Investigative reporter, The Epoch Times. Father of 3. Tradition-minded Catholic.
“Unless there is a Good Friday in your life, there can never be an Easter Sunday.”
—Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen
I was fortunate growing up to have a large backyard to play in, covered by a canopy of mature oak trees. In the earliest days in our family home (1965-1975), you could walk into the backyard and stroll right into an oak forest untouched by encroaching residential development.
Some of my earliest memories in this wooded wonderland were of summer days when I would take a bedroom pillow, lay down on the grass, and peer up at the giant, leafy limbs swaying in the breeze. I can still hear the whispers of the trees as they gestured, bowed, and danced at the insistence of the summer winds.
I was convinced as a child if I could punt a football high enough to hit those lofty branches, I could try out as a punter for the Green Bay Packers. I never got the chance. Then again, I never kicked the football high enough to bounce off the branches.
We lost quite a few of the original 17 oak trees over the decades, but the backyard still looked resplendent in 2017.
A prominent feature of the property was a limestone patio built into the hill on the north side of the lawn. My Dad built a curved wall out of flat limestone rocks, which also paved the patio floor and served as steps up to the sidewalk that led into the house.
There were small gaps between the rocks on the patio floor. They sprouted weeds every year. We hated being assigned the task to pull weeds in the patio. After picking up the detritus, we had to use a whisk broom to carefully guide the pebbles back into place between the rocks.
At the picnic table on the rock patio, circa 1971.
The ground just beyond the asphalt driveway was home to numerous garden plots over the years. In the 1970s when the economy hit the skids, we had a serious garden stocked with green and yellow beans, green peppers, strawberries, onions, cucumbers, and tomatoes. From those harvests came pickles, strawberry jam, and vegetables for the dinner table.
Land farthest to the west had a couple of buried boulders that peeked out from the ground just enough to make perfect bases for a very tight baseball field. We never dug them up. Perhaps they still serve as bases for another generation of children.
The backyard was host to a wealth of critters from chipmunks and gophers to field mice, occasional deer, and even a snapping turtle. I don’t know if we ever figured out how a large snapping turtle found its way up to the house. A friend of Mom and Dad came over from Carriage Hills and captured the creature. I recall some comments about turtle soup. I did not want to think about that.
The large oak trees needed occasional maintenance. In the 1970s we had one of the worst ice storms ever seen in this part of Wisconsin. The house was without power for three days. My Dad was stranded someplace and could not get home. The eerie calm outside was often interrupted by the sickening crack of a branch giving way under the weight of the ice.
An ice storm for the record books struck Wisconsin in early March 1976.
Later that year I distinctly remember Dad pruning some of the large, dead branches using a rope thrown from below. He attached a fairly hefty rock to a heavy-gauge rope, then swung it like David when he felled Goliath. Up the rock went, the rope wrapped around the branch and Dad pulled the dead weight down.
Dad wore a white terry cloth sweatband on his head. It’s funny the details that stick with me so many years later. That’s how I saw my father while growing up. Slaying the biggest problems, seemingly unafraid of the size or complexity of the task at hand.
For decades we had a “bird feeder” that was in reality a squirrel feeder. It was a wooden box nailed to perhaps the largest oak tree on the property. Sometimes we had bird food to put in it, but more often we were sent out with stale bread.
The backyard was home to improvised ice rinks during a few winters. In the early years, we could peer through the woods all the way to the corner of Wisconsin Avenue and Broadway Drive. At the time it was an empty lot. The city would come and open the fire hydrant to flood the lot and make a perfect ice rink.
I don’t know which shocked me more: Dad zooming around the perimeter of the rink in speed skates, or Mom showing some unexpected skill on her white figure skates. I have an image in my mind of us all skating on that rink under nothing but moonlight. I’m not sure if that ever happened, but that’s how I remember it.
Those skates, like the memories they held, got tucked into boxes in the basement. More than 50 years later, the skates, winter clothes, the house, and the frozen empty lot are all gone.
Yet the images in my mind remain.
The biggest challenge that came with such a wooded lot was the blizzard of leaves that laid down a thick carpet every October and November. A half-acre of fall leaves usually required four to six able-bodied souls armed with bamboo rakes.
Some years we all raked the bounty into a massive pile, then spent an hour romping through the leaf mountain. That practice was eventually abandoned when we had golden retrievers, whose golden nuggets inevitably got mixed in with the leaves.
Our backyard “hill” wasn’t huge, but we always made the most of it for winter fun, circa 1974
With such a bounty of trees, the backyard also attracted a bounty of birds. In later years, Mom had a birdfeeder that looked like a little red schoolhouse atop a 5-foot pole. The cardinals were partial to safflower seeds, so that was the staple stocked in the feeder.
When living at Mom’s house for a year when she was in a care center, I set up a tripod and camera in the sunroom and shot photos of the birds through the windows. It was fascinating to see which ones ruled the roost and which others were able to feed unnoticed when the big guys and gals were around.
Since his creative talents included photography, hand illustration and writing, it only makes sense that Carl F. Hanneman (1901-1982) also showed skill and promise as a painter.
We’ve covered in many places on this site Carl’s ventures in photojournalism,freehand illustration and professional writing. At least two of his framed paintings have also survived, and reside in Hanneman family homes nearly 30 years after his death.
Both paintings depict nature scenes, one in winter and one in late summer or fall. It would make sense that the scenes depicted were in Wisconsin, likely Mauston and Carl’s native home in Wisconsin Rapids.
A winter scene painted by Carl F. Hanneman.
The first shows a winter setting along a stream that is surrounded by a mature forest. A moderately deep snowfall dusts the landscape, although the stream does not appear frozen. The second scene shows a variety of trees hanging over the shore of a lake or river.
It looks like many of the properties along the Lemonweir River in Mauston, where Carl brought his family to live in 1936. The property across the street and down the hill from the Hanneman home looks out onto LakeDecorah, where the river widens before flowing over the dam. It also resembles land along Petenwell Lake and Castle Rock Lake just northeast of Mauston, where Carl was known to fish.
A lake or river scene painted by Carl F. Hanneman (1901-1982). Date of the work is unknown.
It is likely Carl painted other works that found their way into private collections. My Dad believed there were still a number of works in the basement at Mauston at the time of Carl’s death. The fall scene above at one time hung in the study of the Hanneman home in Mauston.
The real estate surrounding Cameron Park in the tiny village of Vesper, Wisconsin, played an important role in the histories of the Hanneman and Treutel families. This village square was the nexus of commerce and family life at the dawn of the 20th century. It was home to a number of Treutel families, who came from Germany through Waukesha County seeking a new start.
A hand-drawn map made by Elaine (Treutel) Clark has surfaced that adds detail to how the town square was laid out and where the family homesteads sat more than a century ago. The map, likely drawn sometime in the 1980s, was provided to us by Elaine’s daughter, MaryClark. Because all of the old Treutel homesteads in Vesper are now gone, the map provides missing detail on what the village looked like in the early 1900s.
As documented elsewhere on this site, the family of Johann Adam Treutel and the former Katharina Geier emigrated from Bremerhaven, Germany, to New York between 1849 and 1854. The family initially settled in Milwaukee before it began to branch out into other areas of Wisconsin and in the deep South of Louisiana, Alabama and Mississippi. Henrietta (Krosch) Treutel, the widow of Philipp Treutel, moved north with her children after Philipp died in 1891 near North Prairie, Wis.
We’ve overlaid photos on the hand-drawn map created by Elaine (Treutel) Clark.
Most of the Treutels lived on properties along Anderton Avenue in Vesper, along the western side of Cameron Park. Most also had their places of business along the same street, including a general store, a butcher shop and a smithy (blacksmith shop). The first of the Treutels to come to Vesper was Adeline B. (Treutel) Moody, who settled on a farm outside of the village. Her family was involved in the Moody-Hinze shootout incident.
In late 1898, Charles W. Treutel made a trip to Vesper to “look after his landed interests,” according to the Wood County Reporter. Charles and his brother Henry A. Treutel later established a blacksmith shop that eventually became a service station and auto-repair shop. Treutel Brothers was located on the Hemlock Creek, just across from the northern edge of Cameron Park.
