That was one reason I wasn't in athletics. The other was the fact that my father was a big farm operator. He didn't tell me I could or couldn't participate, but I knew there was a lot of work to be done on the farm and I had my share. In fact, I grew up working and probably stayed home from school more days than many kids. I may have missed two to four days in the spring to help with farm work, where my classmates didn't. There wouldn't have been anything for them to do. My participation in sports came when I had developed height and weight. I was offered scholarships while I was in college and the service.

There having been three boys, someone wondered if we got into any mischief. My brothers and I didn't do any robberies or anything like that because there was nothing to rob. But I remember going down our graveled road. We didn't have electricity so there were no utility lines but there were telephone poles with glass insulators. We improved our throwing aims by throwing rocks from the road, hitting and breaking the insulators.

We also had what we called "nigger shooters." They weren't sling shots. They were made from the crotch of a tree or from getting into our father's shop and helping ourselves to #9 wire. We twisted it, cut an inner tube, and made shooters. We were pretty good. We could hit birds. I was in the most trouble from getting into fights with my brother Jim. I remember our folks threatening to send me to Boy's Town, which was getting a lot of publicity. They didn't actually carry out their threat.

I never was in trouble with the law, and all in all, being the oldest grandson on both sides of the family, I thought my parents didn't lack confidence in me. However, I didn't have a car until I was a senior in college. My father bought each of his sons their first car. It seemed like a good plan and my children didn't have cars until they were in college.

My brothers and I were in 4-H. We raised calves and horses and won quite a few ribbons. I was maybe a little above average. It was during the Depression, and although I didn't always get a new pair of shoes at the time I might have, our parents were probably better off than the average family in the community. Even at 10 or 12 years of age, I seemed to be economically aware. I knew my dad was paying hired help $1 a day and with war prices, he was losing money doing that and farming. I had some lessons in economics just hearing his conversation.

Probably in 1935 or '36, I remember Dad coming home one noon, and with two or three men at the dinner table — dinner was at noon in those days — he told that he had persuaded a loan institution to reduce his payment from 3 1/2 % to 3 1/4 or 3 1/4 to 3%. I have no idea how much he was borrowing but it meant a couple hundred dollars to him. We had a neighbor who lost his farm. He came to my dad and I have an impression my dad talked to the insurance company and the neighbor ultimately kept his farm, but it was rough. My grandmother used the term. "frugal" to describe us, and I think it is a very good word.

I graduated from high school in 1941. It was a given that I would be going on to college, and two weeks before graduation, my father took me to Ames. Until then I only knew I was going, I just didn't know where. My father hadn't had that advantage. My mother probably went to what might have been finishing school in Des Moines. I also didn't know what my major would be, but engineering was very popular for boys/men at that time, so I matriculated at Ames in Civil Engineering. I had visions of building roads. At the time there were only a total of about 6,000 students; 2,000 freshman were engineers. Our plans were interrupted.

Air Force

December 7, 1941, when Pearl Harbor was attacked and the U.S. entered WWII, I was a first quarter freshman engineering student at Iowa State. As we went home for quarter break later that month, most men questioned their longevity as college students. But it was not until the end of spring quarter a year later, when in March 1943, the mass exodus occurred. That winter, the campus was flooded with military recruiters — Marines, Air Force, Army, Navy, Coast Guard, all wanting to attract recruits. In addition, there was ROTC (Reserve Officers Training Corps), and the fraternity I was in, Tau Kappa Epsilon, had a lot of ROTC people. We also had a lot of veterinarians, who would be kept in school. People like Tom Murrane had to decide which branch of service was best. My friends and I probably all favored the excitement and attraction of the Air Cadet program of the Army Air Corps, predecessor to the Air Force. The cut-off was March 1943. Iowa State was in quarters instead of semesters, and when at the end of the Ames winter quarter, all males were probably going into some branch of the service.

Jim O'Rourke, a fellow TEKE and my closest friend, and several other freshmen and sophomores signed with the Army Air Corps. Don Mitchell, another TEKE, went with the Navy Air Corps. Reporting date for active duty was in March. It was at the same time that I left for the farm fields of I. H. Murrane and Sons in Greene and Guthrie counties, although my preference would have been to accompany O'Rourke and the "off we go into the wild blue yonder" boys. My father was a big grain and livestock farmer in west central Iowa and food was an important factor in the war effort.

