Friends forever ... and then some
By Tim Gallagher, Journal staff writer | Posted: Sunday, April 13, 2008
Belva Markusen and Arthur Jack Peters have gone together since 1944. Jack sees Belva every day at the Correctionville Nursing & Rehab Center in Correctionville, Iowa. (Photo by Tim Gallagher)
CORRECTIONVILLE, Iowa -- Arthur Jack Peters bucks northeast winds of 40 miles per hour on his drive Wednesday to Correctionville Nursing & Rehab Center.
He's made the drive daily since Oct. 16, 2004. Comes here to see Belva Markusen, his "Poogie." They've dated for 64 years.
"She was the first one to see me when I came home from World War II," says Peters, 86.
They met at a restaurant in Correctionville, her hometown, when he was home on leave in November 1994. Jack mistook Belva for her cousin Anna Marie initially, but they talked and hit if off. They dated during his four-week stay at home and wrote one another frequently as he served with the U.S. Army in Panama.
He was 23. She was 20 and working as a switchboard operator for the local phone company.
Following his tour of duty, Jack returned to work at Gothier Mink Ranch. He fed and watered mink seven days per week for 55 years. He retired when the fur market collapsed in 1992, closing the business and leaving its owners with 25,000 unsold pelts.
Jacked lived with his parents in Anthon. Belva, who later worked as a switchboard operator in Sioux City, resided with her folks in Correctionville.
These were adults who cared for their parents in their homes. Her parents died in 1965 and 1972; his in 1968 and 1988. Jack's mother died at this nursing home two decades ago.
When these two weren't working or caring for their parents, they could be found in the company of one another. Since 1944.
"I put a lot of miles on Highway 31," Jack says of the eight-mile stretch connecting Anthon and Correctionville.
They never married. I ask them about it, like I'm owed some explanation.
The man who drives here daily smiles politely and leans closer to his sweetheart. He gently grabs her left hand and holds on. "She and me were good friends all these years," he says.
"I figure that's the best," she says, looking his way. "He's a good egg."
Belva fell and broke her hip four years ago and came to the nursing home. Jack has spent every day with her since that time, arriving at 2 p.m. and staying until she's put to bed at 9 p.m.
"She came out here for recuperation and it didn't work," he says with a shrug.
The woman who taught him to dance now sits in a wheelchair as he pushes her up and down the hall, from the restroom to her room, No. 311 at the far southeast edge of the facility.
They spend afternoons in the dining room, watching traffic pass on U.S. Highway 20.
Both deal with memory loss, which is frustrating. Jack has arthritis in his knees and shoulders. "All but one of my shoulders has been replaced," he says. "It's genetic."
Their hearts are good.
"We can't do anything else, but sit up front and watch the cars go by," he says. "No sense sitting down here in the room."
When they do return to No. 311 after dinner, they watch the local weather and wait for their favorite program, "Dancing with the Stars."
The shows remind them of nights long ago when they danced to Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman and Sammy Kaye.
"I led," Belva says.
"In Correctionville, you'd get to boogeying so much at the Opera House that the dishes in the hardware store below would fall off the wall," Jack says with a roaring laugh.
That's how they spent Saturday nights. He'd then take her home and head back to Anthon as he had to be back on the mink farm by 7 a.m. each Sunday. As foreman, he worked Sundays and holidays.
"The mink was work and she was pleasure," he says with a devilish grin.
She hears him and shoots a quick glance to her left. "Smart-aleck!" she replies.
Shortly after 5 o'clock, Jack stands to check the weather. He shakes his head as winds whip waves of cold rain against the east window in No. 311.
He grabs the portraits off her night-stand to show me. Belva, who can't turn to see him, asks what he's grabbing from the front of the room. He shows her the pictures, saying: "Couple of sharp young kids, huh?"
"That was a long time ago," she says with a giggle.
In minutes, they'll take the long walk up the hall to dinner.
"He's awfully good to me," Belva says.
Says Jack: "We'll just stay together forever."
He's made the drive daily since Oct. 16, 2004. Comes here to see Belva Markusen, his "Poogie." They've dated for 64 years.
"She was the first one to see me when I came home from World War II," says Peters, 86.
They met at a restaurant in Correctionville, her hometown, when he was home on leave in November 1994. Jack mistook Belva for her cousin Anna Marie initially, but they talked and hit if off. They dated during his four-week stay at home and wrote one another frequently as he served with the U.S. Army in Panama.
He was 23. She was 20 and working as a switchboard operator for the local phone company.
Following his tour of duty, Jack returned to work at Gothier Mink Ranch. He fed and watered mink seven days per week for 55 years. He retired when the fur market collapsed in 1992, closing the business and leaving its owners with 25,000 unsold pelts.
Jacked lived with his parents in Anthon. Belva, who later worked as a switchboard operator in Sioux City, resided with her folks in Correctionville.
These were adults who cared for their parents in their homes. Her parents died in 1965 and 1972; his in 1968 and 1988. Jack's mother died at this nursing home two decades ago.
When these two weren't working or caring for their parents, they could be found in the company of one another. Since 1944.
"I put a lot of miles on Highway 31," Jack says of the eight-mile stretch connecting Anthon and Correctionville.
They never married. I ask them about it, like I'm owed some explanation.
The man who drives here daily smiles politely and leans closer to his sweetheart. He gently grabs her left hand and holds on. "She and me were good friends all these years," he says.
"I figure that's the best," she says, looking his way. "He's a good egg."
Belva fell and broke her hip four years ago and came to the nursing home. Jack has spent every day with her since that time, arriving at 2 p.m. and staying until she's put to bed at 9 p.m.
"She came out here for recuperation and it didn't work," he says with a shrug.
The woman who taught him to dance now sits in a wheelchair as he pushes her up and down the hall, from the restroom to her room, No. 311 at the far southeast edge of the facility.
They spend afternoons in the dining room, watching traffic pass on U.S. Highway 20.
Both deal with memory loss, which is frustrating. Jack has arthritis in his knees and shoulders. "All but one of my shoulders has been replaced," he says. "It's genetic."
Their hearts are good.
"We can't do anything else, but sit up front and watch the cars go by," he says. "No sense sitting down here in the room."
When they do return to No. 311 after dinner, they watch the local weather and wait for their favorite program, "Dancing with the Stars."
The shows remind them of nights long ago when they danced to Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman and Sammy Kaye.
"I led," Belva says.
"In Correctionville, you'd get to boogeying so much at the Opera House that the dishes in the hardware store below would fall off the wall," Jack says with a roaring laugh.
That's how they spent Saturday nights. He'd then take her home and head back to Anthon as he had to be back on the mink farm by 7 a.m. each Sunday. As foreman, he worked Sundays and holidays.
"The mink was work and she was pleasure," he says with a devilish grin.
She hears him and shoots a quick glance to her left. "Smart-aleck!" she replies.
Shortly after 5 o'clock, Jack stands to check the weather. He shakes his head as winds whip waves of cold rain against the east window in No. 311.
He grabs the portraits off her night-stand to show me. Belva, who can't turn to see him, asks what he's grabbing from the front of the room. He shows her the pictures, saying: "Couple of sharp young kids, huh?"
"That was a long time ago," she says with a giggle.
In minutes, they'll take the long walk up the hall to dinner.
"He's awfully good to me," Belva says.
Says Jack: "We'll just stay together forever."
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Lovebird wrote on Apr 13, 2008 6:48 PM: