If You Start At the End

Across the Fence #267

Happy New Year everyone! Here we are at the end of another year and the beginning a new one. Each year as I open the door on a new year, I wonder what adventures await me on the other side of that door. If we could start at the end of the year and look back, there wouldn’t be any mystery associated with it. We’d already know the story. We aren’t able to foresee the future, but we can glance in the rearview mirror once in a while.

We do a lot of looking back as we visit here, across the fence, each week. It’s important that we live in the present, but it doesn’t hurt to look back and remember where we came from and where we’ve been.

I recently received a book in the mail from Frank E. Studnicka, who lives in Lancaster. He reads my column in the Boscobel Dial. The book he sent is titled Happenings In the Hollow that he wrote about his life, growing up on a farm near Blue River, Wisconsin in the 1930’s and 40’s.

Frank says, “Another reason for penning these words is nostalgia for a way of life that once was. It’s not likely any of us would like to go back to that way of life; modern technology has spoiled us. But I believe that people as a whole were happier then and life was so much simpler. What every person wants out of life is happiness, but in their pursuit of happiness they lose sight of what happiness really is. I do not have a definition for it but I know my young life was a happy one and I have few regrets as I look back.”

I feel the same way that Frank does. There is nostalgia for the way life was when we were growing up. I hear that all the time from the readers of this column. It did seem to be a much simpler time, but maybe it just seemed that way because I was young and had a lot fewer responsibilities. I think he’s right. Technology has spoiled us and I doubt if very many people would want to go back in time and live without the many things we’ve become accustomed to.

Let me cite just a few examples of why it’s good to live in the present and not in the past.

Lets start with water. We take water for granted. In those days that many of us remember, water had to be pumped from a well and in many cases, carried to the house in a bucket. Hot water was obtained by heating it on a stove. You didn’t just step in a shower and turn the hot water on. You didn’t go to the bathroom and flush a toilet. We didn’t have indoor plumbing until I was a sophomore in high school. We used an outhouse. All cooking and washing of dishes was more difficult because you had to heat the water first. Washing clothes was a major task using a wringer washer. Nobody carried around a personal plastic bottle of store-bought water to drink. We drank well water. We shared the same cup. We all drank out of the same glass water jar when we worked in the fields. I don’t remember any of us getting sick because of those drinking practices. How many of you want to give up the way we use water today and go back to those days?

Lets talk about communication. Many of you remember when we listened to the radio because there was no such thing as television. Then television came along and we were thrilled with one black and white channel on our one TV set, even if the reception was horrible much of the time. How long has it been since you had to adjust your horizontal or vertical hold? Remember when you got a second channel, you had to get up and change the channel on the TV? No remote controls in those days. Now we have color TV and most of us have over 100 channels that are clear the majority of the time. There’s even high definition TV. If the picture isn’t perfect all the time we complain. Many homes have multiple TV’s. Maybe we all need to go back to having one TV with one black and white, snowy channel, without a remote, for just one week. I think everyone would better appreciate what we now have. Sometimes it’s good to look back.

Then there’s the telephone. At one time we were lucky to have a crank phone on the wall. Now everyone seems to have one attached to their hip or in their ear. We have voice mail, call waiting, and answering machines, so we don’t miss any calls. But we also use those devices so we don’t have to answer those calls. How many of you could go back to not having your cell phone handy?

Now we have computers, e-mail, and every other type of instant communication device. How many of you could go back to doing without them?

What other changes will we see and experience? What new adventures await us in the New Year? We’ll soon know. It’s important that we live in the present, but it’s good to look back once in a while, to better appreciate what we have now.

Memories of Christmas Eve - 1966

Across the Fence #266 (Extra)

As this Christmas approaches, I’d like us all to take a moment and remember all those servicemen and women who won’t be home for Christmas this year. Many will be spending it in a war zone in Iraq and Afghanistan, just as I spent Christmas in Vietnam in 1966. Five years ago I ran this column. A couple weeks later I received a call from a woman. She said she had read my column and had finally gotten up the nerve to call me. She told me that her brother had been killed in Vietnam on Christmas Eve in 1966. She said this story had finally given her some peace in thinking that maybe her brother had shared some of the same thoughts on that Christmas Eve before he was killed. She hoped he had also experienced the peacefulness that I had felt. Talking with her made me aware, once again, of how lucky I am to still be here. We need to appreciate each and every day we have. I’d like to share these thoughts with you that I wrote back in 1966, so many years ago.

25 December 1966 (Christmas)

Merry Christmas to me. I imagine it’s Christmas Eve about this time back home. I wish I was there with them. We just finished Christmas dinner.

Sidney just left on patrol. I returned from an ambush patrol before dinner. It will be one Christmas Eve that I’ll never forget. It was a quiet night with no contact. I sure had a lot of thoughts as I sat out there in the boonies after it got dark. It was a beautiful, starlit night. The song “Silent Night” kept going through my mind. I thought of my family and how things always looked at Christmas back home. The tree all decorated and lit up with the bubble lights, the angel that has been on top of our tree for as long as I can remember, snow, and the decorated stores and streets in town.

I remembered the Christmas programs we put on back at Smith, our one-room country school. It seemed like we practiced for weeks. Then the big night finally arrived and all the parents, grandparents, and neighbors crowded into the little school to watch us perform. It was one of the most memorable times of the year. It was also real scary to stand up in front of all those people and try to remember what to say. I think the audience got a bigger kick out of our goof-ups, than when we remembered our lines. They couldn’t see our poor teacher cringing behind the curtain that was strung on a wire across the front of the schoolroom. I bet even she had a good laugh about our performances once the program was over!

Santa would show up at the end of the program and hand out candy and apples. I have some great memories from those old Christmas programs.

I also remembered how we always fed the cows extra feed and hay on Christmas Eve. It was their special night because the baby Jesus had been born in a manger with all the animals looking on. It was such an exciting, special night. On the radio we’d hear reports of Santa’s progress as people spotted his sleigh and reindeer heading our way. We always left some milk and cookies for Santa. He even liked lefse! Santa ate everything we left for him and even took the carrots we left for his reindeer!

A person sure has a lot of thoughts sometimes. I know next year on Christmas Eve I’ll be thinking of how I spent this one. I may have been out on a jungle ambush patrol, but sitting out there with everything perfectly quiet, it all seemed so peaceful, as I remembered and thought of what Christmas is. For a while there was peace on earth in the middle of a war. “Silent Night, Holy Night,” kept going through my mind. The sky was so clear and the stars were so bright I felt like I could reach up and touch them. There were millions of stars. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many stars at one time. I looked to see if one stood out much brighter than all the rest, but couldn’t find one. I used to love looking at the stars back on the farm, but over here it seems like you can see so many more. There are no lights of any kind to interfere with being able to see them. Everything is black around you and the only lights are the stars above. The universe seems so vast; it really makes a person feel small.

Since I’ve been here and experienced war, I’ve questioned the existence of a God. Sitting out there on Christmas Eve I felt like I was peering into the face of God as I looked at the millions of stars and galaxies. I don’t know what God is, where he is, or why he lets this killing go on, but last night I felt a peacefulness that I’ve never experienced before.

It seemed so strange. There I sat with a rifle in hand, along with five other guys, waiting to kill people, while the words “Peace on earth, goodwill toward men,” went through my mind. It’s no wonder my thinking and beliefs are so screwed up and confused anymore.

I wish I was home for Christmas. We all wish we could be. I’ll just have to celebrate Christmas in my mind, with memories of how it used to be.

One more thing, I finally received the package of Ma’s chocolate chip cookies! It was the best Christmas present I could have received! After weeks in transit, they were still edible. I shared them with my friends and they’re already gone. Cookies don’t last long around here. I’ve got to write Ma and tell her thanks. That’s about all on this Christmas day, 1966.

May this Christmas, 2009, bring you happiness and joy, and may the world one day experience “Peace on earth, goodwill toward men.”

An Old-Fashioned Blizzard

Across the Fence #266

Uff da! We really got dumped on. This has been one of those old-fashioned blizzards. An old farmer once told me, “Big snow, little snow. Little Snow, big snow.” He was right again. The snow started on Tuesday afternoon. “Little” flakes, almost like sleet. Sure enough, it ended up being a very “Big” snow. It came down for at least 24 hours, accompanied by 40+ mile-an-hour winds that created blowing and drifting snow, not to mention whiteout conditions. We had all the ingredients for an old-fashioned blizzard. Not the mother of all blizzards that many of you remember from 1959, but this gave us a good taste of one.

Luckily I put new tires on my Cavalier last week. I needed them today. And... I bought a snow blower the day before it began. It did pain me to do it, especially in the pocketbook, but thank heavens I did. We had three-foot drifts through most of our 75-foot driveway. The snow blower had its hands full, but I was able to sort of clear it early this morning. It drifted back in about as fast as I made a path. No matter which direction I blew the snow, it came back in my face. I must have looked like an overdressed snowman by the time I finished. Luckily, a neighbor came with his skid steer and pushed the snow way back from the driveway. It only took a few minutes. Who needs a snow blower if you have a skid steer?

The phone company is like the post office, no matter what the weather, we’ll be there, so I headed to work. I managed to buck the drifts on Sherpe Road with my “Silver Bullet” Cavalier with four new tires and didn’t get stuck. We did shut the place down an hour early so everyone could get home before it got dark.

