Tag Archives: Churubusco

The story of Johnny Krieger and the community that loved him

John Krieger 1935 -2003

By Vivian Sade

Originally published December. 31, 2003

CHURUBUSCO, Ind. — John A. Krieger, the man who was known as Churubusco’s “favorite son” and the town’s All-Round Nice Guy” died just after midnight on Christmas Eve at the age of 68.

John, who was born with Down syndrome, had been sick with pneumonia and other infections and was hospitalized for four weeks preceding his death.

He kept up his busy schedule, working for a variety of downtown merchants and patrolling the streets of Churubusco right up until the day he was admitted to the hospital.

Krieger’s parents, the late Cloyd “Pete” and Hazel Krieger, were advised by medical authorities  to put their Down syndrome baby in an institution.

“He will never live to see his twentieth birthday,” they told the Kriegers.

Baby John

Appalled at the thought of institutionalizing their little boy, Pete and Hazel took him home and raised him alongside his loving brother and sisters, Calvin, Leila, Phyllis and Beverly.

Although John’s speech was garbled and hard to understand, and he had the usual setbacks associated with Down syndrome, he thrived in the Krieger family setting where he was surrounded with love and attention.

John created a fantasy world where he was able to retreat and become whatever he wanted to be at the moment — a police officer, a medic, a preacher or a fireman.

Many people in Churubusco grew up watching John pantomime a one-man play at the edge of a street or on a downtown sidewalk as he played cops and robbers, assisted at the scene of a wreck or chased down an imaginary hit and run driver.

Krieger brought recognition to Churubusco and gave the town more than its 15 minutes of fame when he attracted the attention of the national media several years ago. He was the focus of a 1999 Associated Press feature story and later that same year, the worldwide cable news network CNN visited Churubusco and filmed a segment about John Krieger for the Sunday morning “Across America” series.

At CNN headquarters in Atlanta, Ga., the “Johnny” feature became an audience favorite and continued to be a repeat request from CNN viewers.

John enjoyed working at Shroyer’s Variety & Hardware store on Main Street.
Used with permission of Associated Press

After the Associated Press and CNN coverage, Krieger and the Town of Churubusco heard from people around the world. Many of them sent John letters, cards and even money.

In April 2000 town council members voted unanimously to declare April 23 — John’s birthday — as John Krieger Day in Churubusco.

Dr. Janet McMullen, associate professor of radio, television and film at the University of North Alabama, still uses the story of Krieger when teaching the sociology theories of Gemeinschaft and Gesellschaft.

“Those two theories contrast societies which value people based on who they are versus what they can do,” McMullen said. “John and Churubusco have been the perfect illustrations of that.”

When John was a young man he caught the attention of local businessman,

Clarence Raypole, who owned a gas station at the corner of Main and Whitley streets. Raypole offered John a job and soon the short, stocky young man with the infectious grin became a familiar sight in downtown Churubusco.

John on patrol in the 1970s.

John liked nothing more than to be “one of the guys” and could be seen in the garage, helping work on a car and joking with the mechanics or inside, taking a break and drinking a cola while trading “girlfriend” stories with the young men who worked and hung out at the station.

It was Raypole who affectionately dubbed John, “Knothead.”

The entire business community, following Raypole’s lead, adopted John Krieger and he worked a variety of jobs, many times concurrently, throughout his lifetime.

Besides Raypole’s, John also worked at Floyd’s Auto Sales, Super Valu, Diffendarfer’s Body Shop, Shroyers Variety and Hardware, Jones Insurance, Churubusco News, Papa’s Place and Sheets and Childs Funeral Home.

He was a bonafide member of the Churubusco Fire Department, Whitley County Medic 21, Churubusco Police Department and the Whitley County Sheriff’s Department.

When he was younger, John rode a bicycle which was usually gifted to him by local merchants or the police department. The bike was outfitted with baskets, a toy radio and lights. He carried a badge with all the proper credentials for each department he worked for and, depending on which scenario he was acting out at the time, would present the correct badge with the utmost authority. The local police, fire department and emergency crews supplied John with a space or a desk at their headquarters and even outfitted him with police, medic and firefighter uniforms.