They were deferring farmers and several aspects pertained to me. (1) Of my father's three boys, I was the oldest and my father needed help. This qualified me for a farm deferment. In March, I went home to help put the crops in instead of going where my friends were going — to the Army Air Corps. I can remember that spring, out in the field, hearing the planes going over and envisioning myself up there. I was getting mail from my very best friend, Jim O'Rourke, who was in the cadet program and kept me informed about what I could expect. He was at Fort Leonard Wood, which was the camp south of St. Louis. In about 1939, I remembered some of the older young men from Iowa going down there to work on construction.

I helped get our crop in that spring and cultivated that summer, always considering it was a given that one of us would go into the service. I was the oldest, and brother Jim, two years younger, would graduate from high school in May. Paul, seven years younger, would not be affected. The local draft board was sure to take either Jim or me. Jim got the bad end of the deal because after the war was over, he immediately was drafted.

It should be noted, however, I was in no way unhappy with my position. True, most able-bodied men my age had volunteered for military service or had been drafted. But there were those not accepted due to an injury, physical problem, or a farm deferment such as I had.. Two such men, John Lyons and Lincoln Thomas, kept my summer social schedule filled. When our farming was done, we went to Carroll once or twice a week. In 1943, I saw a blond girl in Jefferson, Janelle Souers from Ogden. We both went our own ways from 1943 to '48. She was through school or about to be when we got back together. Both of us had some prior serious relationships, but we began dating and five years later she became my wife for 52 good years.

In August 1943, I volunteered to join the Army Air Corps as an Aviation Cadet but did so with the general understanding I would probably not be called to active duty for a couple of months. As that was the case, Lyons, Thomas, and I continued to have a good time several nights a week. In fact ,we even managed to spend a week at Lake Okobon before my orders came to report for service in October, the timing which, thanks to an "early fall" allowed me to harvest some 400 acres of corn before saying my good-byes and heading for Texas.

October 1943, about six months after my friends at Iowa State had all left, Tom Murrane, Joe Linn from Coon Rapids, Tom Williams of Jefferson, Maurice Mahaffa, and an additional fifty or sixty Iowa volunteers were sworn in during a quick Des Moines ceremony on a fateful fall Sunday afternoon, then, continuing in our civilian clothes, boarded a train for Sheppherd Field, Texas, which is near Wichita Falls. Our stay was to be brief for military training. As it turned out, it was for "qualification tests"— mental/physical, that determined whether we would be trained as pilots, navigators, or bombardiers.

My recollection of our month's stay is vague. It is clear we had our first physical training session before being issued gym clothes. This meant we marched to the sand covered field in newly issued wool O D's, which we soon removed, folded neatly behind our formation position, and proceeded to do our first calisthenics in the blowing red sands of west Texas. Our dress: GI boxer shorts, shoes and socks.

I also remember our first exposure to an Army obstacle course that followed our 20-minutes of exercise. Actually, it was nothing new to me. After Pearl Harbor, Iowa State's physical training program for men required proficiency of travel, under a time-clock's count. But to some of the younger men, like Maurice Mahaffa, it had to go down as a happening to remember, for several reasons. The first was the rope swing over a 25-foot obstacle of stagnant water. Mahaffa and I had become good friends in our short time together. He was a tall, good looking boy but somewhat gangly, which had nothing to do with his missing the rope and falling into the muck, wearing the GI shorts, shoes and socks he'd have later to wear under his wool uniform. It did contribute to my tagging him "Buckwheat."

And it was not the end of his troubles. After we had shaken the sand from our uniforms and dressed, we were marched off the field to get our first round of GI shots, passing Buckwheat, who had stalled scaling the high wall, under the helpful jeers of the muscle-bound drill sergeant. Note: after the war, I saw Mahaffa. He made it through the cadet program as a navigator and became a superintendent of schools in northwest Iowa.

My next military move was to Creighton University in Omaha for the "College Training Detachment" phase of the Cadet Program. It was for six months, which consisted of basic courses in math, English, history, geography, with military and physical training included. It was a good program. College credits could have been used. The athletic director invited me to return as a football recruit.

