[ Return to Index ] [ Read Prev Msg ] [ Read Next Msg ]

Moon, J. O.

MOON

Posted By: Mary H. Cochrane, Volunteer
Date: 7/2/2019 at 14:45:08

John Orrin Moon

Lamoni's Passing Parade
by Joseph H. Anthony. p. 146. Blair Printing Co. ca. 1948.

With the coming of the first cement sidewalks to Lamoni there were many residents who foresaw a rapid decline of the old board sidewalk then universally in use, and an immediate switch in favor of this more attractive and also more permanent type. The difficulties in making this anticipated change were many, and when one who contemplated adding the new improvement investigated the possibility of proceeding with the project, he found the prospects anything but encouraging. Among those interested in the new project was J. O. Moon, a successful retired farmer and a veteran of the Civil War, who maintained a neat little home on North Linden street. He had watched with interest the installation of the first sidewalk of this kind when it was installed in front of the George Derry & Son harness shop, and he decided that such an improvement would add value to his home; but when he tried to contract with workmen to make the installation he found there was no one in Lamoni who had sufficient experience in working with cement to justify them in laying the walk for him. The first sidewalk in the business district had been laid by contractors from out of town and apparently it was not convenient to engage them, but he was determined to find a local man who would undertake the project. At that time thee were several residents who had experience in the plastering trade and who followed this line of work as their means of livelihood, but concrete construction was a new thing in this part of the country and very little of it had been done. Finally he persuaded one of these men, who though hesitant about it finally agreed to undertake the job, and work got under way shortly afterward. My knowledge of these activities came through my associations with the youngest member of the Moon family, an auburn-haired lad named Fred, with whom I developed a great comradeship which holds a very bright spot in my memory. We were there together that day when the men came to begin work on the new sidewalk, but for some reason the father decided Fred should go on some sort of errand to his brother Charlie’s farm, a short distance south of town. We would much rather have stayed to see the work on the new sidewalk get under way; but if Fred must go, I of course chose to go with him, so we mounted our bicycles and departed. When we arrived at the farm, instead of going directly to the house and taking care of the errand with which we had been instructed, we went out into the orchard. Once there we found the shad so cool and inviting that we spent considerable time there just lying in the soft grass beneath the spreading leafy branches, recuperating from the exertion put forth in pedaling the distance between town and the farm. We were thus occupied when we heard the sound of voices and a moment later saw two little boys, carrying a little tin pail, coming out into the orchard, apparently headed directly toward the spot where we were resting. “It’s Walt and Willard,” whispered Fred, endeavoring to avoid attracting their attention. “Let’s hide behind a tree before they see us.” And a moment later he had crawled to a concealed position behind a large apple tree, where I quickly followed. Then a few moments later when the two little fellows advanced to a position but a few feet from us and started filling their pail with apples which had fallen upon the ground, he began making a series of noises intended to throw a scare into them. Of course I joined him in the effort and like two mischievous older boys trying to frighten two younger ones, each tried to outdo the other in the hideousness and gruesomeness of these sounds. Our efforts were rewarded far beyond our expectations, for the two little fellows dropped their pail and stood as though paralyzed with fear while they screamed in terror as loudly as two husky voices were capable of screaming. Genuinely startled by the success of our efforts, we immediately emerged from our place of hiding, where Fred, really an affectionate uncle, gathered them in his arms and tried by every means in his power to reassure them. At first they were too badly frightened to recognize him, which only added to their terror; but in time his soothing words began to have effect and in time he had them sufficiently quieted that we felt it safe to accompany them to the house. Through all this I was an interested but uncomfortable observer, for I feared Charlie might hear their cries and appear upon the scene before Fred could complete a reconciliation; however, my fears were groundless, and as a comforter I think Fred was a complete success, as I have met Walt and Willard many times since that day, and even though these meetings have been face to face they bear no visible indication of being afraid of me. When we returned to town that day we made our report to Uncle John, mentioning only the incidents of the trip which had bearing upon the errand upon which he had sent us, and for our diligence and strict observance of duty he repaid our efforts by giving each of us a large lump of maple sugar. John Moon had come to Lamoni from Michigan, where maple sugar was a local product, and he considered it so essential to the family diet that each year he received direct from the makers with whom he was personally acquainted a large shipment of this incomparable delicacy-enough for his own use and some to sell to his neighbors. For this reason, in my early acquaintance with Uncle John Moon I knew him best as the maple sugar man. The new sidewalk did not turn out to be a success. Made by inexperienced hands, its construction was not favorable to successful concrete manipulation, and with the freezing and thawing to which Iowa soil is constantly subjected, in a short time it became cracked and broken; and sometime later, when Lamoni workmen became more familiar with modern concrete construction, it was