John enjoyed daily coffee breaks with his police officer buddies. He is shown at the Ramble Inn with Chad Fulkerson, center, and Tony Helfrich. This photo was taken by Associated Press when a news crew came to Churubusco from New York to write a story about John.
Used with permission of Associated Press

The year before John died, Sheriff Mike Schrader of the Whitley County Sheriff’s Department, in cooperation with the Churubusco Police Department, gave John a complete sheriff’s uniform — everything but a gun.

Once a week, an excited John would announce to his many coworkers and employers that he was going to be working as a “flatfoot” and would then name the specific day.

John takes notes at the scene of a crime. Many business people indulged John’s fantasies of being a police officer. In this case, staff members at Jones Insurance Agency staged a mock crime scene, including a taped outline of where the alleged murder victim was found.

On “flatfoot” days, John would proudly walk the streets of Churubusco in his new uniform, patrolling the streets and fighting crime at every corner.

His fascination with the police was instilled in him as a young boy, when he watched his father get dressed in his “blues” and go to work as a flatfoot or policeman.

In his heyday, when he rode his bicycle, John could imitate a perfect, very authentic-sounding siren. People, upon hearing it, would automatically pull to the edge of the road.

John startled more than one stranger who was passing through town. He would walk up to the offender’s car window and begin writing an imaginary ticket, all the while scolding the hapless motorist for being so careless and running a red light, or leaving the scene of an accident or whatever infraction John thought had been committed.

Once in a while John could be seen standing downtown, arguing with someone he had just ticketed for jaywalking or illegal parking.

The strangers always wore the same confused and exasperated expression while residents of Churubusco just smiled and sometimes reached out and patted John on the back, telling him, “good job.”

The local Methodist Church, where John attended and served as altar boy for many years, sometimes allowed John to preach between services.

He would climb the steps to the pulpit and deliver a rousing — if unintelligible — sermon punctuated with a clear “God” and “Jesus” here and there.

“John was passionate in his sermons,” said Christine Newman-Jacobs, UMC pastor. “And he was passionate in life. Everything he did, he did with love and passion.”

In 1978, Churubusco Police officer Clifford Smith began taking John with him and other officers to a local restaurant for an afternoon coffee break. The ritual continued for nearly 25 years.

Every year, on April 23, or John’s “big day” as he liked to call it, friends, family and members of the local and county police department would gather at the restaurant at precisely 2 p.m. and celebrate John’s birthday with cake and presents.  After John’s parents and brother died, he went to live with his sister, Phyllis, where he remained for many years.  Several years ago, when Phyllis died, the local newspaper office was flooded with calls from people wondering, “What will happen to Johnny?”

But Phyllis had voiced her dying wish to her son, Dan Ferguson; she asked him to take care of John.  Ferguson kept his bedside promise and John lived with Dan and his wife, also named Phyllis, on the east side of Churubusco, until his death.

John, age 2

Dan’s children — John’s great nieces and nephews — and their children, as well as his only remaining sibling, Bev Davis, were a constant source of pride to John. He always carried pictures of the newest baby in the family and would proudly show them to anyone he met on the street.

One picture that Associated Press featured showed John cuddling a great-great nephew with a look of pure adoration.  As he got older, his joints, especially his knees, grew weaker, although by most standards, John was in very good shape for a 68-year-old man who was not expected to live past 20.

It was hard to keep him from making his appointed rounds, even when he was ill. Dan and Phyllis, in an effort to keep John home in his sick bed while they went to work, would sometimes confiscate John’s shoes and take them to their place of employment.

That usually didn’t work, as Dan reported later. “John would just find an old pair of shoes or boots, even if they didn’t fit, and walk uptown anyway.”

The summer after his death was the first time in decades that John did not lead the annual Turtle Days parade, smiling and waving at the crowd while sitting in the front seat of a fire truck or a police squad car.

His funeral, held Sunday, Dec. 28, 2003, was something John — who never minded being the center of attention — would have approved of. Family members, friends, local businessmen and women, co-workers and representatives of the fire department, Medic 21 and local, county and state police departments lined the pews, filling the church to capacity.

A young John

After the eulogy — which featured gospel singing, one of John’s passions — friends and family members told “Johnny” stories, prompting both tears and laughter.

The funeral procession — a long motorcade led by over three dozen police, fire and medical vehicles — drew the attention of bystanders and motorists along the way. One group of employees in front of Brevin’s Restaurant stood silently, hats off and heads bowed in respect as the procession passed.  Thanks to the caring and loving hands of funeral home personnel — who were also one of John’s many employers —

Busco’s All Round Nice Guy reclined peacefully in his favorite suit, holding a wallet which

was open to show his official police and firefighter badges. Even in death, his face reflected a smile and his resolute love of life.

Nearby stood a large wreath which encircled a photo of the firefighters, officers and medics who had come to think of John as one of their own.

John spent a great deal of time on “paperwork” for his many professions, sometimes

working at home, sometimes working in one of his many offices in downtown Churubusco.  He would often spend hours laboriously printing his name beneath a handdrawn cross.

He would proudly show off his handiwork and declare, “John Krieger – flatfoot, preacher and man of God.” Those who knew him soon realized that John Krieger was not only a man of God, but a gift from God.

And now, Johnny’s home.

The Beast of Busco


Editor’s note: The following story, “The Beast of Busco,” was published in the Indianapolis Star March 13, 1949. It was written — along with many accompanying and follow-up articles — by Victor Peterson, a reporter who spent a lot of time in Busco that year, covering the story of Oscar, the giant turtle spotted in Fulk Lake. The story was picked up by Associated Press and went worldwide, with some U.S. soldiers stationed overseas reporting that they read about the giant turtle in newspapers in other countries.)

By Victor Peterson

I SAW the Beast of Busco … I think.

Snowflakes rode out a cold wind as Gale Harris shoved the rowboat out on the choppy water of Fulk’s Lake which covers seven acres of his farm.

We were looking for a monster turtle said to be too wide to get through a door, 500 years old and weighing 500 pounds. There’s a story a second about the old mossback. It has this community of 1,100 on its collective ear more than the day Aunt Mary Jackson won a contest for naming the town after the Battle of Churubusco in the Mexican War.

Spectators, some grim-faced, others joking, lined the shore as Mr. Harris and I scanned the bottom of the lake with his homemade telescope … a downspout with a glass in the bottom, a soldered handle and a piece of red inner tube for an eyepiece.

* * *     * * *1958 Turtle Days Festival parade

A LOG JUTTED above the surface. This was the spot where Mr. Harris last saw his monster. He plunged the viewer into the water.

“There he is! Drifted off. Circle around.” We did. Now it was my turn. I saw muddy water or muddy lake bottom. Then thee was a definite pattern of  dark squares.

“Drifted off,” I said. “Circle around.” We did. I saw the pattern again and described it.

“That’s him,” Mr. Harris said stoutly. “Now you’ve seen the Beast of Churubusco.”

The mud road to the Harris farm is rutting rapidly from automobiles. He has appealed to Police Chief Perry Green for state police aid in directing traffic.

“Cars are stacking up a mile from the house. I can’t get out of the barnyard.” Mr. Harris moaned. The chief moaned too, and cupped his hands to his ears. He swore he’s going to stop answering the telephone.

* * *     * * *

“I DON’T want this fuss. I got farming to do,” Mr. Harris said. Then he went to see how construction is coming along on a new monster trap. It will be jawed like a steam shovel scoop to drop over and nsap up the snapper.

“We’ll have to winch him in,” said Lee Fowles, who testifies he saw the giant of the deep while fishing last summer. that was just about the time Mr. Harris pursued the Beast in a rowboat, snatched his tail and tried to flip him aboard. The turtle swam away with Mr. Harris in tow without his boat.

“Had to let go,” he said. “You know, the moss on his back is at least two inches thick. Can’t figure out how the story got around that some fellow’s name is carved there. Supposed to be a Richard Cavalier de LaSalle. In French too,” he said.

“And this business about this turtle eating cattle down around the lake. Nothing to it. Whoever heard of a turtle eating a cow?”

* * *     * * *

THE BEAST of Churubusco has been around for a long time. Oscar Fulk saw it a half century ago, but nobody got excited. More than a year ago it was seen by Charles Wilson, brother-in-law of Mr. Harris. He got excited. In time Mr. Harris got to seeing it. So did a lot of other people. I saw it too. I think.

And the walls, came tumbling down … tumbling, tumbling … down

Here’s one prom night some Churubusco teens will never forget.

My sister, Margaret, and her husband, Greg, created more than a few Saturday when they were entering a gaggle of teens, serving them dinner and taking pictures prior to The Big Event – the Churubusco Junior-Senior Prom. Little did they know they were about to give the kids a prom night they would never forget.

After dinner, they took the teens outside to pose on the balcony.

Here’s one of the photos of the first group of the younger kids – freshmen and sophomores:

The younger group pose on the deck in all their finery, not realizing it was a good thing to be young and first in line.

Here’s the progression of the second group and their photos — there were not many, as this happened almost immediately after they posed for the photo:

The second, older group right before after the Big Crack and just before the Big Crash. The expressions … priceless.
Greg cleans up the aftermath after first checking the details of his homeowner’s policy.

Luckily, no one was seriously hurt and they marched on to the prom. One guy had a rip in his tux, another had a cut, another was scraped up and there were multiple contusions.

All I’ve got to say is it’s pretty hard to walk in those skyscraper heels, but those lovely ladies fell and were covered in debris and still managed to land on their feet without breaking an ankle. And they still looked amazing! They all dusted themselves off and looked good as new  – not one hair out of place.

Should have used some of that hair spray to seal the deck.

Dad throws the net over 14-year-old

by Viv Sade

Fishnet hose is making a comeback.

My father is turning over in his grave.

The two thoughts are synonymous.

I’ll never forget how I learned, as a child, that black, fishnet hosiery is derived from a Latin term: fuho netest, meaning: “SLEAZY.”

That message was not so subliminally ingrained in me as a young, impressionable adolescent girl during a time when studies showed that the average teenage girl’s brain was composed of Silly Putty, Hula-Hoops and Nehi grape soda.

When I was 14, a Greyhound bus service offered a route from my hometown of Churubusco to Fort Wayne, about 15 miles.  Along with my neighbor and best friend, Roberta – nicknamed Bert –  we would catch the Saturday bus in front of Barnhart’s Drug Store and Soda Fountain for about 50 cents – round trip – and travel to the big city.

We saved our weekly quarter allowance until we had a pile, hopped the bus and spent the afternoon wolfing down donuts and cherry sodas at Murphy’s 5 & 10 in downtown Fort Wayne. We also visited Stillman’s Department Store, a spectacular high rise – maybe five stories in all.

It was the glam world of the 60’s – women in pillbox hats and meticulous white gloves, gray-haired ladies who smelled of musty roses and snooty saleswomen wearing strands of pearls who worked all day selling meaningless attire – I mean, for god’s sake, there was an entire floor of gloves and nylons!

The clerks seemed oblivious to the fact that the world was changing around them – young boys were dying in some war in a jungle far away; women were marching for equal pay and in the South, people were being discriminated against and some were even being murdered in their quest for equality.

But there, on the top floor of Stillman’s – Hosiery & Gloves – life stood still.

I had saved my quarters until I had enough to make the ultimate of all acquisitions for a 14-year-old in 1966 – some groovy, black fishnet hose.

I told no one but Bert. Somehow, although we’d never discussed the complex, immoral implications of fishnet stockings, I instinctively knew my parents would not approve.

Besides, I wasn’t allowed to wear hosiery at all – fishnet or otherwise. That was in 1966BP (before pantyhose), and one year away from the fabulous fashion arrival of tights, so back then wearing nylons required as many mechanisms as a Rube Goldberg competition. There were complicated snap garters, Barbie-size rubber girdles, roll-up garters (which never failed to roll down at the most inopportune times) and garter belts.

Garter belt – well, it just sounded dirty.

Still does.

Bert and I wore white anklets or knee-high socks. She was a good, Catholic girl. I was not. I was a half-assed Protestant, at best.

All I really knew was that once I possessed those black fishnet nylons – worn by all the chic, Twiggy-thin models in the fashion magazines – I would rise to the highest junior high level of popularity attainable anywhere in the Entire Universe of Churubusco.

My skin would clear up. Boys would want to hold my hand as we rode the Ferris wheel together at the annual Turtle Days Festival. The neighborhood bully would quit pulling my ponytail and spitting on my little brother. I would suddenly grow a bosom … or two? I would be invited to all the cool cats’ parties. The lunch lady would quit throwing potatoes au gratin at me while cursing, “$#%*&@ hold yer tray up!” Micky Dolenz of the Monkees would show up on my doorstep and we’d run off into the sunset singing, “Hey, Hey, We’re the Monkees…” I would be able to flawlessly perform The Twist, The Shake, The Mashed Potato, too.

Any old dance that I wanted to.

Life would be oh, so good. But first – I just had to get a pair of those black fishnet nylons.

One Saturday I donned my new mod, psychedelic, empire waist dress and traveled with Bert to downtown Fort Wayne. At Stillman’s, I emptied my accumulation of allowance monies onto the counter. The silver-haired saleslady smiled as she told me the fishnet hosiery was on sale and I had enough money for TWO pairs. Sweet bliss.

On the way home, sitting on the bus with our finery, Bert and I oohed and ahhed over the silky black stockings with the criss-crossed threads. I told her I planned to wear them to school on Monday.

We looked at each other meaningfully. That would be no easy task. But fortunately, I excelled in parental deception techniques.

Every morning a group of girls, who like me, were forbidden to wear nylons or miniskirts or makeup – would enter the “Girls” restroom, where we would change from our juvenile cotton socks into glamorous silk stockings with lace garters. We would roll up our knee-length skirts at the waist until they hung mid-thigh, but covered the top of the garters, which took strategic planning and an eye for detail. Some would carefully apply contraband mascara, eye shadow and Pretty in Pink lipstick, as well.

We went to school as pig-tailed Pollyannas and emerged from that restroom looking like eighth grade Ladies of the Night.

That same evening, after our trip to Fort Wayne, I decided to sneak out in my new hosiery and go to the high school basketball game. The school was only a block away and my parents would never notice.

But I forgot about The Family. I could not even floss without elbowing a sibling.

As I prepared to slide out the back door, one of my brothers yelled, “Ugh! … Why are your legs all crackly?” This caused numerous other young siblings to run in the back hallway and stare at my legs. “Ooohhh!” “Did spiders hatch on your legs?” “Are your legs rotten?” “Will you die?”

Mom and Dad entered the back hallway. My dad was frowning. Really frowning.

Okay – he flipped his wig, went ape, had a cow.

He ordered me to remove the hosiery at once. He demanded I give him both pairs and then marched out to the backyard burn barrel and set fire to my brand new purchase – all the while muttering something about “cheap, … bawdy … trash … not my daughter …”

Mom and I stared at each other – speechless. I had done some stupidvery stupid – things and would continue to do even more stupid things in the years to come, but we never again saw my dad lose his temper like he did that day.

Years later, I would wonder: Did he have a mean aunt who beat him with fishnets? Was it a painful memory of a sadistic saloon girl in Korea? Some morally ambivalent trollop from the bayous of Arkansas?

We would never know.

All I knew was that I would never wear fishnet nylons again.

On a good note, I did finally learn to do The Twist, The Shake, The Mashed Potato, too – but it was done in a pair of very uncool white cotton socks.