The Native Iowan

I have written about those mornings when I wake to receive news of an ol Compadre passing.

This one is a bit different… I knew it was coming. But expected or not, its always a sad morning to hear…

My elder brother passed away at the age of 73. I know, a young guy. A guy with an amazing story.

My elder sister wrote his obituary. She captured his brief stay on this spinning globe quite well…. https://www.reifffamilycenter.com/memorials/monk-hemmer/5656365/index.php?fbclid=IwY2xjawN_L-ZleHRuA2FlbQIxMABicmlkETFQNlVWV0lta0ZSSWVUVGpEc3J0YwZhcHBfaWQQMjIyMDM5MTc4ODIwMDg5MgABHpcrQVONa6yxgiD_o4L6juOZr-7mfvHd4QUWUn30D_RvAGidArSXHeJroow4_aem_UZXWezuqnE5f6BN8deD7kg

Monk’s story was a happy one. It just took a few years (quite a few years) for him to find his particular happiness… Born an orphan. His mother never took him “home” from the hospital. She gave him a name and designate he was Catholic. He spent his youth in the care of Catholic charities, foster homes, and the streets of New York.

He never had a family. He never had a mother.

At the age of 18 he came to Independence, Iowa for Christmas with a guy he had met, John O’loughlin, in Naval basic training. John was a friend of my sister’s and brought Monk over to meet the “Hemmers”.

Our’s was a loud, disheveled, confused, love filled home. Mom was a Master Sargent on steroids. Always yelling, always mad at someone, usually me.

I note here that I am the middle child of 9 natural born… Monk made it 10.

Monk adopted our family before the Hemmer’s officially adopted Monk. But, importantly, from that initial meeting Monk had found his home, and very importantly, his Mom.

My niece wrote this about Monk: “My family always argues about who is the favorite, what I’ll never forget is when Monk won this argument at Grandmas funeral when he said “I’m the favorite because they chose me.”

Monk’s was a troubled and adventurous life… a genius in many ways. He had worked on Nuclear Subs in the Navy during his 15 year career. Traveled the world a couple times over. I always looked up to him…

He was a master metal worker and welder. An abuser of about every and any substance known to mankind. For a decade or so in the 90s he lived homeless in New York. It wasn’t until 15 – 20 years ago he got himself sorted out, moved “home” and assisted the old folks as they aged.

But my Monk story goes back to when I was 14 or 15…

It is Christmas time. Monk is home on leave. He and I go out on the town… now Independence aint much of a town… We shoot pool in Junior’s Spot…

I’m a big kid and order “salty dogs” to drink thinking it makes me look older. Not the first time Ive gone bar-hopping… we shoot pool and hang out at Jr’s and Monk gets drunk. I’d learned that Monk is a sloppy drunk at best. Not mean or violent, just sloppy.

After Monk knocked a table loaded with glasses, over Junior threw us out of The Spot…

We stagger across the street to the Shamrock…

It is winter in Iowa. it’s subzero and blowing a prairie-gale.

Monk is too drunk to shoot pool so we sit at the bar and drink some more. Monk passes out on the bar. About closing time, Smitty, the owner of the Shamrock, wakes Monk and is kinda rough ejecting the two of us. Eventually we both stand outside, in the windy Iowa cold, at 2 in the morning.

We are standing on the Corner of 2nd St NE. We gotta walk across the bridge to 2nd St NW. Only 4 city blocks, but crossing the bridge was like wing walking in a blizzard…

Monk is drunk. We are facing into the wind. He wants to stop, is arguing like a good drink will… Ive got my arm Locked in his, half holding him up and half dragging him along. I remember it well…

When we reached the house I was spent, cold, drunk… I dumped Monk on the sofa in the front room and went to bed.

Early ,early ,early… The next morn my bedroom door busts oper and a very angry Mom is yelling at me…

Took a while for me to figure out she was mad at me, not because I’d been out drinking, but because Monk has “pissed his bed”, which just happened to be Mom’s new sofa…

She never, ever, ever forgave me for that (and a few other digressions), but Monk never got the “hell” for his pissing on her sofa, that I got.

Like my niece said… Monk was Mom’s favourite…

Smiles

Smiles through the tears…