The next move was to Santa Ana, California, for preflight, where class work plus code and military craft identification continued for three months. Our cadet pilot class was identified as class 45-b, meaning we would be the second class in the year to graduate.

Primary flight training was next, at Tulare, in the San Jauquin Valley of California. It was a country club atmosphere. Cottages for eight cadets, civilian flight instructors in Stearman open cockpit, two wing planes — a great experience! I went to Los Angeles on weekends. Favorable progress of the war resulted in the entire army flight training program being rescheduled to hold all cadets in position for a period of fifty percent — 90 hours of flight time in place of the planned 60 hours. But once again, good progress of war effort, brought changes in the air training. Instead of flying the traditional single engine, B-13, cadets were tagged for bomber aircraft, as I was because of height.

In summary, I acquired my wings and commission in about 18 months time, which was prescribed. To show what six months difference made, during practically all phases of my training, they were making refinements in the program, squeezing it together, increasing the quality, we told ourselves we were better pilots than those who went through earlier, because they needed them for the war. It went on into a phase of better planes. Where most cadets continued in single-engine, my group was moved to twin engines.

All through my 18 months of training, we were treated as glamor cadets. We were in California most of the time and even in the military we would go to parks — I went to Yosemite and Sequoia Parks and to football games. It was hard to realize there was a war on.

The war in Europe ended in May 1945, and the previous month I was put in a pilot pool at Luke field. There were some 2200 pilots, mostly Lieutenants, and the ones who didn't have a job on the base, had to go to ground school. I'd had 1 1/2 years of college and was a good soldier. I'd grown up with discipline so the military didn't bother me. I was one of 12 picked out of 2200 to be a ground school instructor. The pilots who didn't have a job had to go to classes. I think I had two classes three times a week. It was an easy assignment. I've forgotten what we taught, but I received a very good grading. The Colonel came up to me one day in the Officers' Club. I guess I knew him well enough to say "Hello." He wondered how things were going. I had a couple girls in town and was instructing three days a week. He left me with the offer if I ever needed anything to call him. I never needed anything and never called him. It was almost fun.

To show what a difference six months made, from March of 1943, when the mass exodus occurred on campus, my best friend O'Rourke, then a B-47 pilot in Italy, was killed. Another good friend, a P-38 pilot in Hollywood, oddly enough as he was buzzing his girl friend's house, crashed and made the L.A. headlines. Again being at the right place at the right time, makes a difference.

I returned to Ames in November 1945, after two years in the service. I was still listed as an engineering student. By then I was 22 years old so I kind of knew what it took to get along in the world. I was looking for ways to raise my grade point. When I registered, each department had people recruiting for a division in the school. Journalism, called Ag Journalism, was small, so I signed up for a beginner course. The people in journalism school were pretty astute. They wanted their school to grow, and they may have graded me up. However, in the service I had done some writing. In training, if the trainee neglected to do something, like keeping the room in order, he received demerits. If one of them thought his demerit were given unjustly, he could write a letter to the officer in charge and get it taken care of. I used to write those letters and I became pretty good at it, so that may have been my first professional rating.

I ultimately became a journalism major and I was also out for football. The coach called me in one night and told me somebody had reported to him that I was going to football practice one night and reporting in the daily campus paper the next night. He said, "Murrane, are you going to be a journalist or a jock?" I said, "Sir, I am going to be a journalist." I hope I thanked him before he died. No promises were made that day but I became editor of the paper, which probably was better than football. It paid $60 a month, which at that time was pretty good for a student, and it was my first job in advertising.

The football coaches didn't speak to me the rest of the term, but I went on, graduated in journalism in 1948, with a job in advertising. I emphasize this to my grandchildren now because some of them don't start looking for a job until after they have been out of college for six months. Maybe again, it was being in the right place at the right time. I somehow knew that advertising was probably the most exciting, maybe glamorous, highest paid job in journalism. It may not be today but it surely approaches it because it is sales oriented. While I was a student at Ames I had a five-minute radio program once a week on WOI for the department of economics. I had worked for Herb Plambeck, the farm director, part of one summer, and my voice fit radio.