The former Goldsworthy’s store became the Treutel general store in 1901.
The Treutels purchased what had been known as Goldsworthy’s store at the corner of Anderton and Cameron avenues. Oscar and Walter Treutel bought the store from C.R. Goldsworthy, one of the major land owners in the area. Oscar was the main proprietor, as Walter became a rural mail carrier for the U.S. Postal Service. The post office was originally located in Treutel’s store. Emma (Treutel) Carlin was the seventh postmaster of Vesper, starting her 11-year tenure in the fall of 1906. Just south of the Treutels’ general store was the butcher shop of Orville Carlin, Emma’s husband.
The map also shows the “priest house,” which was the home of Father C.W. Gille in April 1926 when a fast-moving fireleveled the building before firefighters could reach the scene. Carl Hanneman or wife Ruby (Treutel) Hanneman documented the fire in photographs. Father Gille presided at Carl and Ruby’s nuptial Mass on July 14, 1925 at St. James Catholic Church.
Along the east side of Cameron park we see a village hall, the location of a community gathering documented in an “Eye on the Past” feature on this web site. The building hosted a lot of functions over the years. For a time it was home to a roller rink operated by Harry Cole.
A crowd gathers outside the village hall, circa 1914.
The southeast corner of the map shows the Vesper Graded School, where my grandmother, Ruby (Treutel) Hanneman went to school and later taught for a time after earning her teaching license. The well-built structure still stands, now serving as a private home.
The center of the park shows a bandstand, which many times was the center of activity with band and string concerts. The Vesper Cornet Band played in the park on more than a few occasions. The talented group of musicians included Charles Treutel,Henry Treutel and Orville Carlin, the husband of Emma (Treutel) Carlin.
Not far from the bandstand is an indicator where the Ku Klux Klanburned a cross sometime in the mid- to late 1920s. It was one of Elaine’s vivid memories from early childhood. We could find no reference to it in the Wisconsin Rapids papers. The Klan was certainly active during that time period. If this occurred before April 1926, it would have been directly across from the home of Father Charles W. Gille, the pastor of St. James Catholic Church.
The Vesper Cornet Band. Orville Carlin and Charles Treutel are the first two from the left in front; Henry Treutel is second from right in rear.
Last but not least is the Walter Treutel homestead, along the western side of Cameron Park with its rear facing the Hemlock Creek. The Treutel children had lots of space to play in the field behind the house. The map says they went ice skating on the Hemlock Creek on winter days. We have many photos showing the home’s exterior, but no images from the inside of the house.
Mary(Ladick) Treutelon the stepsof the Treutel home with her children Nina, Marvin and Ruby.
(The staple in the corner of the document was rusted. That gave me an idea of how long the story below sat in my paper files, unused. When finding this recently, I chuckled at the list of big publications I wanted to send it to. That never happened. It has been some 30 years since I wrote this. Mom and Dad are gone now. My three children are grown. But the memories of those days are still so vivid, of a cherished canine friend.)
I stood in my bedroom that Sunday night in July, tears rolling off my face and sobs shaking my body. An uncontrollable tide of grief welled up inside me, and although my wife Sue was with me in the room, I suddenly felt very alone.
I wasn’t prepared for how I would feel when you died, probably because I never thought I would have to face the situation. But now the shock of realization hit me with incredible force.
A million thoughts raced through my mind as I tried to come to terms with the news. I was at a loss as to why I was taking it so hard. I wondered if I was abnormal. The same feelings of loss and desperation haunted me as if Mom or Dad had died. But my tears were not for them. I was crying for you, Korby, my big-hearted, beautiful golden retriever.
As I sat down and sobbed into my hands, I remembered you laying on the hallway floor the last time I saw you. You couldn’t get up to play, or to take a walk around the block like you loved to do. I knew you were sick, but I convinced myself you would get better. I was sure that nothing— not old age, not sickness — would get the best of you. But when Mom and Dad called to say they had to put you to sleep, it cut me to the core. I could not accept that your time had come, and I didn’t want to believe that someone who added so much to my life was gone.
His legal name was Korbel: My BrandyMan, but we called him Korby. With me in 1986, college graduation day.
A rush of memories passed in front of me, and I realized just what I would be missing the next time I stepped foot in Mom and Dad’s house.
I remember the day Dad brought you home. You were an adorable, long-eared puppy with huge paws and the enthusiasm to match. You charged across the front lawn and jumped into my lap, chewing on my hand with your baby teeth. I was afraid of dogs, but you seemed different to me. You had boundless energy and limitless affection. It would have been hard not to fall in love with you.
I remembered how strong-willed you were while growing up. You were good at heart, but you always did what you wanted and went where you pleased. I’ll never forget the day you flunked out of dog obedience school because you couldn’t sit still. While other dogs were heeding commands to stay, you opted to run around looking for someone to kiss.
Your playfulness and spunky character quickly became the talk of the neighborhood. I always wondered what the neighbors thought when they rang the bell and you came to the door with an old shoe or pair of underwear from the laundry pile in your mouth. I’d laugh when they reached down to accept the gift you brought them and you ran away. Your face seemed to say “chase me,” and I always did. I never got sick of galloping around the living room until I was able to tackle you and retrieve what you had in your mouth.
The nights I came home late from work or school, no matter what the hour, you always came downstairs from your bed to greet me. Half the time you remembered to bring a gift, like one of Dad’s slippers. Your groggy eyes told me how much of an effort this was for you, but you came just the same. Even if you were sleepy, you always waited for me to go to bed before you went back upstairs. Thanks for watching out for me.
Joe and Korby: Christmas in the mid-1980s
The year after college when I was looking for full-time work, we became constant companions. After Mom and Dad went to work each morning, I waited for you to push my bedroom door open with your nose, then jump on the bed and fall asleep until I was ready to get up. Later in the day, if we had nothing else going (which we usually didn’t), we’d take a walk. I loved your reaction when I looked at you and uttered that golden phrase: “You want to go for a walk?” You cocked your head sideways as if to say, “Really?” Then all I needed to say was walkie to set you barking and dancing by the garage door. You got so excited on our walks, sometimes I thought you’d pull me off my feet.
Then there were the car rides. Sometimes I’d ask you if you wanted to ride in the car, just to see how happy it made you, even if I had nowhere particular to go. You were always first in the car door, pushing your way past me into the front seat. You were quite a sight, with your big head out the window and lazy tongue hanging out. When you sneezed on the window from the cold air blowing up your nose, I’d cringe and make a mental note to buy some Windex. And there was all that dog hair you left on the upholstery.
What I wouldn’t give to hear your “achoo” on one of those rides now.
During the winter, I remember us going into the back yard to play our version of canine football. I took off my hat and threw it like a Frisbee across the frozen yard. Then the race was on. It was too hard to catch you, but I always managed to get in a few good tackles. Thanks for letting me win a few. You were a good sport.
Korby loved to romp in the snow, chasing a football or any other object (hat, mitten, etc.)
One of my favorite games inside the house was when you came over to me with one of those worn out yellow tennis balls in your mouth. Being as coy and you could, you dropped the ball in front of me, but as soon as I made a move for it, you snatched it back. It was really funny how you loosened your grip on the ball just enough to let me think I could get it away, then clamped down on it when I tried. I don’t think I ever laughed so hard as when I rolled the ball down the hall and you chased it so hard you slid on your rear into the kitchen table. Whenever you got frustrated with the game, you took the ball between your paws and pulled the fur off it with your teeth. You gave us an impressive collection of bald tennis balls.
“You were not just my dog, or my pet. You were a part of me.”
You were always a great ally, Korb. I remember that year between college graduation and my first full-time job, when things got so frustrating I sometimes ended up in tears. But you were always there to lick my face and let me know things would be all right. And last Christmas Day, when Sue got called off to war with the Army Reserve, you knew I was upset and stayed by my side all weekend. Thanks for being so supportive.