At least the plow had gone through Sherpe Road, but I had to clear the driveway again. The drifts were just as big as they had been in the morning. That’s too much stress on a new blower and an old operator.

As I finished clearing my driveway, I thought of what my brother, David, had written me on a recent, foggy, case weather day. He said, “On my drive into work this morning, I couldn’t help thinking about taking down tobacco. I remember Pearly Stenslien helping us at his shed one year. When we took down the last lath he said, ‘If we had started with that one first, we’d have been done a long time ago.’” I wonder if that reasoning could apply to clearing our driveway too.

It’s really gotten cold too. I think I’ve had enough snow now and I’m ready for spring!! Enough with the song, “Let It Snow.” I should never have mentioned it last week. It’s really blowing up here on the prairie. Imagine tomorrow morning we’ll have to go through the whole process again. Now that we have snow, it’s going to be so cold for the next week that it’s dangerous to stay outside very long. So much for the wooly caterpillar predicting the winter weather and being right 70% of the time. This was supposed to be a mild winter, according to the length of their black “wool.”

I’ve often wondered about the sanity of our ancestors. They had this whole country to choose from when they came from Norway and they decided to settle in the frozen tundra. Uff da, we Norskies could be sitting in the sun on our porch down south, watching those poor devils “Up Nort,” suffering through a cold and snowy winter. But, here we are.

I guess I shouldn’t complain. The way it looks now, we’ll have a white Christmas. When you’re used to having snow at Christmas, it wouldn’t be the same with brown grass and warm weather. Santa needs some snow for his sleigh and reindeer to land on.

When I think back to when I was young and Santa was very real, I never questioned how a chubby guy in a red, furry suit, could get into our house with his bag of presents. We didn’t have a fireplace, just a stovepipe that attached to a hot kitchen stove and a hole in the chimney. If Santa slid down our chimney he would have to squeeze through that stovepipe, and then exit into a blazing, hot fire, and somehow kick open the door of the kitchen stove and crawl out. I knew it would take some real magic to accomplish such a feat. There was a flue you could open in the side of the stovepipe. Maybe he squeezed through that little opening. For a kid who liked to question everything, it’s surprising that I accepted Santa performing such magical feats. When I finally asked my mother, she said he came in through a door or window if people didn’t have a fireplace. That made sense to me.

I don’t recall that we ever had an old-fashioned blizzard on Christmas Eve, but I’m positive Santa would have found us with the help of Rudolph. I still associate that song with Gene Autry who recorded it in 1949, when I was five years old.

We all have lots of memories associated with blizzards, songs, and Christmas. May you have a wonderful Christmas and create many new memories.

Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow!

Across the Fence #265

Oh the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful, and since we’ve no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow! Lyricist Sammy Cahn and composer Jule Styne created that wonderful Christmas song in 1945, when I was one year old. I was singing along with it last week in the car, as winter finally arrived after staying away through November. We usually have several inches of the white stuff on the ground by the time December arrives.

As usually happens with the first snowfall, people have forgotten how to drive on slippery, snow-covered roads. A car lost control ahead of me as I was approaching Sherpe Road, and slid into the ditch. If it had slid across the road, we’d probably have hit head on. It’s hard going from green grass and dry roads one minute, to snow-covered, slippery roads the next.

It snowed just enough to make driving and walking treacherous, but not enough to ski, sled, or snowshoe on. That could easily change by the time you read this. They’re predicting up to a foot of snow with high winds and blizzard conditions for tonight. I have two choices, I can complain about the weather as being a major Uff da, or I can sit back and sing along with the song, “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.” We live in the upper Midwest and it’s winter. That usually means snow and cold weather. I like the Norwegian philosophy, “There’s no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes.”

We have to face the fact that snow and cold weather have arrived. It’s time to get out the long underwear, snow boots, heavy winter jackets, sweaters, scarves, stocking caps, earmuffs, and extra pairs of gloves and socks. Then if you can still move, you can venture outside and enjoy the new snow. Just don’t slip and fall down. With all those clothes on, you won’t get hurt, but you’ll be like Ralphie’s little brother, Randy, in “A Christmas Story” and you won’t be able to get back up.

I plan to try something new this winter. I’ve always wanted to snowshoe, so this year I bought a pair, when they were on sale of course. I love to cross country ski through woods and other quiet areas, but there are always places you can’t get with skis or there’s just too much snow. I figure you’re never too old to try something new. I suspect it will be quite a workout, but should give me access to some beautiful winter scenes.

I like venturing into areas where no one else has been. I call it “virgin snow,” when no human tracks or trails are found. I like looking for animal tracks in such areas and following them. You never know where they’ll lead or what you’ll find. Maybe I’ll even find some deer trails. I haven’t seen a deer around here for a long time. I personally think last year’s “earn a buck” hunting season depleted the doe population. That’s one less fawn for every doe killed. I’ll look for deer tracks and let you know what I find.

By the way, did you hear the report that Santa will have 18 reindeer pulling his sleigh this year? Opps, disregard what I said. I just found out that report came from the DNR. Hopefully Santa will still be able to find eight reindeer.

As long as we’re talking about tracks in the snow, how many of you remember playing Fox and Geese? At Smith School, we’d tromp down the snow to make a large circle. Then we made intersecting trails through the center of the circle. One person was the fox and everyone else was a goose. The fox started in the center where the trails crossed. This was the safe zone or hen house. The geese were on the outer circle. The fox would then chase the geese. They had to make it to the center hen house without being caught by the fox or going out of the trails. I think the last goose tagged became the fox. However, the rules are pretty fuzzy in my mind and we probably made many of them up as we went along.

I do know that we did a lot of running around the circle and other trails, but don’t remember much else. It was great exercise in the winter.

Making snow angels in new-fallen snow was another winter activity at school. I think it was mostly a girl thing. After all, they were the angels! The guys were busy behind the outhouse writing yellow messages in the new snow! I don’t think that qualifies us for angel wings. That’s all I’ll say about that.

As you can see, there are a variety of things you can do in the snow to make winters more bearable and enjoyable.

Whenever I think of snow and Christmas, I think of another song, “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas,” sung by Bing Crosby. It’s a classic and part of the Christmas season for me.

Now granted, I know I’ll be singing completely different tunes by the end of March, but for the moment, “Let it snow, let it snow let it snow!”

Two Years and Many Changes

Across the Fence #264

It's now two years since the contractor started putting our house together on the foundation in the back forty of the farm I grew up on. So many things have changed in that time. Two years ago I was living at the Old Towne Motel south of Westby. It was my home for five months during our transition from Madison to Westby. It was very comfortable, complete with two recliners, bookcases, a table, television, phone, morning coffee and rolls, plus I could use their microwave and refrigerator. I thank Carroll and Pat Olson again for letting me stay in the “Sherpe Suite.” I told Linda, it was so comfortable, we should forget about building a house and live at the motel. It would be a lot cheaper. Even though she liked the Sherpe Suite, she thought the fresh country air had warped my brain. We didn’t cancel the construction!

In February 2008, I finally moved into our completed house and Linda moved from our Madison house to Westby. Let me say to everyone, if you don’t need to sell a house in this down economy, stay where you are. Luckily we finally sold our Madison house after about ten months on the market and feel very fortunate that we got rid of it, even if we took a beating.

We managed to survive the bitter cold weather and record snows of that first winter. There was a huge snowstorm the day before we moved, and a storm the day after, but luckily, the snow held off on the day we moved. After the long winter, it was nice to see spring finally arrive.

Spring brought mud around our new house and plenty of weeds. It also brought more torrential rain and floods. Again we were lucky. All the water problems we experienced during the building process had been a blessing in disguise. As a result, many things were implemented to avoid future water problems. When everyone else was experiencing water troubles during the June, 2008 flood, our basement was dry as a bone.

After three attempts to get grass seeded before another rain, we finally succeeded. It grew so good, I had to break down and buy a riding lawnmower… a John Deere of course.

I was ready for that first winter in our house on the prairie where the winds blow strong and create deep drifts in our driveway. I had purchased an old, used snow blower at a neighbor’s auction. Back in Madison, I always used a shovel and never owned a snow blower. But then our driveway was much shorter too. I had volunteered to buy matching shovels for Linda and me, but that suggestion didn’t go over as good as I had hoped!

You get what you pay for. That pre-owned (let’s tell it like it is, that old snow blower was not just pre-owned, it was prehistoric) and was mighty short on blowing power. It broke down twice last winter and I’m beginning to think a shovel works just as good with fewer problems. But then I’m not as young as I used to be. I still get back problems from when I broke my tailbone years ago.

As frugal as I try to be, I may have to break down and buy a new snow blower this year. Uff da, it pains me just to write those words. So far, I’m still holding out for matching shovels. Here we are at the end of November, as I write this, and the grass is still green. Maybe I won’t need those shovels this winter!