finally replaced with one similar to the kind we have today. The fact that John Moon was an active member of the G.A.R. at that time kept him very much in the public eye, and then, too, he was one of the type who made many friend and was known by everyone—grown-up and youngster alike. The veterans’ organization was very much alive in those days and had a prominent part in all of the patriotic events of the community; and between times these old wearers of the blue often met in informal groups in the business houses or upon the streets, where the main topic of conversation was generally war experiences. I remember especially one summer when we had been having quite a protracted hot spell—when it was really too hot to put forth any energy that was not absolutely necessary. Each afternoon a small group of these old soldiers congregated in the shade just outside of the store where I happened to be employed, and there, day after day, they whiled away the time in much the same manner. In fact, I think the heat wave lasted long enough that they had about exhausted their supply of stories, but upon this particular day I stepped out where they were lined up in chairs along the sidewalk just as Uncle John Moon started telling one of his favorite experiences. I was always interested in hearing war stories, so I stopped to listen. “We had been in camp for several days with but little action taking place,” he began, while his companions gave him their undivided attention. “We knew there were plenty of Rebs in the woods, because some of our detachments had encountered scattered groups upon several occasions, and we knew an attack was coming, but just when it would come we did not know. The weather turned terribly cold and during the night several of our mules froze to death, and the following morning we received the order to advance. In a short time there was a sharp battle which lasted but a few minutes, and the Rebs took to their heels. Some of us were walking cautiously through the timber in pursuit when we came upon a couple of wounded Confederate soldiers so badly shot up that they were unable to travel. Someone had given them small branches off a tree, with which they were trying to brush the flies away from their wounds----” “Just a minute, John,” interrupted one of his companions derisively. “You said the mules froze to death the night before. Where were the flies then?” “Oh, by gal, I didn’t mean that,” exclaimed Uncle John confusedly while all his comrades laughed uproariously and kidded him unmercifully. Nevertheless he started anew and tried bravely to correct the error to make the continuity of his story more consistent, but he never did recapture the complete attention of his hearers that he had held at the beginning of the story. But what of it? The embarrassment of this moment would quickly pass. Tomorrow one of his comrades might probably made an error and then it would be his turn to laugh. In this way these boys of ’61 relieved those days which to them were so all important and which today brought forth memories which furnished the undying spark of youth in bodies now growing worn with age. Uncle John Moon, in spite of his years, retained much of the old spirit of vigor and aggressiveness. He enjoyed mingling with the youth of the community and was quite a favorite with all, and the spirit of fight that had prompted him to volunteer for service in the army in ’61 remained with him throughout life. He was one person who was determined not to be pushed around, and at a ripe old age he demonstrated that spirit to quite a degree, especially when he and one of his aged friends crowded a friendly argument to the point that they attempted to settle it with a display of fistic technique, which terminated about as quickly as it began when Uncle John’s wife appeared upon the scene and seized him by the collar. “By gal, I had him coming,” exclaimed Uncle John in telling of the affair sometime later. “If the woman had stayed out of it I would have soon convinced him who was right.” This scrappy instinct was probably more or less responsible for the existence of circumstances which robbed John Moon of associations which at his age were sorely needed, and which he craved above anything else in the world. Like many fathers he felt he had failed in retaining the comradeship of his son Fred, and realizing that I was one of Fred’s closest friends, he often came to me in the hope that I might in an inconspicuous way help to bridge the gap he felt existed between them. Some years later, when Fred contracted an incurable disease, he had opportunity in measure to make up for some of the differences which had existed and to provide every attention within his power. But when, after a long illness, his son, who had so recently matured into manhood, passed away, the old man’s hear was broken. From that time on he redoubled his efforts to make friends with all the youngsters about town. He interested himself in their activities, he bought them treats, he loaned them money—anything that would in a measure relieve his conscience regarding any neglect he felt he might have shown his son. But scars upon the heart are slow to heal, and from that time on he was never a happy man. As a long-time resident of this community John Moon was well and favorably known. As one of the pioneers in this locality he assumed his part in the developing of the community and was one of the essential cogs in its wheels of progress. He lived a long and useful life, made many friends, and left to his descendants many traits of character they treasure as worthy of emulation. As a personal friend, I consider any memories of Lamoni and Lamoni people of those days as incomplete which fail to include J. O. Moon. I prize those memories of his friendship and his confidence, and I think of him as an honorable resident and a true veteran in Lamoni’s passing parade.

Transcription by Jean Belzer


 

Decatur Biographies maintained by Constance McDaniel Hall.
WebBBS 4.33 Genealogy Modification Package by WebJourneymen

[ Return to Index ] [ Read Prev Msg ] [ Read Next Msg ]