You gave us plenty to smile about on Christmas mornings. We were all busy with our exchange of gifts, but you wouldn’t stand to play second fiddle to a bunch of wrapped packages. It became a Christmas ritual to watch you dive into the discarded wrapping paper, throw it in the air, then catch it in your mouth before tearing it to bits. Thanks to you, the living room looked like the wake of a paper tornado. I tried to save two or three stick-on bows, because I knew how much you loved pulling them apart. By the end of the morning, you usually found your gift, just by the smell of the rawhide emanating from under the wrapper. I still have a picture of you struggling to carry the 3-foot-long bone we gave you one year.
Korby helping cousin Laura with one of her gifts in the early 1980s.
One of my most vivid memories of you was from dinner time. It seemed that when it came to food, you had no idea you were a dog. Every day was the same story. Your bowl of food was put down at 4:30, but you preferred to wait until 5, when we sat around the dinner table. Like a professional panhandler, you made the rounds. You knew I was a soft touch. I figured that was why you always slid your nose into the crook of my arm and pushed your way in until your face was practically on my plate. I always gave in and slipped you a scrap of meat or a few vegetables. I could never figure out why you loved peas and carrots so much, but that came in handy for both of us. When you didn’t get what you wanted, did you have to knock your bowl of food over onto the floor? Oh well, just part of your strategy, huh?
What I wouldn’t give now to see you make that mess again.
I hope you don’t think we didn’t notice the one night you put your big paws on the kitchen table while we were in the other room and stole half the pizza. And Mom figured out real fast the time you plundered an entire ham from the counter. You probably figured you were doing Mom and Dad a favor the nights they had bridge club, by moving from one snack dish to the next, cleaning out the contents.
After I moved to another city with my job, coming home to visit you was a special treat. You made me feel so important when I came through the door. You grabbed a shoe and headed for the hills, and the chase was on until I tackled you. I always thought I was winning when I caught you, but now I realize that’s what you wanted in the first place. But I got my revenge when I’d take a dog biscuit, put it in my mouth and get down on all fours. You had a hard time getting the bone away from me. Well, at least until you threw your 100-pound frame on my back and knocked me over.
Korby wasn’t so fond of wearing someone else’s ski goggles.
After roughhousing for a while, I liked to lay down next to you and give you a big bear hug. You looked so peaceful as I scratched your ears and petted you. I’ll never forget the feeling of your smooth golden fur or the softness of your floppy ears. Your eyes would drift shut and your breathing grow deep. Then, just as you fell asleep, your paws would wiggle as if you were running. I used to wonder if you dreamed about running in a big, open field. I’ll bet that’s where you are now.
You always broke my heart when Sunday afternoon came and I had to pack up to go home. As I would gather my belongings, you looked up from the couch with big puppy eyes that seemed to say, “Aw, c’mon, don’t leave!” You got me to stay that one time when you grabbed my wrist in your mouth and pulled me back in the door.
Now that you’re gone, I wish I had stayed more back then.
Every time I called home, I got a sense of security and homesickness alike when I heard your bark in the background. Barking was one of your passions. It didn’t matter if it was a squirrel or bird in the back yard, or a common housefly on the sliding glass door that was your window to the world. You let out a resonating “woof!” that jolted anyone within 20 feet and shook the rafters. Just when we thought your eyes might be getting bad, you proved us wrong by barking at someone walking two blocks away.
When your fur started graying, I got a twinge of concern, and for a moment I was afraid you were getting old. But those thoughts always vanished in the face of your still-playful nature.
But last spring, I caught myself again worrying when you gained a lot of weight and had to be put on special medication to flush a buildup of water from your body. You got better for a while, as I was sure you’d be with us for years to come. And even though you were losing weight, I told myself you’d be fine.
Korby in his younger days, with David, who would be there for Korb in the end.
Then came one Friday I was home for a visit. You looked tired as you staggered over to greet me for a moment, then laid back down to nap. When I sat down to eat my lunch, you struggled and almost fell over trying to get up to come get your share. But after that second piece of pepperoni from my pizza you perked up. And again in the face of evidence that you were slowly leaving us, I believed you were fine. I hugged and kissed you extra long before heading home that day.
But the next day, when our brother David was up to see you, you didn’t get up at all. Even your favorite word walkie wasn’t of interest. You didn’t know it then, but Mom and Dad were worried. They had talked about having Dr. Sartori come over during the week and put you to sleep while they were away. They didn’t want to see you go. But David said no, if it was your time, he wanted to be with you.
So David, God bless him, took you outside for a short walk, then put you in his car. I picture the two of you as you drove down all the side streets on the way to the vet’s office. You even had your head out the window, just like old times.
The vet was not surprised to see you. We later found out you had cancer growing in you that caused you to lose weight and age so fast. When the vet came into the waiting room, you slumped to the floor, just like you always did when you didn’t want to go somewhere. You were vintage Korby, right to the end. It was so hard for David as he held you in his arms while the doctor gave you a shot. He could feel you relax as your worldly troubles slipped away.
One of Korby’s favorite spots: his side of the couch. Mom’s feet are in the shot.
But just as your pain was ending, Korb, ours was just starting. Tears flow from me every time I think of you. It’s going to be so hard to go into that house and not hear the click of your nails on the floor, or see that shoe or pair of underwear dangling from your mouth.
But writing this, I finally understand my powerful reaction to your death. You were not just my dog, or my pet, but a part of me. You knew me so well. Your selfless nature and affection did more for me that you probably ever could understand. Until I met my wife, you were my very best friend, whom I grew desperately close to. Even when I got married, you didn’t hold it against me. Thanks for that.
I know that I’ll always shed a few tears when I look at your picture or think about you. But I’ll also smile, because I know you’re somewhere much better now.
I can’t say goodbye to you, Korb. It would hurt too much. So keep that shoe handy. I’ll chase you again someday.
He was the kindest, most decent person I’ve ever known. Tom Hanneman, legendary Minneapolis sports broadcaster, recent Midwest Emmy® award inductee and father of three, died suddenly on Dec. 18 at his home in suburban Minneapolis. He was 68.
A cousin 12 years and 2 days my senior, Tommy enjoyed a storied broadcasting career that would be the envy of any journalist. Tens of thousands will remember him for his calls from the broadcast booth, but his true impact in the world came through his family and the countless one-on-one interactions he had with people in all walks of life. He took interest in them all, treating everyone with respect and kindness. When you talked with Tom Hanneman, you mattered. And he meant it.
The world needs more men like Tom Hanneman. We now must learn to live with one less.
Thomas Donn Hanneman was born in La Crosse, Wis. on June 29, 1952, the third of nine children of Donn G. Hanneman and the former Elaine Kline. He was one of three boys in the Hanneman clan who matched wits and traded lightning fast humorous barbs like they were fired from a Gatling gun. To listen to the Hanneman boys left you with sore ribs from laughing. I don’t know if they rehearsed their act, but Tom, John and Jim, had they not followed the paths they did, could have done a stand-up act worthy of Carson or Leno. Tom and John did great voice imitations, something Tom later employed with great humor as the fictitious basketball announcer Bill Beek (see the video below).
Every encounter with my cousin Tom started the same way. He looked me square in the eyes, put his hand on my shoulder and said, “How are you? Tell me what’s been going on.” He listened, asked insightful questions and gave his appraisal of the things of life . His interest and concern were genuine. That never changed, not once over five decades of our interactions. You can’t teach such things, nor can you force them. Those qualities are a gift from God. Tom made very good use of them.
When God was handing out good looks and talent, Tommy got in line twice. He had the Hanneman face that embodied the young movie-star looks of our then-19-year-old grandfather, Carl F. Hanneman (1901-1982). And that voice. My father was told in high school that he had a stentorian voice. Powerful. Indeed his singing could lift the gabled roof off of Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary Catholic Church. Tom had a polished voice made for TV and radio — smooth as tiramisu or a sip of Baileys Irish Cream. His broadcast timbre was like listening to Jim Nantz call the PGA championship or Pat Summerall at the Super Bowl. It never gets old.