After two years I finally got around to unpacking all our boxes and stuff in the basement. When I started unpacking, I found things back that I’d been looking for and thought I’d probably thrown in the garbage or given to Good Will. Anyone who’s cleaned out and packed up a house after thirty-plus years will understand how things can become misplaced. At first I was sorting, packing, and labeling every box with great care. As time went on, I was throwing stuff left and right, and what we kept was stuffed into any box where it would fit. Why we kept half the stuff we had is beyond my comprehension. At the time you never know when you might need that used nail, that old, torn, pair of jeans that’s three sizes too small, and countless knick-knacks and stuff that hadn’t seen the light of day for twenty-plus years. Now as I went about unpacking the boxes in the basement, I wondered why we kept half the stuff we moved?!

One thing I haven’t second-guessed is my decision to accept the Marketing Manager job at Vernon Telephone Cooperative in Westby, and moving after forty years in the advertising business in Madison. Many friends thought I was crazy to make those changes at my age, when most of them were retiring or already retired. Maybe I am crazy, but then I’ve always been accused of taking the road less traveled. Linda loves it here too, has many new friends, and says she has the best of both worlds.

We now have beautiful sunrises and sunsets, deer roaming through our back yard, clouds, and the night sky filled with billions of stars. The road less traveled may be filled with many changes, but the trip is great.

Priming the Pump

Across the Fence #263

I think my age is showing, or as I prefer to say, “I’m youthfully challenged.” It all began when I looked in the box we have on our front counter at work to collect donations for Bethel Butikk to help feed the many people in need around our area. After several days, I was surprised to find nothing had been dropped in the box. I made the comment, “I think I need to prime the pump.” The two young ladies at the front desk had puzzled looks on their faces. I could tell they didn’t have a clue what I meant. It was very apparent that we were part of vastly different generations.

I explained that in order to get water from the old, hand water pumps, you first needed to prime the pump by pouring some water in it as you quickly pumped the handle up and down. In other words, it took water to get water. If I wanted people to drop some dollars in the box, I needed to stick some dollar bills in it first. Maybe then, the dollars would start to flow.

Priming the pump applies to a lot of life’s situations, not just getting water from an antique pump. Zig Zigler tells a story about “Priming the Pump.” He said, “You can achieve anything you want in life, if you’re willing to first help enough other people get what they want. He says you need to “Prime the pump for success!”

After being introduced, Zigler would come on stage lugging a large, old-fashioned, chrome-plated water pump. It would catch everyone off guard. He would quickly share the reason for his unique prop. He felt the water pump conveyed the story of life at its simplest. He would then demonstrate that before you can get water, you first have to prime the pump.

He said that if you want to get anything out of life, your marriage, your job, etc., you have to put something in first. Too many people tend to say, “If you give me a raise today, I’ll perform much better starting tomorrow.” Zigler gave the example of someone saying, “Stove, if you give me some heat, I’ll put some wood in you as soon as I get warm.” It’s not going to happen.

Now back to that pump. Once you’ve primed the pump, you have to begin pumping vigorously to get the pressure and suction built up to bring the water all the way up the long pipe. If you happen to get tired and stop pumping, the water falls back down into the cistern, and you have to start all over again.

Zigler points out that you have to persist in whatever you do in life. When you start a new job or take on a new challenge, you have to pump with enthusiasm, even if you don’t see the results you’d like to see in the short run.

I’ve learned over the years that you need to keep trying and not give up in order to accomplish anything. Once the water starts flowing, you need to keep pumping to keep it flowing.

There was a pump on top of our cistern. We attached a long pipe to it that was used to fill the tobacco planter barrel and portable water tanks. We’d keep a jar of water nearby to pour down the pump to prime it. As you quickly pumped the handle there would be no resistance. We kept pouring water in and soon you could feel resistance and knew that water was finally on its way up the pipe. Before you quit pumping it was wise to fill the jar or a pail to use next time you needed water.

There’s a story about a traveler who hiked for many miles across a desolate area. His water supply had run out, and he knew that if he didn’t find water soon, he’d become dehydrated and die before anyone found him. In the distance, he finally noticed an abandoned cabin and hoped to find some water there. Once he made it to the cabin, he discovered an old well. He noticed an old, tin can tied to the pump, with a note inside.

The note said: “Dear stranger: This water pump is in working condition, but the pump needs to be primed in order for the water to come out. Under the white rock next to the pump, I buried a jar of water, out of the sun. There’s enough water in the jar to prime the pump, but not if you drink any first. When you’re finished, please fill the jar and put it back as you found it, for the next stranger in need of water who comes this way.”

One thing I haven’t mentioned is how miserable it was to prime the pump on a cold, winter day. And no, I never stuck my tongue on the pump handle!

That’s a short lesson in how to prime a pump, and what it means. We need to remember that most of today’s younger generation has no idea how an old-fashioned water pump works because they’ve never seen one in action. It’s our job, as the “youthfully challenged” generation, to bridge the gap and let the younger generations know there’s a valuable life lesson to be learned from the simple action of priming a pump.

Thanks for Visiting With Me

Across the Fence #262

This begins the sixth year of Across the Fence. It seems like only yesterday when Dick Brockman, publisher of the Linn News-Letter in Central City, Iowa, asked if I’d ever thought about writing a weekly column. I said I’d do it, and here we are, five years and over 260 columns later. It’s been quite a journey.

Once again, it occurs during the week of Thanksgiving. That’s quite appropriate, because I’m very thankful for the opportunity to write this column and visit across the fence with you each week.

I added up the number of subscribers in the papers where these stories run and it totaled up to 56,173. If there’s an average of two readers per household, that’s over 100,000 potential readers. I’ll be the first to admit, not everyone who subscribes to a paper reads my column. As the old saying goes, “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.”

For those of you who do visit with me across the fence each week, thank you. Mange tusen takk! I also appreciate your feedback on stories and providing me with new ideas for stories.

This week of Thanksgiving also begins the holiday season. After the last remnants of the turkey are consumed, it’s you and I who are stuffed, not the turkey. I always say I’m not going to make a pig of myself, but then I see all that good food and that’s the end of my good intentions. It’s like the old seafood diet. I see food and eat it. I can already tell you that my New Year’s resolution will be to lose 25 pounds. Every time I carry a 25-pound salt block down the stairs to the water softener, I realize that’s how much extra weight I’m packing around every day. That’s a lot of extra stress on my knees.

It’s a good thing I don’t have to climb up in tobacco sheds any more. It seems like case weather always showed up around Thanksgiving. When it did, even deer hunting was put on hold while we took down tobacco. I liked climbing around in the tobacco sheds when I was young. There was a sense of adventure and daring about it. We were lucky that none of us ever fell while hanging tobacco or taking it down. I’ve had poles break or roll, but was always able to grab a pole to keep from falling to the ground.

Now that tobacco is no longer raised around here, it won’t be long before no one will know what we’re talking about when we refer to “case weather. Even the terms “hanging tobacco” and “stripping tobacco” will become obsolete.” I know one thing; it was much easier taking tobacco down than hanging it. I still like to tell people that I used to be a stripper and then watch their expressions.

Recently we drove by a tobacco shed that was being torn down. The siding had been removed and only the framework and poles remained. It stood like a skeleton of a once useful, essential building that was found on many farms. Now it had been reduced to a reminder of a time when tobacco was the major cash crop on those farms. I stopped and took some photos of the framework. The timber frame and poles were weathered and well worn. I could almost hear the ghosts of the men who had once climbed around in that shed. I could see and smell the bents filled with curing tobacco. I imagined a farmer standing where I now stood, feeling thankful that another crop was ready to be taken down and stripped. It meant that mortgages could be met and taxes paid.

A few days later I drove by the spot again. All traces of the tobacco shed were gone and dirt now covered the area. Before long, even the ghosts of farmers past, would have a hard time finding where the shed once stood. Time marches on, years and holidays come and go. Each year, Thanksgiving, with turkey and all the trimmings, finds me remembering those case weather days and all the sights and smells associated with taking down tobacco.

Then, while the Thanksgiving meal is still digesting, Black Friday arrives. Thousands of shoppers invade the stores like a hoard of locusts devouring a field of grain. I can guarantee you one thing; I won’t be among those shoppers. Not because I’m so full of turkey that I can’t move, but I’m not much of a shopper and I hate crowds. My idea of shopping is to quickly find what I’m looking for, pay for it, and get out. These days you can buy a lot of things on-line and never have to enter a store. That’s my kind of shopping.

Among all the shopping, food, football games, deer hunting, and no tobacco to take down, it’s easy to forget the real reason for Thanksgiving. It’s a time to be thankful for all we have, especially our family and friends. Thanksgiving is sharing and not forgetting to help those who have fallen on hard times, or may be spending the day alone. It’s reaching out, across the fence, and letting people know how much you appreciate them. Mange takk for visiting with me each week. I’ll see you again next week.

Outhouse Adventures

Across the Fence #261

I said a few weeks ago, that the outhouse deserved its own story. Unless you’re Amish, only those of you with a few years under your belt can appreciate the importance of the outhouse. Or more importantly, we can appreciate the invention of indoor plumbing.

I can’t imagine anyone not being familiar with the term “outhouse” or “two-holer,” but just in case, I’ll offer a brief description for the uninformed. An outhouse was a small, wooden structure, containing a wooden seat with two holes cut in it, and positioned over a pit dug in the ground. The building served as a toilet and was set away from the main house. This toilet had no soft toilet paper, did not flush, and was not attached to a sewer. It was hot and infested with flies and spiders in the summer, and was beastly cold in the winter.

