Chapter Three Omaha Yer Not Chicago

My name is Larry Dwyer. They called me LSD. I died before the hippies, in 1955, so the drug references weren't really there. Most peep holes just called me plain old Larry. Short for Lawrence.

They asked me to talk about Denny Norwood. My grandson. He was such a fine boy. Of course I would say that. I'd had three daughters and had always wanted a son of my own. But a grandson was even better. We spent a lot of time together, just the two of us. He didn't have a dad. I did my best with him and he never once asked why his father was not present. He must have wondered though....

He was intelligent like my daughter Mary. Talented like his mother Helen. Kind like his grandmother May. And with a terrific sense of humor like my daughter Betty.

I'll pick it up around 1952 when our family, everyone but Mary who was married, moved to Omaha.

It was just when Dwight Eisenhower was being elected president. That was bad. It was between Adlai Stevenson and Ike. That's like the difference between a dumb dog and a smart horse. What a world you all would have now if only Adlai Stevenson had been president from '52 to '60.

Omaha is a good town. On the banks of the mighty Mo, with lots and lots of big trees. At that time it had a population of about a quarter million. Its the only big town until you go Chicago to the east; Kansas City to the south; Denver to the west. North you got nothing til the Canadian border. Then more nothing. But freezing nothing. Sounds like a poser in physics, doesn't it?

Denny loved sports. He asked me once if I thought he could become a sports announcer like the ones we listened to together for hours on end. I said sure. You've got to feed into a boy's dreams. You've

just got to. But I really didn't see why he couldn't what with his mother moving up fast in radio.

We lived out on 52cnd street in a district called Benson. Very nice. Kinda rich, really, with Dundee only a few blocks south. That was the richest area of Omaha in 1952.

Our house, which we rented for about 50 bucks a month I guess had an acre or so of land. The only lot like that anywhere around. It was perfect for the baseball and football games Rama Lama liked to organize. I'd sit on the big front porch and watch the boys play. It made me happy somehow. I loved American sports a great deal myself, especially baseball and football.

Next to our old house was a large, modern jewish synagouge. We were Methodist. Really, I was Irish Catholic til I married May. Den loved to throw a rubber ball up against the synagouge wall which was

forty feet high and had no windows. Some newfangle architecture deal I suppose. He had a mitt he treasured and he would toss the ball up against that temple and make catches over his head, like Willie Mays in the 1954 World Series. All the time he was announcing his made up game complete with the real names of major leaguers. It was a riot. He could remember every name of each team's starting roster, compiled from his vast baseball card collection.

His favorite players were Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra and Gus Bell of the Cinncinati Redlegs. Gus Bell had a special place in lil Lama's heart. I never knew why.

We had a television set by then. Denny absolutely loved TV. I started him out on radio, and he loved that too, but TV was a passion in his life. He liked "Dragnet", especially after his mom brought the Stan Freberg parody home for him from the radio station. Other favorites of R.L. were "What's My Secret", "I Love Lucy", "Captain Video" and saturday night wrestling. He'd set himself up with a big glass of sour lemonade, a concoction he made on his own, with salt instead of sugar. May said it wouldn't hurt him any. The boy was as healthy as a horse anywaze.

As he watched TV, his concentration, er, awareness I guess ya call it, just seemed to skyrocket. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before in my life. I reckon it was sorta like one of them fakirs, whaddya call em? Indian gurus, buddhists or something like that.

I grew up all catholic. We were Irish, just over from the Emerald Isle. I saw a priest praying once when I was looking for the bathroom in a cathedral in Cleveland. Off to the side, kneeling down and looking up at the stained glass. That was like Denny and his wrestling.

I had the cancer. Already been to the Mayo Brothers' Clinic up in Minneapolis. My young grandson emptied out his toy bank, a clown whose tongue came out and swallered pennies, to help pay. It was only a buck or so but May said it was good to let em help. Taught him a good lesson.

I smoked Camels, straight, no chaser, since I was eight or nine in Greenfield. By now I was SIXTY eight. Up to about a couplie pax a day. They only cost 20 cents a pack.

Plus, in WW One, I was in France. Then Ramstein. Took the mustard gas many times. It hurt yer lungs but somehow just made you want to smoke more Camels. They gave em away free.

So now it was lung cancer. Doc said curtains. I wouldn't be able to stay with my beloved Denny O'Lama much longer. But I was wistful: at least I had him for twelve years.

They were wonderful, wonderful years.

Goodbye and godspeed Denny, may the luck of the Irish follow you always.