Carl Hanneman (left) circa 1920; Tom Hanneman in mid-1970s.
Tom started his career as a radio disc jockey at Minnesota State University. In 1973, he wrote a letter to Dave Moore (1924-1998), the legendary anchorman at WCCO-TV Channel 4, the CBS affiliate in Minneapolis. “Dave helped me get a foot in the door at ‘CCO as a dispatcher,” Tom said in his Emmy® acceptance video just a month before his death. “A lucrative job that paid $1.35 an hour. It didn’t matter. Dave Moore taught me many things certainly about the value of mentorship. It’s a lesson that I’ve never forgotten.”
Tom spent 16 years at WCCO as a sports reporter and anchor, then became a TV and radio host for the Minnesota Timberwolves NBA franchise. He eventually became the Timberwolves’ television play-by-play announcer. The Timberwolves assignment lasted for 23 years. He then became the face of Fox Sports North in 2012, anchoring pre- and post-game coverage of the Twins, Wild, Timberwolves and Minnesota Gophers. Viewers and sports fans affectionally referred to him as “Hanny.” Over his long career, he covered the World Series, Super Bowls and even the Olympic Games. He became known for his quick, dry wit and high jinx with radio partner Kevin Harlan (you can read a beautiful summation here; h/t to Jim Hanneman and his son, Leo).
Tom wasn’t kidding about being a mentor. He played that role to many people. During my freshman year at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, Tom got me tickets to see the Wisconsin Badgers and Minnesota Gophers play hockey in the WCHA Tournament at the old barn, Williams Arena in Minneapolis. Wisconsin swept the series on its way to the 1983 NCAA championship. What a memory! On one of my other visits, Tom invited me to the WCCO studio to watch the 6 p.m. newscast from behind the cameras. Although I was already well along on my road to a degree, that visit helped cement my own intention to make journalism my career.
As Tom described it later, one of the dramatic bookends of his career came in May 1979 when he volunteered to cover a violent uprising of factions of the Red Lake band of Chippewa Indians in northern Minnesota. Tom and cameraman Keith Brown beat the FBI to the scene and walked right into the middle of pure chaos. They were fired upon by 20-year-old Gordon Wayne Roy, then taken hostage by the madman. The men were ordered to lay on the pavement. Roy held a gun to them and “threatened to blow our heads off,” Tom said. After Roy tried to run the pair over with their own car, Tom and Keith escaped with the help of a neighbor. The memory was still vivid in 2020:
“It certainly gave me clarity, when you come close to death, about what’s important and what isn’t. There’s gratitude every day, if you look for it, that you’re simply alive.”
— Tom Hanneman
Tom’s broadcast career reads like something deserving of an Emmy® Silver Circle Award from the Upper Midwest Chapter of the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences. Watch the tribute produced by the Midwest Emmy Academy:
A beautifully produced look at Tom’s incredible career, as he won an Emmy Silver Circle Award for his five decades in broadcasting. “I wouldn’t be here tonight without help — plenty of help,” he said.
One of my favorite memories of Tom came on Oct. 23, 2013. We met for coffee at the Beyond the Daily Grind Cafe in Mauston, the sleepy little city on the Lemonweir River where our fathers grew up. We reminisced about the trips our families made over the decades to visit Grandpa Carl and Grandma Ruby Hanneman at the green-sided house at 22 Morris Street. Fishing with cane poles off the back of the Dr. Hess property along the river, then cleaning the catch for dinner — there was nothing better. Talking with Tom was like a great conversation with your best friend. I will always treasure that day.
Tommy on a visit to Mauston in October 2013. We always talked about a return trip, but that will have to wait for Heaven.
Tom was a big supporter of my work on the Hanneman Archive, the web-based project to document the family’s historic journey from Germany, Pomerania and the Czech Republic to nearly 170 years of history in north-central Wisconsin. Just about every time I talked to him or exchanged emails, he thanked me for the effort put into family history. That meant a lot. Now it means even more.
“I have thought about our visit to Mauston frequently in the years since,” Tom wrote me back in June 2020.
“That town will always be magical to me.”
“I planned on suggesting a return this summer and then the pandemic hit,” he wrote. We talked about making a visit one day at Christmastime to the Boorman House Museum in Mauston, which proudly displays a beautiful large-format framed pastelthat once hung in the office of Gov.-elect Orland Loomis of Mauston. Loomis gifted the artwork to Carl Hanneman for his work to help elect Loomis in 1942. The pastel later hung in my parents’ living room for more than 50 years.
Minneapolis hockey history: a Fox Sports North story by Tom Hanneman.
As much as his impressive career meant to him, Tom was first and foremost about family. His eyes sparkled when he talked about his children, Adam, Courtney and Kyle; and his five grandchildren. In his Emmy® speech, Tom spoke lovingly of Nancy, his wife of 44 years, and how she put up with his late nights and travel schedule, all while raising the children and managing her own career as a nurse.
I know how grieved he was in August 2017 when his younger brother, John, died after a short battle with cancer. John was just 56. “It breaks my heart,” Tom wrote me in July 2017. “We’ve been able to spend time with him at least once a week, but his cancer continues to grow and has worn him down. The three Hanneman brothers decided years ago that spending time together on Christmas Eve wasn’t good enough. We headed north for a few days every summer and got to know each other. I’m so thankful we spent that time together.”
The other dramatic bookend to Tom’s career came in July 2019. The arteries to his heart were choked off and he was rushed into surgery for six-way bypass surgery. “He said he woke up in the intensive care unit, looked around and thought, ‘Oh, so this is what it’s like when you die,'” the Minneapolis Star Tribune reported. After his recovery, Tom said he was so thankful to get another chance at life. “I’m a lucky man and I know it,” he said in his Emmy presentation just weeks ago.
Of the dozens of tributes posted to social media the afternoon after Tom’s death, one stated it quite beautifully:
“He was just a great pro. He made every day better. When you’d see him, you’d say, ‘OK, everything is good today.'”
— Jeff Munneke, VP, Minnesota Timberwolves
Tom is survived by his wife, Nancy; his son Adam Hanneman (Rachel); daughter Courtney Tapper; son Kyle Hanneman (Ashley); his mother, Elaine; sisters Diane Hanneman, Caroline Balch, Jane Olson (Charlie); Mary Cochrane (Mick); and Nancy Sullivan (Mike); and brother, Jim Hanneman (Margaret). He is further survived by his grandchildren, Shae, Ryn and Laine Tapper; and Jack and Mia Hanneman. Tom was preceded in death by his father, Donn; his brother, John C. Hanneman; his son-in-law, Joseph W. Tapper; and his brother, Thomas Patrick Hanneman. •
Tom’s colleagues at Fox Sports North put together this tribute for a Timberwolves game.
We met only briefly, 55-plus years ago. It was in Grand Rapids, a city on the western shore of Michigan, directly across the lake from Milwaukee. It was a Saturday; 9:04 a.m. to be exact. She named me Patrick.
I won’t know on this side of eternity whether she had a chance to hold me or say goodbye before the nurses whisked me away to my new life. After spontaneous labor of 2 hours 14 minutes, there I was, all of 7 pounds 11 ounces, a “normal newborn boy,” according to the obstetrician’s notes.
Just like that, I was gone. So was she, the woman who gave birth to me in June 1964.
I thought of her often while growing up, and especially when I married and had my own children. After on-and-off searching for decades, I finally learned her identity in 2018. I so hoped to have a chance to meet her face to face, or at least to speak via telephone. I sent her letters and photographs of my children. It was not to be.
In August 2020, a Google search brought a real shock: she died in late March at age 78. I sat and stared at her photo in the the online obituary. I felt stunned, like being punched in the solar plexus. This can’t be. A few days earlier, I had decided I would make a cold call to her house and determine once and for all if she would speak with me. Now I can’t.
She was there, and then she was gone.
***
Hello, I must be going. That phrase is the title of a 1930 Marx Brothers song, the 1978 biography of comedian Groucho Marx and the second studio album of British pop icon and singer Phil Collins. The words came into my head and stuck there after I discovered that my birth mother had died.