Who can forget a trip to the two-holer in the dead of winter when it was ten below zero and the wind was howling. On the positive side, at least we didn’t know about wind chill temperatures back then, or we’d really have thought it was cold. The door on our outhouse didn’t fit very tight and a stiff wind would blow snow through the cracks and deposit it on the seats. You get the picture. You’ve probably been there and experienced that type of adventure. I can tell you one thing; we didn’t take a paper or magazine along to read while we were doing our business in the winter!

Speaking of reading, my old army buddy, Big Lee, who now lives in California, calls my books the outhouse books. He said he takes one with to the bathroom. They’re just the right length to read one story while doing his duties. I told him I should call my next book “The Outhouse Book,” and dedicate it to him.

That also reminds me, when we arrived in Vietnam, we went ashore at Qui Nhon and were taken to a nearby airfield. While waiting on the airstrip to be flown into the Central Highlands, we needed to take a bathroom break. The “latrine” was a long, wooden building. The inside was just like a two holer, except this one had to be at least a twenty-holer. Several of us went in and sat down on a hole. We were tending to business when a Vietnamese woman entered and sat down on an open hole next to me. We all glanced at her and at each other. Were we in the wrong outhouse? The young woman completed her duties, got up, smiled at us, and left. We all busted out laughing. What kind of country and culture had we arrived in? The army had neglected to inform us about such things. That’s one outhouse that even a strong guy like Big Lee couldn’t have tipped over.

Outhouses and the tipping of them, go hand in hand with Halloween. I suspect many of you could regale me with stories of your exploits. I recently heard about one man who was tired of having his outhouse tipped over every Halloween. One year he decided to sit inside and wait for the pranksters to come along. When he heard them outside, he threw open the door and fired his shotgun into the air. The outhouse tippers scattered in every direction and disappeared into the night. I don’t imagine they tried tipping any more outhouses that year.

Another man who wanted to remain anonymous, for obvious reasons, told about being along on a tipping party in his youth. It was a rainy Halloween night and when they tipped the outhouse, he slipped in the mud, lost his balance, and ended up in the pit! That was his last outhouse-tipping adventure.

One thing I had never thought about was the proximity of lilac bushes to an outhouse. A man brought this to my attention during my book signing at Black River Falls. When I started asking other people about this, several of them remembered lilacs bushes or even hedges of them nearby. We also had a very large lilac bush behind our house. It was close to where the outhouse stood before we moved it, after the “pit” filled up. I suspect it had been even closer to the bush at one time. For you non-outhouse people, we couldn’t just flush an outhouse like you do with a modern day toilet. When the hole filled up, you dug a new pit and moved the outhouse. But back to those lilac bushes. They must have provided a little concealment and they smell good when they’re in blossom, even if it’s only for a couple weeks. Goodness knows every outhouse could use a little air freshener near it.

I don’t want to raise a stink about the use of outhouses, but how come we can’t stick one in the back yard any more? The Amish can still use them. Not that I want to sit out there when it’s twenty below zero and the wind is howling across Coon Prairie. But, it sure is a lot cheaper to dig a hole and put an outhouse over it than it is to install an expensive, government-inspected septic system here in the country.

On the positive side, at least we don’t have to worry about someone tipping over our septic system on Halloween.

The Highground: A Special Place

Across the Fence #260

The Highground, a 140-acre veterans memorial park, located west of Neillsville, Wisconsin, had its genesis in a battle at Ky Phu, Vietnam on December 18, 1965. Tom Miller from Wisconsin and Jack Swender from California, were serving with the 2nd Bn./7th Marines. They were on patrol when they came under heavy attack by the Viet Cong. Tom and his partner, Jack, took cover in a small house in the hamlet. They managed to hold them off for 15 minutes before an explosion blew a wall apart, mortally wounding Swender and severely wounding Miller. Tom held Jack as he died and vowed not to let his friend’s death be forgotten.

Fast-forward 19 years to 1984. Tom Miller recruited several other Vietnam veterans to join him in creating a Wisconsin Vietnam Veterans Memorial. This is where Tom entered my life. A couple of friends talked me into attending an organizational meeting of a Madison chapter of the Vietnam Veterans of America. Tom also attended that meeting. This big guy, with a black patch over one eye, wearing a cowboy hat, entered the room. We hit it off right away when we found out we were both self-employed graphic artists.

At the meeting, Tom told us about his idea for a memorial and was looking for volunteers to join him. There was a lot of interest, but few people wanted to get actively involved, including me.

In the following months, Tom and I got to be friends and he’d stop by my office and we’d talk business. One day he brought his new MAC computer with to show me. It was the first one I’d ever seen. He showed me a brochure about the memorial he wanted to build. Tom had designed it using the small computer. I was impressed.

One rainy day, Tom came into my office and said he wanted me to go with him to the Secretary of State’s office. He needed another person to sign incorporation papers for the memorial project. I protested, but he insisted it was only a formality so he could get the project rolling. Little did I know what a big commitment I was getting myself into. Neither of us had any idea at the time, what a huge project this “little” memorial would become!

Tom assembled a “working” Board of Directors and the project slowly started rolling. Most of us were Vietnam vets, but we also had a World War II and Korean vet.

In those early days most people wouldn’t give us the time of day, including veterans organizations. Few people expected us to succeed. One went so far as to tell me, “You Vietnam vets would screw up a two-car funeral. How did we think we could ever build a memorial?” When Tom tried to get publicity, one editor told him to forget about it, the wars been over for years. Fortunately, none of us listened to all the negatives and we forged ahead. Never tell a Vietnam vet they can’t do something.

Early on it was decided to change the direction of the project, from a Vietnam only memorial, to one that would include ALL veterans. No one would be excluded. We also changed the name from the Wisconsin Vietnam Veterans Memorial Project to The Highground. Today that little project has evolved into a beautiful, 140-acre veteran’s memorial park.

The Vietnam Veterans tribute, dedicated in 1988, is the centerpiece. It’s located at the point of the plaza, overlooking one-half million acres of spectacular Wisconsin woodland and glacial moraine. The bronze sculpture includes four life-size figures and was the first veteran’s tribute in the U. S. to include a woman in the statuary. Her poncho flows out from the back of the figures. Under it she carries the burden of the many Wisconsin servicemen killed in Vietnam. Their names are inscribed on the bundles of bamboo-shaped bronze rods that serve as wind chimes. It’s like their voices are still speaking to us in the wind.

Other memorials and tributes followed. In 1989, the MIA/POW earthen dove effigy mound was built and dedicated. 1990, saw the addition of the Gold Star Grove. Two timber frame shelters were also added in the lower park area. In 1992, The Nurse, in honor of all women who served, and the World War I Doughboy were dedicated. 1993 saw the addition of the World War II Veteran’s tribute. In 1995 the National Native American Vietnam Veterans tribute was dedicated. In 2008, the Korean Veteran’s tribute was added. True to our mission, all the tributes honor the veteran, not the war.

A four-mile hiking and nature trail has also been added, along with a timber-frame office/gift shop. A Meditation Garden is a recent addition. It’s a beautiful, peaceful park that draws thousands of visitors each year. It’s become a place of spiritual healing for thousands of veterans and their families. It became a reality thanks to private contributions and thousands of volunteer hours.

During this Veteran’s Day week, I wanted you to know that The Highground is a tribute to all veterans of all wars. If you haven’t experienced The Highground, put it on your list of places to visit. You’ll also see what a dedicated, determined group of people can accomplish, when they all work together toward a common goal.

All Gave Some, Some Gave All

Across the Fence #259

Veteran's Day is almost here and it’s time to honor veterans… ALL veterans. It bothers me when I hear some veterans make apologies for not being a combat veteran, or if they were in a combat zone, they say they had it easy compared to others.

I want to say to every veteran, peacetime or wartime, “Your service was important, no matter what your job was or where and when you served. You never have to apologize to anyone. You answered the call, you stood tall, and you did what the military asked you to do.”

I have a friend who was a crew chief and door gunner on a helicopter in Vietnam. He downplays his role, saying, “You guys had it much worse. We’d drop you guys off in an LZ (Landing Zone) and leave you there to live in the jungle while we flew back to camp and slept in a dry bunk and ate real food. Meanwhile you guys were wet, miserable, eating c-rations, and getting shot at.” Those comments came from a guy who was strapped on the side of a speeding chopper that often flew into hot LZ’s to drop off or pick up guys. He was even wounded. Everyone thinks they didn’t do enough.

That’s why I like the song, “All gave some, some gave all.” All veterans gave some. Some of our friends gave all and their names are now found on memorials.

Truth be told, most of us didn’t have a say in what our job would be. You may have voluntarily enlisted, or been like me, a reluctant draftee. In either case, we stepped forward, raised our right hand, and took the oath. Uncle Sam then decided our destiny. We had little, or no say in what we’d be doing or where we’d be sent. The army decided I’d be a medic and would be with the 4th Infantry Division. I wasn’t given a choice and no one asked for my opinion. The army decided, and I went where they told me. It’s like playing poker, we have no control over what cards we’re dealt. Each of us plays the cards we end up with and make the best of it.