I had a letter from Ohio State University offering me a job to be the radio farm director of the University station, salary $5,000. I had not applied for it, never heard of it. I had interviewed at Milwaukee's biggest advertising agency and they were going to pay me $3,650 a year, a little over $300 a month. I wisely chose the advertising job over the radio and have never regretted it because I went up the ladder in advertising faster than I would have in radio. The lesson learned is, it is probably good to stop and take a look at all the aspects of your choices.

I was at the advertising agency three years, and there again I did all right. I had an offer from a Chicago agency after I'd been there two years, but I wisely opted to stay where I was for another year. I went to Milwaukee in 1949, and was there three years on big farm accounts, part of my background being an ag school graduate. We had Morton Salt, Massey Harris, Ferguson Tractors, Kellogg Feeds — the same people that had bran flakes and raisin bran ads. I had ads for the livestock industry, which meant I used to write for the Nashville Barn Dance. They were probably the nicest people I ever worked with. We would go from Milwaukee to Battle Creek at least once a year to celebrate Kellogg Week.

After three years, I moved to Chicago with probably the biggest ag agency with a little better level of accounts — International Harvester, which at the time was king of farm equipment. I was hired mainly to be on that account. I liked to be out, traveling and meeting people, but I had to stay in and write some. I was one of two people at the agency who wrote movies. I was aggressive, and after I had been in Chicago five years, I asked if I could become a partner. It was a big agency, probably 15 or 20 people older than I, ahead of me. I wasn't bashful and I knew I was pretty good at what I did, but it wasn't surprising I was turned down. They couldn't have made me a partner and usurped all the other people.

I had always had an idea of going on my own. So after a couple years of talking about it with another close friend, I decided to leave Chicago, come back to Iowa and start my own advertising agency, which I subsequently did. But an aside, in the interim, after I had resigned in Chicago and before I came to Iowa, the Milwaukee people wanted me to come back at a much higher level than I had left. I suppose my move was part of it because when people at my level left, they had to be replaced, and the man in Milwaukee, where I had started, left to move up in the industry. This is probably what I would have done had I been there. I also asked them for a partnership, but it was the same situation. The people who had called to hire me weren't partners so it wouldn't have been very logical for me to be made a partner over them.

I came to Iowa in 1957, worked hard, had no business, but again being the right place at the right time and probably with the right approach, I gained two small Iowa manufacturers — Midwest Industries in Ida Grove and Hagie Manufacturing in Clarion. If I was with Hagie, he was my first account, if Midwest, they were my first. For some 25 years they were good accounts, I worked hard, and made out all right on money. To give an idea of salaries, I went to Chicago starting at $3,600, and after three years, I think I was at $10,000. I don't remember for sure, but not a lot above ten, when I left Chicago.

I continued to bank in Chicago. Bankers are a lot like barbers. You don't leave your barber unless he nicks your ear. I've found it advantageous to be pretty loyal to bankers. We banked in Wilmett when we moved to Chicago. I was in the bank once in my life, Janelle took my checks in. We moved to Winnetka, but we continued to bank in Wilmett as was true when we came to Iowa. I was frugal enough that I remember going into the Valley National Bank, where they would have known me. I didn't want the Vice President to see me when I inquired what they would charge for a business account. They were too high so I kept the check I had in my pocket and continued to bank in Wilmett, which I did until two years ago. I was with that bank for over 50 years. I was in the bank once, talked to vice presidents over the phone. I had been in business three years and somebody in my office told me the bank had called to say we were overdrawn $50,000 and they were still covering the account. I said I didn't know if any Des Moines bank would have done so. It pays to be loyal to your bank.

I also think it is important that a person consider their choice of location because it and the style of living can have a bearing on their career. In Chicago, I fortunately inherited that chance. I knew it was kind of important to live where I could make contact with people who might be a benefit. Somewhere along the line I picked up the idea and believe if you are going about it like you should, if you are aggressive, live in a good neighborhood, and your goals are where they should be, even if you live in the smallest house on the block, you probably will live in a pretty nice house.

After I graduated from Ames in December 1948, we went to Milwaukee in 1949, and we had to take living quarters where we could get them, but my wife, Janelle and I, lived in a downtown hotel for a couple months. It sounds expensive but we could afford it on our $300 a month salary, and Janelle did a little substitute teaching. She had been a teacher and with her six months of teaching, we were probably faring a little better than the average person. Her father was a car dealer so we always had a new car and fortunately never wanted for money. We could do about what we wanted to.