I would never get a chance to meet her in this life.
My adoption story began in September 1963, when a 21-year-old Michigan State University student unexpectedly became pregnant. After a few months, she moved from her home in East Lansing, Mich., to the Salvation Army Evangeline Home and Hospital in Grand Rapids. It was there she gave birth to me on June 27, 1964. I was turned over to the Catholic Service Bureau of the Diocese of Grand Rapids for adoption.
My first official portrait as a member of the Hanneman family.
After three months in foster care, I was placed with a couple from suburban Milwaukee who had recently moved to the Kentwood section of Grand Rapids. Thus I began my life as Joseph Michael Hanneman, the son of David D. Hanneman of Mauston and the former Mary Katherine Mulqueen of Cudahy. My adoption was finalized on July 7, 1965, just in time for our family to move to Sun Prairie, Wis.
I had a very good upbringing by two faithful Catholic parents, but I was always curious about my birth parents. Who were they? How did I end up in the adoption system? Mom and Dad shared what they knew: my heritage was Irish, Polish and Swedish. One of my biological grandfathers was very tall, maybe even 6 foot 6 inches. That was about it. Not much to go on.
My parents received this August 1965 letter informing them that my adoption was now final.
In 1986, after graduating from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, I moved back home for a time while searching for a full-time job in newspaper journalism. I decided to put my reporting skills to work to learn more about my ancestry. Mom and Dad kept their important papers in a metal 4-gallon cherry can under the sink in the downstairs bathroom. Michigan cherries, of course. I found a packet of information there on my adoption. There was a finalized court order signed by Probate Judge A. Dale Stoppels of Kent County, Mich., and a letter from caseworker Schuyler B. Henehan at the Catholic Service Bureau of the Diocese of Grand Rapids. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
The final adoption order signed in July 1965 by Probate Court Judge A. Dale Stoppels.
I wrote to the adoption agency and made a request for any and all information they had about my adoption. I also sent a letter to the Adoption Central Registry in Lansing to inquire if either of my biological parents had signed a waiver of privacy stating I could be told about their families. Not wanting my parents to feel hurt that I was doing this research, I rented Post Office Box 1106 at the U.S. Post Office in Downtown Madison. I received my first reply on March 31, 1987, from adoption search specialist Bonnie Kooistra at Catholic Social Services of Kent County. It didn’t provide any real clues to my birth mother or father’s identity, but did fill in some key details.
The letter said my birth mother was 22 at the time of my birth. She had light brown hair, dark brown eyes and a fair complexion. She stood 5 feet 4 inches tall. She was a Roman Catholic in her second term at Michigan State. The case workers at the time described her as “a shy, withdrawn person who was in poor health.” She had some serious medical issues. Her father was 55 and had a white-collar job, and her mother was a housewife, age 54.
A letter arrived from Michigan in March 1987.
My birth father was 25 when I was born, although there was no indication in the correspondence that he had any role in the adoption. That was typical in those days. I couldn’t even know if he was aware of my birth. He had red hair, green-gray eyes and freckles. Sounds familiar. He stood 5 feet 10 inches tall. He was a senior at Michigan State and adhered to no religion. “He was considered easygoing, kind, not temperamental,” the letter stated. His heritage was listed as Irish.
The letter further explained that I was not entitled to any identifying information under Michigan law. So they would not tell me the name of the hospital in which I was born. “I have never heard of a judge ordering a release of information,” Ms. Kooistra wrote. That made me frustrated and angry, but it appeared there was little I could do to obtain more information.
This appears to be my baptism, which is a mystery. I was baptized at the Cathedral of St. Andrew in Grand Rapids in July 1964 under my birth name. Holding me here is my adoptive grandmother, Ruby V. Hanneman, with grandpa Carl F. Hanneman. The priest who baptized me in 1964 was named Rev. Vincent Kamarauskas from the cathedral. The priest pictured is unidentified.
I didn’t make another attempt to learn more about my adoption until December 1994. I was now married with a nearly 3-year-old boy. I looked at his crop of red hair and started to wonder again about my ethnic heritage. I wrote to Catholic Social Services in Grand Rapids. This time, they were able to tell me more, due to changes in the law. The letter from adoption specialist Sandra Recker had a wealth of detail, including the county my birth parents came from (Ingham) and the name of the birth hospital (Salvation Army Evangeline Home and Hospital).
The letter said my birth mother was in her second term of college, and my birth father was a college senior who worked at the campus newspaper. She was in poor health with a chronic medical condition that could be life-threatening. Sandra included a photocopy of my medical record from my time at the hospital and in foster care. It contained four listings, including the day of my birth and three visits to the pediatric clinic. It was difficult to decipher, but eventually I determined the pediatrician was Dr. Donald H. Ter Keurst (1932-2004), a 1957 graduate of the University of Michigan Medical School.
There were four entries in my health records; three of which were signed by a pediatrician, Dr. Donald H. Ter Keurst of Grand Rapids.
I’d made good progress since my search began in the mid-1980s and, for now, this satisfied my curiosity about my personal history. But it continued to nag at me. I became very involved in genealogy research after the 2007 death of my Dad. I was able to trace his family history back to at least 1550 in the Baltic Duchy of Pomerania. But I could only guess at my own roots. That didn’t sit well with me.
During the 2014-2016 time frame, my two daughters began asking questions about their ethnic heritage and history. Now ages 15 and 18, they’d not expressed much interest before. So this gave some motivation for me to set out and hunt for clues to my origins. For the third time in 30 years, I wrote to Catholic Social Services in Grand Rapids, hoping to learn more than in the first two attempts. Based on that correspondence, it appeared my best bet to learn more would be to petition the court for a “confidential intermediary” who would locate the birth parents and see if they would be willing to establish contact.
At this time I was doing freelance writing for a European agency that develops articles and other content for web sites. (You can read their feature article on my search here.) One project was to analyze the variety of home DNA tests being marketed for genealogy. By the time this project was complete, I took a half-dozen DNA tests from vendors such as 23andMe, AncestryDNA, National Geographic, Family Tree DNA and MyHeritage. As it turned out, the writing project brought the breaks I needed to solve my history puzzle.
***
Nov. 27, 2016 was a monumental day. I received an email from 23andMe.com informing me that my DNA test results were available. I would finally get some estimate of my ethnic heritage. Was I really Irish, Polish and Swedish? As it turned out, that information was small potatoes. I clicked on the link for “DNA Relatives” and was confronted with a bunch of matches. Actually there were 1,500 matches, but the one atop the list stuck out: 26.22% DNA shared in 48 segments. Possible relationship: half-brother. What?
I stared at the results for a few minutes, still in shock. I didn’t expect to log in and find a brother atop my list of matches. The web site had a messaging feature. I quickly typed this note and sent it off to someone listed only by his initials:
Hello, my recently acquired DNA results indicate you might be my half brother, possibly on the maternal side. I was adopted in Michigan and have been seeking information on my birth parents.
23andMe Text Message
I logged onto the site every day, but didn’t see a reply until Dec. 5. Based on my new relative’s first note, I don’t think it sunk in that we were so closely related. “John, interesting results,” he wrote. John? A few minutes later, he came back and wrote, “Joe, I was adopted as well in Michigan, 1962. ….I would love to chat with you. It’s Monday Dec. 5, around 4 p.m. …hope to hear from you soon, Brother….!” We were able to talk via cell phone later that night. It was an incredible day. For Sean, I was his only known blood relative (aside from our birth mother and his own children).
It sure was nice to have someone with whom to confab about genealogy. We shared all of our research and looked for commonalities. Sean told me that he enlisted help from a Catholic social worker in 1993. She made contact with our birth mother. Our mother didn’t want to have contact with him at the time, but she filled out a long medical questionnaire. (Sadly, the social worker who spoke with our birth mother did not record her name or contact information, even in the confidential files.)
From that questionnaire I learned that my maternal grandfather was over 6 feet tall and 220 pounds; a “take-charge guy,” according to her notes. His wife was small and rather quiet, but very involved in their Catholic parish. She died tragically in 1965. Her father was a chemist. These clues would all come in handy before too long.
The high school portrait of Mary Patricia Walsh (1942-2020).
During the summer of 2018 we received two key clues from Sean’s relatives. One told us that our birth mother went by her middle name. Another weighed in with a huge clue: she thought our birth mother’s name was Pat Walsh. Whoa! With this bit of information and the other data points, I set off into my genealogy databases. It didn’t take long to find the likely candidate family. Her name was Mary Patricia Walsh, the only daughter of Howard C. Walsh and the former Mary Olive Switalski. She fit every data point from the questionnaire she sent Sean. We had solved the biggest mystery in either of our lives.
At about the same time, my DNA test results from AncestryDNA came in. I was an experienced Ancestry.com user and knew their database of users was huge compared to any other genealogy company. I got another shocker when viewing my DNA matches, another brother. This time, it turns out, it was from my birth father’s side. I sent a message to the account holder and waited.
In the mean time, I had several other matches who were likely second cousins, so I reached out to them while poking around their online family trees. Before the reply came from my new half-brother, I determined the identity of my birth father. Sadly, he died in December 2013 at age 74. Before I had the first phone conversation with my brother Dave, I obtained a letter from the adoption agency confirming my birth father’s identity. I will write more about Bill in a separate post. He was a good man, married for more than 50 years with two great children, Dave and Kelly.
***
It would be difficult to overstate the importance of learning the identity of my birth parents. While it did not lead to any in-person introductions, it opened up my entire genealogy. With hard work and research, I would soon be able to trace my maternal history to a village in County Kilkenny, Ireland; a rural area in Yorkshire, England; a city in Poland and somewhere in Sweden. Both maternal and paternal families had an emigration path that ran through Cincinnati and greater Ohio. Plenty of work to do.
My birth mother got married a little more than a year after my birth. She and her parents were communicants at St. Thomas Aquinas Catholic Church in East Lansing, Mich. A year after she married, her mother died very suddenly at age 55. My birth mother did go by her middle name: Tricia when she was younger, Pat in adulthood and later changed to Trish. She had one sibling, John Howard Walsh Sr., who died in 2015. Her three sons now live in the Carolinas, which is where she died on March 27 after battling cancer.
While my genealogy search did not lead to meeting either birth parent, I am much richer for the effort. I have six “new” half-siblings, three of whom I’ve gotten to know from a distance. I hope to visit Michigan next summer. The hospital where I was born is still there, although it’s no longer a health-care facility. There are many people to meet face to face.
We can start with “hello.” •
Epilogue: On Christmas Day 2020, I received an incredible gift: the remaining contents of my adoption case file. The nearly 20 pages of documents confirmed all I already knew. It added some wonderful detail, too. My full birth name was Patrick Kevin Walsh. It appears my birth mother did spend some time with me before I went into foster care in early July 1964. My foster care was either in a facility named McMillan or with a family with the McMillan surname. There are many other bits of information that are new to me. These documents scanned from microfilm turned out to be a wonderful Christmas present.
Howard C. Walsh ran for City Council in East Lansing.
Mary Patricia
Tricia exhibited a painting in 1954.
July 1965 wedding portrait from the Lansing State Journal.
The 1890s-era carriage stone that has been a fixture outside the old Hanneman home in Mauston, Wis., might have originally been quarried and cut as the base for a cemetery monument.
Mauston author and historian Richard Rossin Jr. said he noticed some cemetery monuments in nearby Elroy looked very similar to the stone in front of the Carl and Ruby Hanneman house at 22 Morris Street.
A monument base at a cemetery in Elroy has similar patterns to the Hanneman carriage stone. (Richard Rossin Jr. photo)
As we’ve documented elsewhere on this site, the carriage stone was most likely installed by brewmaster Charles Miller, who built the 22 Morris house in the early to mid-1890s. Miller owned the Mauston Brewery, which operated across Winsor Street on property that backs up to the Lemonweir River. Miller built the home with the finest materials, including stained-glass windows (which are still present in the house).
The diamond pattern is visible in this photo of David D. Hanneman from the mid-1940s.
Rossin included his speculation about the cemetery base in a revision to his history book on the Mauston Brewery. The cemetery stones have the same diamond pattern carved into the sides as the carriage stone (although the Hanneman stone only had the pattern cut into two sides). Perhaps Miller bought a precut base from the Mauston stonecutter, or had one custom-made from granite for use in front of his home. Rossin said when Morris Street was recently torn up for construction work, the carriage stone was moved. When it was put back, it was turned 90 degrees.
Carl F. Hanneman with grandson David at the carriage stone, circa 1964.
In the late 1800s and early 20th century, it was common for dearly departed citizens to be buried under much larger monuments than is typical today. The weight of the monuments required they be set on a heavy base for stability. The bases were often made of the same type of stone as the top section. Monuments were installed on either gravel or a concrete pad.
Rossin also sent us some historical news clippings that make reference to the home at 22 Morris Street. One tells a great story of some area boys who used the carriage stone to climb onto George Cole’s cows and ride them to the pasture near the Mauston Greenhouse. Another clip says construction of what would later be the Hanneman house began in late summer 1893.
May 1894 news clipping from the Mauston paper. (Courtesy Richard Rossin Jr.)
September 1893 news clip shows the start of home construction at 22 Morris Street.
An early 20th century news clip: Richard Rossin Jr. relates: “The Coles lived down Winsor Street and the cow was pastured on a lot over the railroad tracks a few blocks away.”
The old carriage stone in 2013: covered in lichens and sunken just a bit from its heyday.
Sometimes family history discoveries involve a careful eye, and sometimes a bit of dumb luck. Or, as in this case, a little of both. While searching for some city directory information on the web site of the Cudahy Family Library, I started watching a 36-minute film about life in that suburban Milwaukee County city. Titled “Life in Cudahy,” the film was made in 1938.
About six minutes into the presentation, I spotted a teenage face that looked really familiar. The young man was a mechanic working on a car at Koehler Service. In another shot, he stood in the background as a man and (presumably) his young daughter, look at their vehicle. This just had to be my mother’s older brother, Earl J. Mulqueen Jr. (1923-1980). The film was posted to the library’s YouTube channel. I formatted the excerpt below for wide screen and applied some color correction.
Fifteen-year-old Earl J. Mulqueen Jr. (far left) worked at Koehler’s Mobil station.
Koehler’s offered Mobilgas and Mobiloil to its Cudahy customers.
Station attendants wore pinstriped coveralls with Wadhams Oil Company black caps and ties or bowties. It was an era when service stations delivered actual service (with a smile) to every vehicle that came in for fuel: checking fluids and wiper blades and cleaning windows. Koehler’s also offered emergency service, as evidenced by the attendant who drove off on a motorcycle carrying a gasoline can in one hand. This was no doubt before the EPA and OSHA were around to clamp down on potential dangers.
Earl was the second-oldest of the 11 children of Earl J. Mulqueen and the former Margaret Madonna Dailey. The Mulqueen children were taught hard work, so it’s not surprising Earl had a job at age 14 or 15. Money was tight during the Great Depression, so any extra income was no doubt a valued help to the family. My mother, Mary Mulqueen, was 6 or 7 years old at the time the film was made. Earl was either a student at St. Frederick’s Catholic School in Cudahy or a freshman at Pio Nono High School in St. Francis.
Earl was brand new on the job the year the film was made. He worked as an automobile serviceman, according to his U.S. military file. He greased, lubricated and fueled automobiles, assisted with transmission and differential repairs and engine overhauls.
Earl J. Mulqueen Jr. stands in the background.
Just a few years after the film was made, Earl enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps at the outset of World War II. He went on to fight with the 2nd Marine Division in some of the bloodiest battles of the war, including at Guadalcanal and Tarawa. He lost his left leg in May 1944 when a massive chain-reaction explosion at Pearl Harbor’s West Loch blew up dozens of ships and injured hundreds of sailors and Marines who were preparing for the Allied invasion of Saipan. Dozens were killed.