I recently attended a meeting held in Viroqua, where a group of us Vietnam veterans got a sneak preview of the new Wisconsin Public Television documentary, “Wisconsin Vietnam War Stories.” The premier showing will be next May at Lambeau Field, where all Wisconsin veterans, family members, and friends are invited to attend. After the premier it will be shown on Wisconsin Public Television. The documentary is still in the editing process.

The veterans in attendance at the sneak preview were from most branches of service and had served during the Vietnam War. Each had performed the duties Uncle Sam gave them. I looked around that room and every man and woman was important and equal in my eyes.

We all think our branch of service, our unit, our MOS (job), our area of operation, was the best and toughest. It’s always been that way and always will be. That’s part of the pride of having served. But when push comes to shove, we’re all united as one. We’re a band of brothers and sisters. Yes, sisters too. I have some army nurse friends who would kick my butt if I didn’t include them. Diane Carlson Evans and Alice Plautz saw more blood and the destruction of war than anyone can ever imagine. And then there’s my mother’s cousin, Evelyn Schye from Cashton, who served in the army during World War II, along with three of her brothers. One was killed. Yes, all gave some, and some gave all.

All branches of service are important. Many infantrymen owe their lives to the Navy vets who were aboard ships offshore and provided firepower when they needed it. Air Force vets who often served on bases far removed from the fighting, loaded bombs that would be delivered by pilots. Many of us are still alive today because of their help.

Doctors, nurses, and medics assigned to hospitals, dealt with the daily carnage of war and tried to save everyone. There are a lot fewer names on The Wall because of their efforts. Cooks kept everyone fed so they’d be able to fight. Truck drivers kept the supplies rolling. Engineers built roads, buildings, and bridges. They were often the first ones in to clear an LZ, and the last ones out after blowing up what was left behind. Clerks kept the records straight and the payroll running or there would be no record of what everyone did. Others kept the supplies, equipment, and personnel moving and made sure they were delivered where needed, often in the midst of a battle. Every job was important and vital to the overall effort.

When someone asks if you’re a combat veteran, where do you draw the line? I consider everyone who served in a combat zone a combat veteran, whether they ever fired a shot or not. I treated infantrymen, engineers, cooks, clerks, truck drivers, tank personnel, officers, enlisted men, women, children, and all colors of skin. War doesn’t make any distinctions. Everyone becomes a combatant. Everyone bleeds the same color blood.

Everyone’s important. I don’t want to hear any veteran apologize for their role while I’m around. We all gave some, some gave all.

Bridging the Years To Halloween

Across the Fence #258

Corn Shocks still occupy some fields if you know where to find them. They stand as relics and reminders of a time that has passed most of us by. The Amish still bind up corn stalks and stack them, but modern farming has long since relegated them to obscurity, in favor of modern harvesting methods.

For people my age and older, corn shocks are still a symbol of fall, the harvest, and yes, Halloween too. There’s nothing like a field of corn shocks silhouetted against a cold, dark Halloween sky, with the full moon peeking out from behind ominous clouds to give that spooky feeling. Add in some pumpkins nestled near the base of the shocks, and you have the perfect Fall/Halloween scene. The only thing missing is the apparition of ghosts darting in and out among the shocks. Maybe this is the year when Gamla Magretta finally makes an appearance with her long, red scarf flowing out behind her. I’ve been waiting for her to return since our Prairie Ghost gang first tried to spot her when I was young.

Black cats, carved pumpkins, and witches flying through the air on their broomsticks, are also a part of the Halloween scene. Black and orange seem to be the primary colors. We had some black and orange pre-Halloween visitors this week. Thousands of Asian Beetles descended on our house. I hear we weren’t the only place they invaded. I’ve never seen so many. I sent most of them to Beetle Heaven and felt no remorse. I hope they don’t revisit us on Halloween night, when legend has it, the spirits of the departed return. Those little innocent-looking insects pack quite a bite. Maybe they’ll return as Vampire bats on Halloween.

Another annual event was the Halloween party at our rural school. All the country schools had some type of celebration. You’d think all of us would have vivid recollections of those days. Unfortunately, a lot of water has gone under the bridge since our one-room school days. In my effort to bring you a full and detailed report, I called some of my “old” schoolmates and thought they could fill in all the empty shelves that I encountered in my memory library. Looks like the bridge was washed out for a lot of us, and the water swept most of those memories downstream. Either that, or they’re holding out on me in fear of ending up being quoted in this column.

I do want to thank Donna (Gilbertson) Kjelland for trying to round up some memories from our schoolmates for me. Donna and I were in the same class at Smith for eight years. For seven of those years, we were the only students in our class. I guess that means that one of us was the smartest and one was the dumbest, or the second smartest, as I like to say. I imagine both of us would claim to have been the smartest. One thing we both agree on, we’re glad we had such a great, positive experience in our little, country school.

Halloween was just one of the many good times. We all remember that we bobbed for apples and had a fish pond. That was where a sheet was strung up and you took turns fishing. The pole had a line attached to it with a clothespin on the end. You put the line over the sheet and older kids behind the sheet would attach a small prize. They jerked the line like you’d caught a fish, and you brought up your prize. None of us can remember what the prizes were or where they came from. If anyone remembers, let us know.

Bobbing for apples was always an adventure. Unless you had an exceptionally large mouth, there was only one way to get that apple. Plunge your whole head in and nail it on the bottom of the tub. I do recall at least one year when we had to pass an apple from person to person by holding it under our chin. That was both fun and embarrassing when you were in between a couple of girls.

Another activity was eating crackers and then seeing who could whistle Dixie first, without spitting soggy crackers all over the place. Ah, the simple pleasures of grade school.

We all agree that Hobo Day was an annual event held in conjunction with Halloween. Perhaps this was our way of getting to dress up in costumes. The highlight was the crowning of a hobo king and queen. I never had the honor or distinction of being the king. Our costumes weren’t store-bought and were never very elaborate. Most of us wore clothes found around the house. My brother, David, and I once put large jackets over orange life vests and went as musclemen or little, fat guys, we’re not sure which. Beards, drawn on with pencils, covered our faces. We added a floppy hat and, presto, we had a costume. One of our friends once wore long, red underwear. He had small horns from a de-horned calf, protruding from a red hunting cap. It made an interesting devil outfit.

As you can tell, even though the bridge was washed out, we managed to rescue enough memories to remember some great times. I won’t mention tipping over the school outhouse one year! Outhouse adventures deserve their own story.

Consequential Strangers

Across the Fence #257

During the past week, I did four book reading/signing events. They’re always enjoyable because I get to meet and visit with people who read this column each week. I even get new story ideas from you.

Last Saturday I was at Dregne’s Scandinavian Gifts in Westby, Wednesday at the Cashton Library, Thursday at the Black River Falls Library, and Sunday at Norskhaven near Gays Mills during Ridge Fest. Thank you all for inviting me. Also thanks to the Viroqua Women’s Literary Society, who invited me to speak to their group two weeks ago.

I wish I had more time to get around and meet all of you who read “Across the Fence,” but I do have a “real” job that consumes a lot of my time. Rumors that I retired after I moved back to Westby are greatly exaggerated. Some weeks it’s even hard to find time to sit down and write. When I finally kick back, get comfortable, and prepare to write, I often find myself sawing logs instead of writing. Lately I think I’ve sawed enough firewood to heat this house for a year. I don’t think I snore, but Linda claims I do!

There I go, sailing up a different fjord again. Lets get back to those people I meet at book signings. I met Tom Nelson at Norskhaven on Sunday. He was also there with his books. He writes a column for The Fennimore Times called “That’s My Story and I’m Sticking To It.” We had a wonderful conversation about people we meet, not just at book signings, but every day of our lives. There’s a term for it called “Consequential Strangers.” I wasn’t familiar with the term, but after Sunday I understand it.

Consequential strangers is a term used to describe all relationships other than family and close friends. Also known as “peripheral” or “weak” ties, they occupy the vast territory between total strangers and those with whom we have close personal ties. They’re also known as acquaintances.

The people who read our columns feel they know us, but the vast majority of our readers are strangers to us. One way to change that is to interact with those strangers. When people stopped at our tables, we engaged them in conversation, asking them questions about themselves, instead of talking about ourselves. It was amazing. Suddenly we found out we had many things in common with the person. When I’d ask where they lived or were raised, we often found mutual connections to places and people. Even if we didn’t find a common connection, we found a background and experience connection.

It was usually a growing up on a farm mutual experience. We had started out as strangers, but after visiting together, we parted as consequential strangers who had a connection, if only for a short time.

I thought back to other signings this week and realized I’d been involved with many consequential strangers. We are no longer strangers after meeting and visiting together. We now share a mutual bond.

There was the couple at Black River Falls who visited with me after my talk. He asked if I was going to do a story on outhouses and lilac bushes. When we started discussing the subject, I realized there’s definitely a story there. I won’t go into it now, but stay tuned; we’ll talk about it across the fence one of these coming weeks. I told you I get good ideas from readers. The key is to keep my mouth shut and my ears open. We learn a lot more when we do that.

How many encounters with strangers have turned them into consequential strangers in your life? They’re the people who aren’t close friends with you, but they’ve played a role on the stage of your life. It’s like the minor players in a stage production. You may not even know their names, but they have a vital supporting role in the total production. Sometimes we only encounter those people one time, but others come into our life on a regular basis.