We were very fortunate in Milwaukee. We lived in Shorewood, which was the first suburb on the lakeside of Milwaukee, along Lake Michigan. There were benefits. Our friends were from that area. Socially and probably even in my work it helped. We had neighbors whose children were industrialists and there is a rub-off. That followed, oddly enough, three years later, in Chicago two of my contemporaries left the agency at the same time and took advertising jobs in Chicago ahead of me. They both started on the west suburbs of Chicago. Janelle and I knew no one in Chicago and she leaned toward going out to Glenn Ellen and the big western suburbs, but I said I wanted to live along Lake Michigan where there were beaches I enjoyed, and I was also attuned to the social climate. We first rented a house in Wilmett, a small house, and we then moved to a good sized colonial house in Winnetka, which is probably one of the best suburbs in America. We lived there four years until we came to Iowa.

In 1957, I broke away from Chicago, came to Iowa and started my own company, Thomas Murrane Associates Advertising Agency. When I left the agency I was with in Chicago, I was told by the manager of the Harvester account, I was the hardest man to handle who had ever worked for him. I didn't take that as a big affront. It was probably true. I knew I was pretty good and probably if I had worked for myself, I'd have fired me. Oddly enough, I was probably better liked on the Harvester account than he was. That was unfortunate and probably a position a manager shouldn't get himself in. The president of the agency was the account supervisor on the Harvester account, the agency's biggest account, which would behoove him to be natural but he still wasn't very popular with the account — kind of an awkward situation. Ultimately they lost the account. I suppose part of it might have been the social aspect. A lot of business is done on friendship. I once had a client who said my wife and I were his and his wife's best fiends. I thanked him. It pays to be nice to people and try to keep them happy.

In 1964, I was handling some of the executive travel. In sales that was one of the awards salesmen got. Al Harbutte who was with Westinghouse in Des Moines, gave us quite a few. I started a travel agency in Ames. I did so with a man I had been in school with, Dean Wolfe, who worked for me on one account. He was full time correspondent for a farm magazine and also worked with me to free lance for one account. We opened the travel agency in 1966, which we kept until 1985, and when we moved to Osceola, we closed it up. Unlike the advertising business, travel is personal service. Janelle traveled more on what they called FAM trips — familiarization trips and I tagged along. There were some tax benefits.

The travel agency accounted for our traveling quite a bit, and for having a time-share on the south coast of England for several years. We had a three-week time frame in January/February, which is kind of an odd time for England but it was good for us. We'd been to England enough I had friends in the area of Southampton. We also did some other traveling. Garth Siefkas and his wife, and Janelle and I were good friends. We vacationed together in Africa. Both our wives died at about the same time of the same ailment. He and I soon married again and as he said, "When we get to be our age, in our 70s, we don't have that much time to waste."

I did all right in Iowa. I probably had all the business I wanted. I was making money and doing a good job. We had six accounts, all good ones — Midwest Industries, Hagie United Hybred, Hagie Manufacturing, Foxbuilt, Schwartz Manufacturing, and Westinghouse Appliances. We didn't replace Betty Furness but they were all good accounts and one of their managers continues to be a vacationing friend.

I handled advertising until 1985, although in 1971, I was smart enough that I didn't work 90% of the time. I probably worked 80%. I bought land in southern Iowa, subsequently bought more land, got into the cattle business and instead of playing golf, played cowboy. I managed to keep my wife and friends happy by playing twilight golf at the Des Moines Golf and Country Club, but I much more enjoyed coming down to Osceola and counting cattle, which I did. I used to use my wife's station wagon but my father and brothers said I'd ought to have a pickup, and eventually I bought one.

After some 30 years in the agency I wasn't tiring of it, but I was making enough money that I was beginning to do some things like buying land and returning to my roots. I'd always been interested in cattle so I came down here and did that. I have built up business now where my dollar volume is over a million dollar project in sales, so I prefer dealing in cattle. Although there again you have to be very careful.

My father set an example, having the foresight during the war when farmers started making money, to form a partnership of my father, mother, and the three sons. We have always gotten along well and have since split it up but our relationship is good, which is important in a family. My younger brother, Paul, died two years ago. He had two girls and a boy. My other brother, Jim, never married. He is on the family home farm.

