicide by hanging themselves with a sheet from the steel bars. One deranged man made a successful attempt. Suicide affected our entire household at the jail. The constant turmoil of years in the sheriff office affected my dad. He wasn’t a relaxed person, and his nerves got the best of him. When baited, Dad’s temper “flew off the handle.” His fists might follow. They did when the meddling Irish newspaper man, who published “The Green Sheet” paper, interfered in Dad’s investigations. City officials suspended the sheriff for a few days as a result of that incident. But townspeople collected money to reimburse the sheriff’s salary lost during his days off. Folks had had enough of the Irishman’s busybody ways. The newsman known for his jaunty tam and kilt was run out of town.
Dad bought a farm. He needed a get-away place to relax plowing endless rows of soybeans. That fit his idea of privacy and quiet; he needed isolation from groups of people and dissention. But Hank did enjoy morning coffee downtown, when he joked and told stories with the guys over breakfast at Wimpy’s Café. Though some people found him stand-offish, too tough-minded, during his years in the sheriff’s office, his wife, Esther, often smoothed over Dad’s brusqueness. She was the people-pleaser of their union.
On duty 24/7, Dad’s office was located next to the family living quarters in the red brick jail. The old jail and living quarters were torn down when the steel bars, steel floors, thin cots and a 3’ steel walkway for exercise no longer met the new safety standards for a jail that could safely confine prisoners. Frivolous jail amenities like TV and radios were expected by more liberal thinking citizens. That wasn’t Dad’s idea. “That’s a resort, not a jail!” Coddling wasn’t in Dad’s blood. He thought that gold-mining adventure paperbacks, chatting with other prisoners about women and steak dinners, plus walking around the cellblock were enough entertainment for the guys.
Mom, the unpaid, jail matron, loved her job manning the two-way radio at the sheriff’s office. She and Dad believed that most of the men in jail were basically good men. However, as mom said, “They made some bad decisions.” At Dad’s jail, prisoners were treated like guests: Esther served weak Scandinavian coffee and home-baked cookies three times a day, morning, noon and night. On Christmas Eve, our regulars sat with our family in the living room around the Christmas tree where Dad read the Bible story of Christ’s birth and we exchanged presents. Treating the men right was important to the folks. How else would they learn how to behave?
Our way of life at the jail became passé in the early Sixties. The obsolete jail was bulldozed. The sheriff’s office was moved into the County Courthouse with other local government offices. Two tiny cells at the police station temporarily housed prisoners before being transferred to a bigger, more modern jail in a larger city.
Dad never did learn how to relax. He didn’t pick his battles; everything at the office became a battle. Life’s stresses gave him stomach ulcers. Before he reached retirement rest and enjoyment, cancer destroyed his body at sixty-one. He never knew the joys of retiring to a peaceful life with his family; he never knew grandchildren. Death claimed the life of my Dad much too early.
I hope your father was a hero to you, like my Dad. This Fathers’ Day, June 16, take time to remember and treasure those days you were able to spend with your Dad. Days of family togetherness end much too soon. 957 words
Many girls grow up idolizing their dads. I did. Dad was my hero. I hoped I’d marry a man just like my Dad, strong and supportive of his family.
Dad looked like the tall, dark and handsome Marlboro Man of those 1950’s magazine ads. Hank DeKok was sheriff of Pope County when I was growing up in Glenwood, MN. Even though he was Dutch, the local Norwegians and Bohemians elected him to serve their community for twenty years. Serious, with a steely stare, Sheriff DeKok had a “don’t mess with me” attitude. People didn’t fool with him. When the man spoke in his firm, no-nonsense tone, everyone knew this sheriff meant business. People listened.
Dad was perfect in his role. His presence, in the regulation tan and brown uniform, carried firm assurance and confidence that he would keep the community safe. A man of few words, Hank’s hazel eyes spoke volumes. Idle chatter wasn’t his thing; it annoyed him.