The wonderful thing about writing a column like Across the Fence is meeting and hearing your stories. I realize how similar our experiences have been. These aren’t just my stories; they’re our shared stories and experiences. They’re also your stories. You just have to change the names and locations. But it’s also important that you tell your own story. I’ve talked about this with many of you. Don’t take your stories to the grave with you. They will forever be lost to future generations. What would you give to have some stories written by your grandparents or great grandparents? Wouldn’t you like to know what their life was like and what they were thinking? I know I would. Every story is important.

I greatly appreciate all of you who took time out of your busy schedules to show up for my book signings. It gives me renewed energy when you tell me you enjoy the column, and look forward to reading it each week. We may not be close, personal friends, but we’re no longer strangers, we’re consequential strangers and you’re important to me. I look forward to visiting with you each week, across the fence.

The Red Fox, A Kindred Spirit

Across the Fence #256

My mind is on a red fox tonight. I’ve had four encounters with this fox since early this summer. I feel very fortunate. How many people are lucky enough to see one red fox in the wild during their lifetime? They are quite elusive.

I’ve always been fascinated with wolves and foxes. Perhaps it’s because they’re both so elusive and we seldom have the opportunity to see them. In grade school when we could order books from the Teen Age Book Club (TAB), I sent for several books about wolves and foxes. I still have some of them. One of those paperbacks is titled “Red Fox“ by Charles Roberts. That poor fox had many adventures. He was pursued by dogs, shot at by hunters, fought with other animals, hunted for food for himself, his mate, and their pups, and through all the adversities and hardships, managed to survive.

I don’t think the same can be said for the fox I’ve been seeing. During the last two encounters, it appears that he’s developed mange. This will not be a “He lived happily ever after” ending. He was really suffering yesterday when I watched him. The poor fellow is now so distracted by the disease that he didn’t bother running away. I was able to get very close and took many photos of him as he hunted for food. He has become very thin and looks like he’s starving. He was making a meal of grasshoppers and other bugs he could find.

I watched as he stalked each grasshopper and then pounced on it. It will take a lot of bugs to satisfy his appetite and provide the nourishment he needs. Whenever he looked in my direction, his eyes appeared half-closed and it looked like he was having difficulty seeing. The eyes looked so sad. They weren’t vibrant and full of life, but had a haunted, sad feeling. He appeared to be a lost, bewildered soul, trying to hang on and survive.

Sarcoptic Mange is a skin disease caused by microscopic parasitic mites that embed themselves under the skin of the animal. They cause extreme itching, loss of sleep, open sores, and reduced immune response. In the late stages, the fox will become distracted, sick, and starve to death.

I suspect “my fox” is nearing that final stage. That’s why he’s on my mind tonight. I hate to see any animal suffer. The red fox is such a graceful, beautiful animal when it’s healthy.

I saw my first fox many years ago while deer hunting. I was sitting quietly at the base of a tree near the crest of a hill. I had a commanding view of the hillsides and valley below me. It was late in the afternoon when I saw the fox slowly making his way through the woods a short distance from where I was sitting. He appeared to be hunting for a meal. After several minutes he finally spotted me and quickly headed down the hill, his bushy tail flowing out behind him. What a magnificent sight. The images of that first close-up encounter with a red fox have stuck in my memory bank all these years.

Since that time, I’ve seen several red foxes and it’s always a special thrill. They’ve had dens on this farm over the years and we’d see one occasionally. But as I said at the start, they can be very elusive and hard to spot.

I hope my little friend has a den some place where he’s bedded down this evening. It’s cold and rainy outside tonight and I hope he’s dry and as comfortable as he can be, given the terrible shape he’s in. I’ll keep an eye out for him and monitor his deteriorating condition. If this was a domesticated dog, the mange could be easily treated, but the fox is a wild animal. You can’t just shove a pill down his throat. All we can do is watch him suffer from a distance. In observing a case like this, I realize how different life in the wild is. This is survival of the fittest. As much as I’d like to, I realize we can’t save every animal.

I watched that fox hunt for food. He needed food to survive and other creatures needed to die so he might live. He would stalk a possible meal, then gather himself up and pounce on it. Sometimes he came up empty, but other times he was chewing on whatever meal he had found. The strong survive. The weak and inattentive perish. Animals get sick and die. It’s all part of the life cycle. I think those of us who were raised in the country and on farms, and people who spend time in the woods and wild country, are more aware of this. Life and death are part of our world.

I hope all of you have the chance to observe a red fox and other animals in the wild, in their natural habitat. Observing a wild animal in the captive environment of a zoo is not the same. I still get a thrill whenever I come across an animal in the wild. I always try to have a camera with me and have managed to capture some great photos of wildlife roaming free, in the wild. I feel a real kindred spirit with them. It’s a great feeling!

I Don't Get It. What's the Point?

Across the Fence #255

I was sitting on our back deck this evening, listening to the wind. The sun had set, but there was still a reddish-pink glow on the horizon, peeking through the dark clouds.

It was cool and there was a very light mist in the air, but I didn’t want to miss the magic of the moment by sitting inside. The wind roared through the trees like giant waves crashing against the shore. I closed my eyes and could hear great gusts of wind coming through the corn before smashing into the trees, and rattling the siding on the house.

Darkness had set in and individual, green trees merged into a solid mass of black. Dark clouds floated overhead and the half moon kept emerging and disappearing as the wind pushed the clouds along. It’s one of those moments that, when written about, doesn’t mean much to someone who’s never experienced it. But if you’ve also witnessed such a moment, I hope this brought those images and sounds back to you.

As I experienced those sounds and images, it reminded me of the response I received from an editor to one of my stories. A couple months after beginning this weekly column, almost six years ago, I sent some sample stories to the editor of a newspaper in a community with a rural, Norwegian population. I thought the things I write about would be of interest to those readers too; especially after many people in that community told me I should have my column in their paper. The young editor had only been at the paper for a few months. I suspect he didn’t come from a rural background and had never spent much time on a farm. His response was, “I’m not sure what the message of the barn/milking column was supposed to be. I don’t get it. What’s the point?” He was referring to a story called “Night Lights.”

Sometimes you need life experiences, like listening to the wind in the trees and watching the moon play hide and seek in the clouds, in order to understand. I have no doubt the majority of readers of that paper could have related to my stories, but they never had a chance. I tried again, a year later, but he still wasn’t interested in running my column.

“I don’t get it. What’s the point?” My point with the milking column was to try and raise memories in all those who’ve been there in the past, and record the experience for those who hadn’t. Also, to let people know that when the day’s work is done, take time to relax, look at the vast universe around you, and hopefully you’ll feel a peace within, realizing that you’re a small, but vital part, of the big picture. A lot of readers did get it. I’ve had many of them tell me it was one of their favorite columns. If you have my first book, “Across the Fence,” it’s on page 59.

That was a story I read today, when I was invited to be the guest author at the Viroqua Women’s Literary Club. They got it, and also brought up some interesting questions about writing a weekly column. One question dealt with how I deal with exposing my thoughts and memories to a large readership, especially in the local community where people know me.

Any time a person puts their writing and thoughts out in public for all to see and read, it’s like a dog or cat rolling over on it’s back and exposing the soft underbelly. Some will rub it and some will attack such an exposed position. That’s also what makes life interesting. Taking chances, as long as you’re not hurting anyone, by actions or words. I’ll never ridicule or attack someone in a story. I do poke fun at my misadventures, and myself, but that’s OK. Many of those incidents make much better stories than if I’d experienced great success.

One lady said she felt she knew my family and me after reading the stories. I assured her and the group that there are plenty of stories that will never see the light of day. Every writer has stories that would make great reading, but some stories are personal or might hurt somebody, and are best left untold. I try to keep my stories upbeat. People have to deal with enough negatives in daily life. Many readers have told me they like the positive spin on the stories I write.

One editor thought my best stories are the ones where I stir up some controversy and make people think. Those are also the stories that get the most response. It’s usually from people who disagree with my thoughts, and would like to run me out of town, tarred and feathered, and tied to a rail. Writing a weekly column is not for the feint of heart.

As the one editor said, “I don’t get it. What’s the point?”

Perhaps the point is very simple. We meet here once a week and talk across the fence, just like good neighbors have always done. I hope we never lose that neighborliness. If I do my job right, my story also becomes your story, as the words release sights, sounds, and smells from your memory bank. I hope your memories are good ones. I’ll see you again next week.

Hunters and Gatherers

Across the Fence #254

It's hard to believe it’s already October, the month of the Hunter’s Moon. Where did the summer go? Where did this year go? I feel like Rip Van Winkle, who suddenly woke up after a long sleep and wondered where the time had gone.

As I drive around the countryside, I notice a lot of leaves already starting to turn. Fall is a beautiful time of year, but it goes by much too quickly. I’d like to spread fall out so it lasts as long as winter does here in the upper Midwest. However, that’s about as likely as Brett Favre retiring for good and not un-retiring when training camp is over. As my friend, David Giffey, would say, “But that’s another story.”

Fall triggers memories of harvesting crops and helping Ma bring in vegetables from the garden, back when I was young. By the time the Hunter’s Moon was hung in the sky, the tobacco crop, hanging in the shed, was slowly curing and turning brown.