Earl J. Mulqueen Jr.
After returning from the Pacific, Earl spent his last months in the Marine Corps making promotional appearances at War Bond drives around Wisconsin. His accounts of the battles in the Pacific kept audiences spellbound and helped put a number of war-bond drives over the goal line.
After the war, Earl got married and went on to a long career in automotive repair. Once he had recovered enough to begin working, his parents purchased Koehler Service station for him and the name was changed to Earl’s Automotive. This not-so-little detail was shared by my aunt and Earl’s sister, Joan (Mulqueen) Haske. Earl ran the business until about 1960, when he moved his family to Colorado. After his wife Evelyn died of cancer in early 1963, Earl returned to Cudahy to again take up work in automotive service.
It is amazing to think his first job was documented by a film crew in 1938, only to be rediscovered in 2020, 40 years after his death.
Small-town newspaper wedding announcements often provide all sorts of details that might otherwise be lost to history. While scanning a box of photographs I discovered a 1958 clipping about my parents wedding from The Reminder-Enterprise, a weekly newspaper in Cudahy, Wisconsin. The late David D. Hanneman (1933-2007) and the former Mary K. Mulqueen (1932-2018) were married at St. Veronica Catholic Church in Milwaukee. At the time, Mary was a teacher at St. Veronica Catholic School.
The text of the article is below the line, followed by a gallery of photos from the wedding and reception. A memorial Mass will be said for Dave and Mary at 11 a.m. Sunday, Aug. 9, 2020 at Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary Catholic Church in Sun Prairie. August 9 is the 62nd anniversary of their wedding.
Miss Mary K. Mulqueen became the bride of David D. Hanneman at St. Veronica’s church on Saturday, Aug. 9, at 11 a.m.
The Rev. Johnson performed the double ring rites as the bride’s father gave her in marriage. Her parents are Mr. and Mrs. E.J. Mulqueen Sr., 3854 E. Cudahy Ave. The groom’s parents are Mr. and Mrs. Carl Hanneman, of Mauston, Wis.
A gown of Cupioni silk, in princess style, was worn by the bride. Panels of Chantilly lace were fashioned in the front and in the back. The back of the skirt extended into a short train. A Sabrina neckline and long sleeves were also featured.
The bride carried white orchids attached to a mother of pearl prayer book. The prayer book was given to her by the sisters of St. Veronica’s parish.
Article from The Reminder-Enterprise of Cudahy, Wis.
Joan E. Mulqueen was maid of honor for her sister. Bridesmaids were Lavonne Hanneman of Mauston and another of the bride’s sisters, Ruth. They wore aquamarine sheath dresses fashioned of delustred satin with tulip overskirts. They wore aquamarine feather headpieces.
The maid of honor carried yellow spider mums with a rust and yellow mixture of leaves. The bridesmaids carried bouquets of yellow spider mums shaped in a spray. Slippers in the color to match their gowns were worn.
Donn Hanneman of 8518 Stickney Ave. was best man for his brother. Attendants were Thomas Mulqueen of 3723 E. Edgerton Ave. and Jack Richards of Madison. The groom and attendants wore Oxford suits, (black suit coats with gray vests and striped trousers).
Earl J. Mulqueen Jr., Patrick Mulqueen, Thomas McShane and Donald Dailey were ushers.
The wedding party, left to right: Jack Richards, Tinker Mulqueen, Donn Hanneman, David Hanneman, Mary Hanneman, Joan Mulqueen, Lavonne Hanneman, Ruth Mulqueen.
About 300 guests attended the wedding dinner and reception at the St. Frederick’s hall following the church ceremony. Mrs. August Lachal and the ladies of St. Frederick’s prepared and served all the food.
The young people will live at 3263 E. Layton Ave. when they return from a two week honeymoon in northern Wisconsin and Canada.
The bride attended Cardinal Stritch College and Marquette University. The groom attended La Crosse State College and the University of Wisconsin.
The wedding date proved to be an anniversary date for several members of the families. Ruth Mulqueen, sister of the bride, and Lavonne Hanneman, sister of the groom, both celebrated their 21st birthday on the wedding day. A cousin of the bride celebrated their 20th anniversary on that day. The wedding was also a reunion of Donn Hanneman and Thomas Mulqueen who served together in the U.S. Navy and have not met for 14 years.
There was a time when letters were the primary means of long-distance communication for families and friends. Even short updates were dashed off on a card or a sheet of special stationery. Long-distance telephone calls were expensive and typically reserved for special occasions or emergencies. For family historians, finding old letters can unearth all sorts of details about life way back when. Sometimes the reveal big details, but often the small things that are otherwise lost to time.
I recently scanned a series of letters my mother wrote to her in-laws, my grandparents, Carl and Ruby Hanneman, who lived in Mauston, Wis. At the time, Mom was living in her hometown, Cudahy, Wis. In the first note, she was not yet married to Dad, but in the other ones they were newlyweds. They were married on Aug. 9, 1958 at St. Veronica Catholic Church in Milwaukee, where Mom was a teacher. I’m sure Mom kept up this correspondence beyond 1959, but only these letters survived (no doubt they were kept safe by my Grandma Ruby Hanneman).
Mom at one of their early residences; possibly their Layton Avenue apartment.
The letters reveal that my Dad had a temporary job at Sears before he started his career selling pharmaceuticals. It sounds like it was a bit of a grind with regular night and weekend hours. Sometime in mid-1959, he got a new job in sales. I can’t tell from these letters, but I know back in that time frame Dad started working for E.R. Squibb & Co. Mom and Dad had an apartment on East Layton Avenue in Cudahy, which they later traded for a brick ranch home in Greenfield before moving to Grand Rapids, Mich.
The letters contained some good chuckles, too, like this train wreck of a sentence: “I hope this restful letter finds you all rested, at least a little bit rested, as well as I am rested.” Not what you’d expect from a woman who taught reading. But I considered the possibility that it was intended as a joke.
The regulars mentioned in these letters include my maternal grandparents, Earl J. and Margaret M. Mulqueen; Mom’s younger brother Joey Mulqueen; Dad’s sister Lavonne (Hanneman) Wellman; Evelyn Mulqueen, wife of my Mom’s brother Earl J. Mulqueen Jr.; Donn and Elaine Hanneman (Dad’s brother and sister-in-law); Mom’s sister Ruth (Mulqueen) McShane and her husband Tom; Mom’s sister Joanie (Mulqueen) Haske and her husband Dick; Mom’s sister the nun, Sister Madonna Marie; and Jack Richards, one of three groomsmen in Mom and Dad’s wedding.
The text of the letters is below:
Undated letter (prior to Aug. 1958)
Dear Mr. Hanneman,
This was the cover of the card containing this undated letter to Mauston.
I hope you’re fine and dandy – Lavonne and Mrs. Hanneman too! The reason for this little note is to ask a favor of you. Would you please order the man’s matching wedding band & my rings? I don’t know which catalog it was from but it’s an Honor ring. I’m sure Lavonne will know which set it is! As far as size is concerned, Dave’s ring is at Novak’s in Mauston to have the size adjusted. I’m quite sure it’s an eleven. You could check there on size. It’s just the plain silver band. If you run into any difficulty please call me – Sh. 4-5862 any nite about 5:30 or 6:30. I will then pay you as soon as I see you.
Also, my folks will be coming up this week-end if nothing unforeseen comes up. They will leave here about noon on Saturday. Joe would come with them. I don’t know if David & I will get there. We’ve been busy getting our place ready. I got sick from the paint. Ugh!!
Dave is fine – his foot is okay. Last Friday he had a wisdom tooth pulled. Don & Elaine & the kids are fine too. I must close now as I want to get this in today’s mail. I would certainly appreciate you ordering Dave’s ring. If you are unable to get it, I’ll match one as close as possible from a store here in Milwaukee. Tell Lavonne the dresses are in at Boston Store, but there’s no hurry to try hers on. So long for now,
Love,
Mary
Nov. 11, 1958 (postmark)
Milwaukee, Wis.
Mr. and Mrs. C. Hanneman
22 Morris Street
Mauston, Wisc.
Dear folks,
Hi! Hope all is well with you. Everything is fine down our way. I’m writing this at school at noontime, so one of my “monsters” can run it to a mailbox.
Dave plans on coming up this week-end to get in some deer hunting. We probably will get there on Friday night about 9:00. If for some reason our plans are changed, we will call you.
This photo could be from the deer hunting trip mentioned in the November 1958 letter.
My mom is doing very well. Will have to leave all news for the week-end, as I don’t have too long a lunch period. Love to you both again.
See you soon,
Mary and Dave
Dec. 31, 1958 (postmark)
Milwaukee, Wis.
Mr. and Mrs. C. Hanneman
22 Morris Street
Mauston, Wisc.
Dear Folks,
We rec’d your letter and was glad to hear too you had such a nice trip back. I’m sure you’re quite busy with your newly acquired family. The reason you couldn’t reach us Sunday afternoon was that we went over to Dick’s house while he changed clothes, and then Joanie and Dick and we went to the orphanage and visited with Sister Madonna Marie. She was very lonely for company and we had a nice visit with her and her boys. We came back about 6:00 and made a spaghetti supper. We drew names for the dishes and Joanie & Dick won. It was all Joanie’s idea.
The first page of the Dec. 31 letter to Mauston.
Well, the main reason for my my writing is to inform you that Dave & I won’t be able to be with you this week-end. Hamilton at first said he could even have Friday off, but later changed his mind & said he wanted to take inventory on Friday & Saturday. That means Dave will even work Saturday. We’re disappointed because we did so want to do something different. We may, if he’s not too beat, drive to Madison and see Jack Richards, but even that is just a maybe!
I’m very happy you all enjoyed your visit with us as really the pleasure was all ours. You know you’re welcome anytime. That bed is up permanently, so there’s always plenty of room. I talked to Donn & he & Elaine are cleaning house like mad as long as there are six feet less to be underfoot the broom!!
Today (Dec. 31) Dave is working and I want to go downtown with my mom and just look around, then do grocery shopping, and then press our clothes for the party tonight. I must close now, wishing you & Carl a very Happy New Year filled with the best of health & happiness.
Tell the kids Happy New Year from us too. Carl, here’s to you (drawing of a drink glass) cheers!!! Hope to see you before too long. Still want to ice fish & skate on the Lemonweir!
xxxxx,
Mary
Apr 29, 1959 (postmark)
Milwaukee, Wis.
Mr. & Mrs. C. Hanneman
22 Morris Street
Mauston, Wisconsin
Hi folks,
I’d been intending to write sooner than this as I knew you probably were wondering how the dedication went. Well, all went very well indeed! Sister’s visit also but she was coming down with the flu bug that’s been hitting everybody. I wasn’t feeling too sharp that day either and was sick by ten that night. I missed the first three days of school last week & dragged myself back on Thurs. & Fri. I still have bronchitis or something. I’m seeing the doctor this week-end. Ten children from the class were out today, so that “bug” is really getting around. Some nice sunshine might help the situation, though.
We can’t thank you enough for being so thoughtful to remember to send the films & slides along. We were most anxious. They don’t look too bad at all.
Dad at their Cudahy apartment.
We’ve been very busy with choir rehearsal two nites a week. I’ve had to have a dress made for the concert & had to “run out” for fittings. I’ll be glad when it’s over, because it has involved so much chasing. I’m just not in a “chasing” mood.
Dave & I were both very surprised to hear about Jack Richards. If you hear anything else, let us know.
Dave has been busy at his temporary job & much busier answering ads, having interviews and weighing advantages & disadvantages. Nothing is definite yet & I feel he should take his time, as there’s no reason at all for a rush!
We hope Bob & Ruth Schroeder had a good time here. They seemed to. Too bad both games were called because of rain.
We also hope this letter finds you both feeling well and in good spirits. We haven’t talked to Vonnie yet but should tomorrow (Wed.) or Thursday. Dave doesn’t get home until 6:15 or so, by the time we eat and relax a bit, it’s time for choir. He works nites a few nites a week & Sat. until 6:00. Sometimes we go to choir at 9:30, practice until 11:30 & don’t get home until midnite. We’re both tired.
Ruth & Tom are back from Florida and had a wonderful time.
I must close now and get ready for bed. David is writing a letter to some friends from Davenport, Iowa. This is catch up on letters nite.
I don’t know when we’ll be coming to Mauston since Dave works Saturdays. I may have a Monday off soon & we could come Sun. & Mon. or when the job he wants comes through & he quits Sears. Til then, take good care of yourselves, enjoy life & remember we think of you often! Carl, don’t work too hard – go fishing! Catch me a big one & eat it all!
Love,
Mary
May 20, 1959 (postmark)
Milwaukee, Wis.
Mr. & Mrs. C. Hanneman
22 Morris Street
Mauston, Wisconsin
Dear people,
I hope this restful letter finds you all rested, at least a little bit rested as well as I am rested. What I’m trying to figure out right now is where the fine line is drawn between resting and being plain lazy!! I’m close to one or the other.
Dave arrived home quite excited about his job and week in Minneapolis, but very tired. He really is impressed with the company, their policies & all the people he’s met. This week he’s working with his boss from Minn. in the Milw. area and doing quite well.
He thinks he will be going up into Green Bay and Escanaba next week, but isn’t too sure. We sold the car to Lou Ehlers Buick (where he bought it) on Monday. On Sun. we picked up his company car. It’s a beautiful bronze Bel-Air Chevrolet. He’s very pleased with it. Tonite we’re having dinner with his boss. They’re letting me pick the spot. I can’t decide where to go, but I want to go someplace where I haven’t been.
I have to get a desk for Dave, take the bed out of the spare room & set him up a place to work with a filing cabinet for his records.
We got our TV back and it works very fine, finally!
Dad on one of his pharmacy sales calls.
Elaine came down for supper last nite. She left the children home. She really seemed to enjoy the evening very much. She looks at bit thin, but says she and the kids feel fine. Donn called her from New York here. The Mason girl sat with the kids.
I must close now and wash my hair & try to make myself beautiful for this evening. Thank you again Vonnie for coming down last week with me. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.
I probably will be going back to school next week. I hope so. I have to have some blood tests done which will tell exactly how the liver situation is, but I feel pretty good. I hope everybody home there feels fine too! We probably won’t be up to see you folks until the first or second week of June. I will write before then & let you know what’s happening.
Til then, so long. Enclosed is a check for films. Carl, don’t argue about it!! (Teacher speaking)
Love,
Mary
Sept. 1, 1959 (postmark)
Cudahy, Wis.
Mr. & Mrs. Carl Hanneman
22 Morris Street
Mauston, Wisc.
Dear folks,
Thought I would write and say “thank you” both again for your generous hospitality shown Joe and myself when we visited you. He really was quite excited telling of the good time he had fishing running the boat on the river!
It’s Monday evening, the end of the month as I write this. It has finally cooled down here. I hope you people have had relief too! Dave’s hay fever has been quite bothersome this past week. But he left for Michigan this a.m., which means he’ll have relief while there.
I had intended to go with him but didn’t, since I’m helping Evie with the new one – (a boy, 9 lb. 3 oz – last Wed.,), a beautiful contented baby. I kept house for her from last Wed. thru Sat. while she was in the hospital. They’ve asked Dave and I to be sponsors this coming Sunday – his name will be Brian David Mulqueen. Also, I didn’t go with him because I’m going to teach 5th grade for a good part of September for a sick teacher, and so I’m busy this week getting the class room in good shape for the big day – September 9.
I hope you’re still coming down over the Labor Day week-end. Would be very nice to return some hospitality to you for a change!!
I’m going to help my mom tomorrow a.m. She’s having her Jesuit mission club for a luncheon. I have plenty to do during the day – but right this moment I’m kind of lonely for Dave. I think though I’ll survive until Friday. Must close now – I hope I hear from you if you don’t come down. We would much prefer the latter!
The Hanneman Archive 