At election time, every four years, Sheriff DeKok disliked the glad-handing ways of idle talk and false smiles necessary to win elections. He believed his job record should speak for itself. His deputy, with the catchy name of Lynn Krook, was the only deputy at the sheriff’s office. Lynn was a guy who enjoyed joking with the public. He also liked to read the stacks of Zane Grey paperbacks in the prisoner’s cells and scheme with them about panning for gold in the Wild West. Lynn loved adventure.
Together, Hank and Lynn were a good team who maintained a peaceful county, even in the Wild West days of power line controversy and National Farm Organization protests. The lawmen stood alone, against a raging crowd of pitchfork-wielding, shotguns-toting protestors who tried to keep the railroad trains from traveling to markets. And they made sure that those trains went through. The sheriff’s team shot out the car tires of fleeing bank robbers with their loot, confronted abusive spouses and tried to present reasonable solutions to suicidal prisoners. Usually it worked.
Several depressed prisoners attempted suicide by hanging themselves with a sheet from the steel bars. One deranged man made a successful attempt. Suicide affected our entire household at the jail. The constant turmoil of years in the sheriff office affected my dad. He wasn’t a relaxed person, and his nerves got the best of him. When baited, Dad’s temper “flew off the handle.” His fists might follow. They did when the meddling Irish newspaper man, who published “The Green Sheet” paper, interfered in Dad’s investigations. City officials suspended the sheriff for a few days as a result of that incident. But townspeople collected money to reimburse the sheriff’s salary lost during his days off. Folks had had enough of the Irishman’s busybody ways. The newsman known for his jaunty tam and kilt was run out of town.
Dad bought a farm. He needed a get-away place to relax plowing endless rows of soybeans. That fit his idea of privacy and quiet; he needed isolation from groups of people and dissention. But Hank did enjoy morning coffee downtown, when he joked and told stories with the guys over breakfast at Wimpy’s Café. Though some people found him stand-offish, too tough-minded, during his years in the sheriff’s office, his wife, Esther, often smoothed over Dad’s brusqueness. She was the people-pleaser of their union.
On duty 24/7, Dad’s office was located next to the family living quarters in the red brick jail. The old jail and living quarters were torn down when the steel bars, steel floors, thin cots and a 3’ steel walkway for exercise no longer met the new safety standards for a jail that could safely confine prisoners. Frivolous jail amenities like TV and radios were expected by more liberal thinking citizens. That wasn’t Dad’s idea. “That’s a resort, not a jail!” Coddling wasn’t in Dad’s blood. He thought that gold-mining adventure paperbacks, chatting with other prisoners about women and steak dinners, plus walking around the cellblock were enough entertainment for the guys.
Mom, the unpaid, jail matron, loved her job manning the two-way radio at the sheriff’s office. She and Dad believed that most of the men in jail were basically good men. However, as mom said, “They made some bad decisions.” At Dad’s jail, prisoners were treated like guests: Esther served weak Scandinavian coffee and home-baked cookies three times a day, morning, noon and night. On Christmas Eve, our regulars sat with our family in the living room around the Christmas tree where Dad read the Bible story of Christ’s birth and we exchanged presents. Treating the men right was important to the folks. How else would they learn how to behave?
Our way of life at the jail became passé in the early Sixties. The obsolete jail was bulldozed. The sheriff’s office was moved into the County Courthouse with other local government offices. Two tiny cells at the police station temporarily housed prisoners before being transferred to a bigger, more modern jail in a larger city.
Dad never did learn how to relax. He didn’t pick his battles; everything at the office became a battle. Life’s stresses gave him stomach ulcers. Before he reached retirement rest and enjoyment, cancer destroyed his body at sixty-one. He never knew the joys of retiring to a peaceful life with his family; he never knew grandchildren. Death claimed the life of my Dad much too early.
I hope your father was a hero to you, like my Dad. This Fathers’ Day, June 16, take time to remember and treasure those days you were able to spend with your Dad. Days of family togetherness end much too soon. 957 words
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