Silo filling was the next great adventure. When I was young, Dad didn’t have his own chopper, wagons, and silo unloader. He hired a farmer who had the equipment and went from farm to farm, doing the harvesting.

It was always an exciting time when they arrived with the silo unloader and started running the pipes up into the silo. We were usually in school when silo filling took place, but got to help out when we got home. I got to drive the John Deere B or 50 and hauled wagons from the field to the silo. Then helped unload the wagons by pulling the silage from the back end of the wagon into the unloader. An auger would push the silage into the blower and it would shoot up the pipe into the silo with a rattling sound. It was a dangerous job and you had to be careful not to get your clothes caught in the auger. That could lead to a quick amputation of a limb. Many farmers are missing an arm or a leg because of silo filling accidents.

When I think of silo filling. I can still smell the sweet scent of the silage. There’s something about smells that conjure up all kinds of memories associated with that smell. The smell of silage brings back memories of silo-filling, throwing down the silage in the middle of winter, and finally that sickening smell from the fermented silage in the bottom of the silo at the end of the year. I bet those same smells come drifting back from your memory bank as you read this.

This time of year was also canning time for Ma and Grandma Inga. They put up a wide variety of vegetables and fruits in Mason jars. The sealed jars sat on shelves in the cool cellar until it was time to retrieve them and bring the rewards from the summer garden, upstairs to enjoy in the dead of winter. It also helped remind us that there was a world beyond all the snow and cold weather that surrounded and imprisoned us. When I went down in the cellar a couple years ago to look around, there were still unopened jars filled with vegetables that Ma had gathered together and canned many years ago. She’s been gone for seventeen years now. Those cans were filled many years ago, while she was still healthy.

I can picture her working and slaving over the hot stove, preparing the food for canning. Like so many guys, I never paid much attention to the canning process, but I know it was a lot of work. I just reaped the benefits of all her hard work. Unfortunately, I never thanked her for all she did to keep her family fed. Each fall when harvest and canning time comes around, I’m reminded of my taking those things for granted. Now when I see those old Mason jars sitting on the rotting shelves in the cellar, they aren’t just jars of food. They carry the imprint of the caring, skillful hands of Ma as she prepared and carried them down the cellar steps so her family would never go hungry.

Yes, the images and smells of fall certainly bring back memories for all of us. The birds are flocking together in preparation for their trip to warmer climates for the winter. We’ve seen power lines full of birds. When they take to the air, it’s like a black cloud. I always wonder how they keep from having mid-air collisions. I also heard a flock of geese flying overhead. I’ve said many times that I consider it one of the great sights and sounds of nature.

Along with the Hunter’s Moon will come the sound of gunfire and smell of gunpowder in the air. Fall certainly brings out the hunter/gatherer in man as we store up food and meat for the long winter ahead. Most city inhabitants do their hunting and gathering in big supermarkets. Many rural people still do their hunting and gathering just like their ancestors did, and their ancestors before them.

The world and attitudes are quickly changing as we go from a rural to an urban society. But out here in the countryside, you still find people gathering a bountiful harvest from their gardens and preparing their equipment for the upcoming hunt. Hunters and gatherers… they’re still a part of life.

The Dog Days of Autumn

Across the Fence #253

A friend recently asked, “How come you’ve never written about dogs?” “Perfect timing,” I said. “We’re dog-sitting this week for our daughter, Amy, and Tim’s dog.

Welcome to the world of Sweeney, a rambunctious, nine month old, loveable bundle of energy, German Shepherd/Collie mix. They adopted Sweeney at the Milwaukee Humane Society when she was three months old.

She’s been having fun exploring and running around the fields near our house. She’s used to country air and long walks because Amy and Tim take her on walks almost every day.

I’m a dog lover and I love to see dogs able to roam and explore the world, and interact with people around them. When you include a dog in your daily activities, give them attention and love, they’ll return that love to you. You can be gone for an hour and when you return, your dog greets you like you’ve been gone for a month. What other creature will greet you with such enthusiasm every time they see you?

I hate to see dogs penned up or chained day and night. That would be like being in prison for me. Dogs aren’t meant to be imprisoned like a criminal. That’s for someone who’s done something wrong.

One of the papers where Across the Fence runs is the Standard-Gazette in Fairfax, Minnesota. Another of their columnists is Suzy Wurtz. I think she said it best in a column she wrote entitled “Dog Days,” about a barking dog she was contending with. Suzy said, “ Your dog’s barking bothers people daily. Your dog does not get enough human interaction and does not get enough exercise. He is confined to a kennel or a leash (chain) for long periods. He may not have enough food, water, or shade as well. Your dog is lonely, bored, frustrated, and not well trained. Naturally your dog barks. I would bark too!”

She goes on to say, “If you don’t exercise your dogs daily, spend some time with them each day, and just keep them chained or penned up all the time, you shouldn’t own a dog.”

I agree with everything Suzy said. Dogs, especially large dogs, hunting dogs, are not meant to be confined and imprisoned all the time. If we did that to a fellow human being we’d be hauled off to jail for cruel and inhuman treatment. Unfortunately, a lot of dogs do suffer that fate.

If I was one of those dogs, I’d rather you take me out and euthanize me or just shoot me. That would be the more humane thing to do. The only alternative is to howl and bark constantly, and hope someone hears you and comes to your rescue. Dogs like to be free just like we do.

The dog days of summer and autumn that I remember on the farm, were ones where our dogs were always with us. A dog loves to be included in the action. On the farm, our dogs helped get the cows from the pasture, and were always around at milking time. They rode on the hay wagons with us, in the back of the pickup, and even on the tractor. They laid beside us in the shade of the maple tree, and followed us when we got up and returned to work. They didn’t bark constantly, but they did bark when someone came to the house. That’s what a good watchdog does. If they kept barking, we’d make them be quiet and not disturb all the neighbors. People need to have respect for their neighbors. This is especially true for dog owners.

When we lived in Madison we had a Sheltie for eleven years when the kids were young. Toby was a wonderful dog and an important part of our family. He loved to run. Madison had a leash law and you were supposed to have your dog on a leash at all times. When we went for walks and runs, I carried the leash along, but never had to use it. He was well-trained, or maybe he was just smart and let me think I had trained him. When I said, “Stop,” he stopped and waited until I said, “Go.” Then he’d take off and run again. He loved the interaction with our family. We also trained him not to bark all the time and disturb our neighbors when he was out in the yard. If that had happened, I have no doubt the police would have been frequent visitors at our home. I can’t imagine us ever chaining him up or confining him in a pen with no human contact except at feeding time. That would have been cruel. When Toby died from cancer, it was like losing a member of our family.

Anyone who’s ever owned a dog knows how smart they are. Dogs seem almost human at times. Sometimes I think they’re smarter than a lot of people. Sweeney’s a smart dog and often seems to know what you’re saying. Amy and Tim have done a good job of training Sweeney and giving her love and affection. She returns that love and affection back to them.

During these Dog Days of Autumn, do your dogs a favor. Treat them the same way you would want to be treated if the roles were reversed. It’s the humane thing to do. Your dog will love you for it.

The County Fair, A Magical Place

Across the Fence #252

There’s nothing like a county fair for sights, sounds, and smells. When you mix them all together, they make for a magical, enjoyable time for children of all ages. Whether you’re five or one hundred and five, the county fair is a special place for everyone.

This week is the Vernon County Fair. It’s always the last fair of the season in Wisconsin. When I was young, we always attended the fair. We were members of the Seas Branch Smithies 4-H Club, and when I was in high school I was in the FFA. Every year I showed dairy cattle and hogs. The fair was the culmination of all the work we put into our projects. It was a fun and exciting time.

After I left the farm, I was seldom around during the fair. When our kids were young, we took them to the Vernon County Fair a couple of times. Somehow, the fair, and especially the midway, seemed a lot smaller than it was when I was young. But there was still a magical quality about it.

Now I’m back to spending every day at the fair again. I don’t show cattle any more, but I’m at our company’s booth in the co-op building ten hours a day. I don’t spend all the time at our booth talking business. I still take time to enjoy the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes, especially the tastes. By the time the midway is shut down for another year and the last cow is on a truck headed home, I’ll probably have eaten at every food stand more than once. I’ll have sampled Hub’s Fries, fried cheese curds, hamburgers, cheeseburgers, Bar-B-Qs, baked potatoes with chili or pork, and several kinds of pie–some with ice cream. Uff da, it’s a tough job eating fair food for five days! I should probably have my cholesterol levels checked after fair week is over.

One thing that’s as scarce as hen’s teeth at the fair is decaf coffee. If any food stand is serving decaf, let me know. A friend tells me, “If you’re not going to drink real coffee, why bother drinking it at all.” He has a point. There’s no caffeine kick in decaf! But that’s another story.

I also like to walk through the barns and watch some of the cattle judging. It brings back memories of when I showed cattle. I like to watch how the kids show off their animals. A good showman can make an average animal look better than a fine animal in the hands of a poor showman. An award I’m proud of is the top showmanship award I received one year at the fair.