In a like manner, in our estate planning, Janelle and I set up trusts, which I think everybody should do, realizing we are all going to die some day. Our trusts are going to our grand­children. I tell them, my trust goes until my hundredth birthday which is 14 years from now. Last summer I decided they can't extend that unless the beneficiaries are unanimous in favor of doing that. My oldest granddaughter was not. I've extended my trust another 25 years, to 2048. The granddaughter that didn't buy the extension will be in her 70s.

I don't feel a grandparent has a big debt to grandchildren so I believe in the incentive program. I would rather give the one who is making the most money more money and get the others off their seat and get out and work. Warren Buffett told one time how he accumulated his wealth. He said it was kind of like a snowball, all you need is a good supply of partially moist snow and an incline. It is provided the trust can pay out some money if the trustees so choose but my thinking is they can benefit from this and the snowball effect. With agriculture today my business isn't the best but you have to have some momentum to make money. So if they can buy more land and keep it under good management they won't do some things I am doing. Cattle are very risky and maybe I have been lucky but I grew up knowing the business. None of the grandchildren have that advantage. I chose trustees thoughtfully. One is a Des Moines lawyer, and I chose one of my grandchildren, who is vice president of a finance house in New York and knows what she is doing.

I have nine grandchildren, children of our two daughters. Melissa is the older daughter born in 1950, in Milwaukee; and our younger daughter, Margaret (Meg) was born Winetka in 1953. Both went to college — Melissa went to New Orleans, majored in pre-law, met and married a senior in Marketing. He was from Atlanta, and they have lived in New York and Tampa for a short time in each place. Melissa is a professional mother for her six children. Her husband has been with Smith Barney, a brokerage house, as an investment banker for almost 40 years. I have said he probably makes more money than he should if he hadn't had six children. He would be about 60, and may be about to ready to retire. All but one of the children is through college. Meg married a man who is doing very well in banking. They have three children. The two oldest boys are through college — one is a senior, the other is a 14-year- old prep school student.

My wife, Janelle, died in the year 2000, after two years of breast cancer. It was kind of interesting. Enroute to the cemetery, from Osceola to Greene County, where Janelle is buried, I well remember asking my two children and their spouses to ride with me. We were talking about some things and during the trip I said I didn't think I would ever remarry but I wouldn't say I wouldn't. I don't know whether I was telling the truth or not. I have learned that most men probably don't want to live by themselves where most women are less apt to remarry.

In 2001, I decided at the last minute to go to England. I hadn't been there for two years. I came back kind of lonesome, and to show I probably was looking for some companionship, I called Creighton University where I had been in the service and dated a pharmacy student. The last I knew she had not married. Not that I did any checking but my father was in the hospital one time and this person approached him. She was a pharmacy student who filled in for the hospital pharmacist. She asked if he was related to me. That would have been 20 years ago, so I knew at that time she hadn't mauled.

I called the University to contact her to see if she was available. I came back to America in February before hearing from the old girl friend, and my farm manager said we needed hay for cattle, which we often got from Kansas. We had an ice storm in February, 2001, and I left two days later. I went as far as west of Wichita before I saw any hay. I exited highway 54, made a right turn, drove a half mile, took another right turn, and drove a half mile into a nice looking farmstead, where there were several cars, and two dogs. I looked at the dogs — a big dog, and a little dog — and decided not to get out of the car. I honked — maybe a gentleman wouldn't but I did. Nobody came, so I went to the door. A little blond came to the door, and it turned out to be somebody I came to know better.

She told me the hay I saw was hers but it was sold and there wasn't much left, but she knew people who had some and proceeded to call those people. Nobody home. I said, "Put your phone number down." She didn't know why, but she called three people and every time, she put her phone number down. She's had a hard time living that down. Her name was Betty Mies. Her husband had died 1 1/2 years prior to our meeting. We married four months later and have gotten along well. We are about to celebrate our 9th anniversary. We considered living there but it seemed more sensible to live here. She walked away from her Kansas home, but kept her land, her homestead. Both my daughters have accepted Betty very well and I think it can be said they are all good friends. One of the first questions my younger daughter, Meg, asked Betty was if I had told her how old I am, because there is a 22 years difference. We are living wisely and well.

Tom died Jan. 21, 2010

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