Pike Township Family Stories
BOB BORGSTADT
Nichols, Iowa Centennial Book 1884-1984, page 257-258
By Bob BorgstadtI am Robert R. Borgstadt, son of John Raymond Borgstadt and Marie Harriet Ryan Borgstadt, born in Nichols. My wife is Eleanor K. Thomas, born in Des Moines, Iowa.
I met Eleanor at a church conference sponsored by the Christian church. Besides meeting my wife there, I also learned a little bit about the church. We have three children.
Our daughter, Andrea Borgstadt, is married to Major Richard Burton, U. S. Army. They are presently [1984] stationed in Kaiserslautern, West Germany. They are parents of Lisa Marie Burton (named for her grandmother Borgstadt) and Ricky Burton.
Our son, John Raymond Borgstadt, was named for his grandfather Borgstadt, former Nichols businessman. His daughter is named Julie Lynn Borgstadt.
Our youngest son, Thomas Richard Borgstadt, was named for his grandfather Thomas. He is married and the father of two sons, Robert Borgstadt and Donald Borgstadt.
I spent three and a half years in the U. S. Navy. After my discharge and a short rehabilitation period in Nichols, we moved to Des Moines where I resumed my education in a business college and an on-the-job training program, and eventually into the work world. What a shock!
My fondest memories of Nichols were in my youth, even though the untimely death of my father, when I was nine years old, was the biggest tragedy of my life. I can remember, as if it were yesterday, the times I would go with him in his truck on his produce route, buying chickens, eggs, cream, hides and such from the farmers around Nichols. The farmers’ wives always had sugar cookies or cake for me wherever we stopped, and sometimes we’d even sip a little home brew. The Brugmans, the Rifes, the Heuvelmans, the Kaalbergs, the Gables, the Milders and on and on. They were great people.
I’ll never forget George Sutton. I was running down the sidewalk on Main street (Ijem avenue) and got just in front of Rice’s Café when George grabbed me and said, “Come on. Your Mother wants you. Your Dad has been killed in a wreck.” As rough as George was, he carried me very gently back to the produce house. There will be many of you who won’t remember that day, but also a lot of you who will.
After time, many things happened – some good and some bad. The bad I don’t think about, and the good times, plus the people that made them happen, I’ll always remember. One person that I think of often if Mrs. Ora Nichols, who was like another right hand to my mother in her hour of need. To her I’ll be eternally grateful. Others are thought of frequently – the Kellys, the Metcalfs, the Rices, the Swickards, the Hillyers, the Pooles and not necessarily in this order. I remember the band concerts; the ice cream socials; the play days at school, when school was out for the year; the old horse trader Clayt Coyner; Bill Cone’s Barber shop, when Dick Poole and I used to shine a mirror into his shop mirror, and boy! Would he get upset; Henry Kirchner and his black overcoat and black hat; Frank Mills’ garage, where we used to wire the spark plug tester to the door knob (when he wasn’t looking) and shock the guys that were mean to us as they came in; Doc Muench and his middle finger that was as big as my leg, almost, when he’d thump you on the head; and especially Mose Dedrick, when he’d take your bike away from you if you got caught riding on the sidewalk.
I remember those people who started out as freshmen in Nichols High school and who graduated. The two best friends I had in high school, A. C. Stephens and Almon Hillyer, wherever you are, stay tough! I don’t know if we had the smallest class on record in Nichols, but I’ll bet it came close!
I remember other things we used to do that are very fond memories – like the ball games we used to play in L. B. Smith’s big lot, and then who went after the ball when it went into the Pew sisters garden; or the blackman games; or the run-sheep-run games; or the ice skating trips Les Hillyer used to take us on down at Grant Hollenbeck’s. Today’s kids won’t remember things like that, and believe me, it was much better than watching the Boob Tube or playing electronic games. Especially the trip home when we would all get huddled up in the back seat and nobody knew whose hands were where.
Another incident was the time that a band of gypsies came to town and tried to kidnap my little sister, Joyce. We were down at Grandpa Borgstadt’s blacksmith shop playing and watching him and Uncle Amos shoe horses when they stopped out in front and made an excuse of some kind to get inside. When they were in the shop talking to Grandpa, the other members of the party tried to get Joyce in the truck or wagon or whatever they were in. Ray Swickard came out of the lumber yard and told them a couple of things best left unpublished, and then Grandpa came out and told them where to go and how soon to get there.
I also remember the Loeb kraut house and ice house. Heaven help you if the wind was in the wrong direction!
I remember things like my Grandpa Ryan’s grocery store and how Bob Hillyer and I used to play store. Every once in a while we would accidentally drop a sack of “Our Advertiser” tobacco on the floor and slip it in our pocket, along with a few freeby cigarette papers that came in the box, and we would head for my house. In between our outhouse and garage, there was a little cubby hole that we could hide in, and we’d get up in there and smoke like crazy. When my mother finally caught us, I’ll never be able to understand why I ever took another drag off a cigarette, because my bottom was so sore I couldn’t sit down for three days.
Then I remember the time that Loretta and Fern were playing with matches out by the county yard where Sam Cozad kept his grader, and they accidentally set the grass on fire and nearly burned everything, including the house and garage, to the ground.
Then, of course, there was Ben Swickard’s house with the white picket fence around it. All the kids, not just me, would ride our bikes along the fence and hold a stick against the pickets just to aggravate Ben, and see how much noise we could make on the fence.
I remember the time that Pee Wee Oostendorp and Chad Fox, Ed Nash, Jim Hadley, Al Pike and others were teasing me down in front of Ward Reynolds’ old café and hotel, and I picked up a rock and threw at them. Naturally, they ducked, and it went through a big plate glass window and broke it. Clarence Whitlock was the town marshal at the time, and he was a rascal. I took off running, and went around the corner by the bank up past and behind the old elevator, over around the Christian church clear out into T. B. Nichols’ pasture and down past the schoolhouse, and didn’t quit running until I got home and went upstairs and hid in the clothes closet so they couldn’t find me and throw me in jail. I think I was about five or six years old at the time. Anyhow, my Dad finally came home and found me and told me not to worry, that he would take care of it.
These are just a few things that some others will remember; they may not want to, but they are authentic. It probably would be best if I didn’t get into too much about my high school years, but I did graduate and the times were good. At this time, I am in relatively good health and hope to remain that way for some time to come.
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