After showing our cattle, we were able to take more time to explore the other aspects of the fair. I wasn’t much for the rides. The tilt-a-whirl was enough excitement for this old midway warrior. It was best enjoyed when in the company of a girl you wanted to get to know better. Sharing the ride with a bunch of your guy friends just wasn’t the same. The fair was the one time of year when you could get up the nerve to ask a girl to accompany you on a ride, without feeling like you were going to throw up. That part came after going in too many circles on a ride, or upside down. That wasn’t the way to impress a girl! In our defense, I should note that the rides usually followed eating too much fair food. Large amounts of fair food and wild, midway rides just don’t mix.

At least now I don’t have to worry about going on the rides. I can just concentrate on eating my way from one side of the fair to the other.

While I’m doing that, it’s also fun to stroll down the lane in front of all the carny barkers and hear them trying to entice people to play their game and win a prize. I mentioned earlier that this is the last fair of the year, and many of the carny people look like they can hardly wait to pack up and head south for the winter. I imagine it’s been a long, hard season for them. It doesn’t help that it’s often cold or wet during a Mid-September fair.

I often wonder how these people got involved in following the midway from one fair or festival to the next. Maybe it’s the writer in me, but I want to know their story. I’ve seen some of these same people at the fair for many years. Maybe this is the year when I’ll strike up a conversation with some of them and find out their story. Everyone has one. I think I’d find some interesting and fascinating life stories around the midway. I’ll probably have to play a few games first, in order to start a conversation. If you see me walking around with a teddy bear under my arm, you’ll know what I’ve been up to.

I love observing people at the fair. I think we older generations are in search of the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes that live in our memories from earlier fairs. This year we’ll add some new ones. County fairs are one of the remaining staples of rural America. It’s a melting pot of the past, present, and future. Experience it and enjoy it!

Back To School Transitions

Across the Fence #251

It's back to school time, that transitional period that signals the end of summer and the beginning of the fall season. It’s also a transition between elementary and middle school, middle school and high school, and high school and college. Baseball season is winding down and football season is hitting full stride, although all the sports seem to overlap and go on forever these days. The birds are starting to flock together for the trip south and the wildflowers are losing their beauty. Soon the trees will be turning, as they transition from green to a full palette of fall colors.

Those transitions from one chapter of our life to the next, especially where school is concerned, can be both exciting and scary. I attended a one-room school as most of you know, and that eliminated a few of the transitions that city kids and the present generation of students have to go through. We didn’t worry about going from one grade to the next, where we’d have a new teacher and many new students. All our grades were taught in that one room and we knew everyone in school. Of course, when there were only twenty students in all eight grades, it was much easier knowing everyone. The only new students were the first graders. If a new family moved to a farm in the school district, we might get some new students, but they generally came in the spring when farmers would move from one farm to another.

I was lucky. We moved to a new farm when I was around ten years old. It was less than a mile away and I didn’t have to change schools. It must have been tough for students who had to leave old friends behind and go to a new school. I think of Margaret, Janice, Howard, and Anita Lee, who moved to our school district in the spring. Margaret and Janice joined Donna Gilbertson and me in seventh grade. That must have been hard for them. To their credit, they quickly fit in and we’re still friends.

In country schools, one teacher taught all eight grades. If you were lucky, the teacher might stay for several years. Then when you advanced to the next grade, you didn’t worry about who the new teacher would be. On the flip side, if you didn’t like the teacher, you were in for another long year. Fortunately, we had some wonderful teachers at Smith School while I was there. I have great memories of those eight years.

High school is another story. That wasn’t the best time of my life. One of my classmates, Monte Nelson, and I were talking about our high school experiences recently. Monte said, “High school was the worse 12 years of my life!” I can relate to that. It didn’t help that I was a shy, farm boy, and then broke my leg in football when I was a freshman. That put a real limp in those four years, or 12 years as Monte said. That broken leg, the ripped muscles, and the ankle that was torn out of the socket, pretty much put an end to high school sports for me. My ankle still goes out more than I do!

Those transitions were nothing compared to heading off to the big city of Madison and the University of Wisconsin. Talk about feeling like a fish out of water. Despite all the transitions we go through, we manage to survive and move on to the next chapter of our life.

When we were in school we never realized the pain our parents went through as we entered each new chapter. I discovered all those feelings when our children, Erik and Amy, started each new chapter. Before we knew it, they were graduating from high school and heading off to college. That was a big transition for them and also for us. I wrote the following in 1993 after we moved our daughter, Amy, into her dorm room at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater, and headed home to an empty nest.

When Did You Grow So Old?

“I stand in the door leading to the empty room. The boom box is silent now, no music fills the air. When did you grow so old? Wasn’t it only yesterday I carried you, just minutes old from delivery to the nursery, so small and helpless, every need dependent on us. Crawling, sitting up, standing on wobbly legs, first steps, first words, first tooth… so many firsts. Soon all the new things you learned became routine. Before we knew it, there was nursery school, then kindergarten. First grade, quickly became fifth. Middle school was a whole new adventure. Three quick years and the high school years began. Sweet sixteen and a license to drive. When did you grow so old? High school passed so quickly, and graduation was here. The road to a new adventure stretched out before you. And now you’ve begun the journey. That’s why I stand in the doorway leading to your empty room. You left for college today, and we went home without you. Things will never be the same. When did you grow so old?”

I think everyone can relate to those words. Each year at this time, the back to school transition opens new chapters in the lives of children, and for parents too.

Tobacco Worm Mystery

Across the Fence #250

Where have all the tobacco worms gone? We need some answers to this mystery. I guess that question could use a little explanation.

As the end of August nears and a new school year approaches, my thoughts wander back to the days when tobacco was king in this area. As I drove by the cornfield west of the farm buildings, I remembered the days when it was covered with large tobacco plants waiting to be harvested, instead of corn. Those days are now but a memory for all the old tobacco farmers around Vernon County. This used to be one of the largest tobacco producing counties in Wisconsin. Last year saw the end of those days when only a few acres were grown. This year there are no tobacco fields waiting to be harvested.

By late August, if the growing season had been a good one, plants with large green leaves, without any tears or holes, stood waiting to be cut down, piled, speared, and hauled to the tobacco shed where it would be hung for curing.

I mentioned leaves without tears or holes. If there had been windstorms or hail, the leaves could become torn, shredded, or full of holes. Depending on the severity of the storm, it could quickly destroy a tobacco crop and render all that hard work for naught. It would have to be disked down because no tobacco buyer would want it. That could spell financial disaster because tobacco was the cash crop that paid the taxes and many other expenses. It also paid off the mortgages on many farms.

Another enemy of tobacco was the tobacco worm. It was a large, dark green, nasty-looking worm with a horn protruding from the back end. Some places referred to them as tobacco hornworms. They could grow up to four inches in length and be as thick as your thumb, especially if they’d been feasting away on your tobacco leaves. They could cost a farmer hundreds, even thousands, of dollars in lost revenue if they weren’t controlled.

We would watch for worms as we topped tobacco. Topping is where we broke off the smaller, top portion of each plant so the main leaves would get bigger and you’d have a better crop. You could easily tell when a plant had been chewed on by a tobacco worm. When we came across the signs of destruction we checked the leaves and the culprit was usually still there, inflicted with a serious case of the munchies. If there was no worm, you could usually find him on a neighboring plant.

This is the point where things got interesting. If you didn’t like picking up a squishy, squirming, green worm, you could try knocking it off the leaf and then stomping on it. But they could be hard to dislodge as they clung to the leaf with all their little feet. My preferred method of disposing of them was to grab them around the middle of their body and pull them off the leaf. Then as they struggled back and forth between my fingers, I’d throw them down on the ground as hard as I could. They would explode in a sea of green tobacco juice. We usually kept score to see who ended up with the most tobacco worm splats.

If you did a good job of disposing of them while topping, it saved a lot of tobacco. Some years the worms were worse than others and Dad would have us walk through the tobacco looking for them. When you raised ten to twelve acres, that’s a lot of looking. As an incentive he gave us a penny for every worm we found. We carried a glass mason jar to drop the worms into. When the jars were full we’d empty them out so Dad could count them. Then we scooped them back in and filled the jars with water. I know it sounds cruel, but this was all a part of life on the farm. You needed to destroy the insects and worms that could ruin a crop and cause financial disaster for farmers.

Sometimes we’d have a hundred worms or more in our jars. I know a penny doesn’t sound like much now, but back then you could buy a lot of ice cream cones at five cents for a single dip and ten cents for a double dip cone. A dollar was a lot of money to us.

Now, back to the mystery. I think we can all agree that fields filled with tobacco plants have gone the way of Passenger Pigeons, at least in most parts of Wisconsin. Other crops now grow in those fields that were home to thousands of tobacco worms. We tried to kill them all, but it never worked. Every year they were back in force. Now that their main food source has disappeared, have tobacco worms disappeared too? I haven’t seen one in many years. Maybe they all packed their bags and headed south where tobacco is still grown. It’s just like people moving on or starving when all the jobs dry up in an area. Or, maybe tobacco worms have acquired a taste for other plants for dinner. But if that’s the case, we can no longer refer to them as tobacco worms.

Yup, it’s quite a mystery to ponder on a late summer afternoon.

Listen To the Voices In the Wind

Across the Fence #249

There’s a therapeutic quality to the wind, a soothing sound that can calm a weary mind. I’m sitting on our deck as evening begins to descend and envelop me. It’s been a hot, humid day that zaps your energy and slows you down.

But now as darkness slowly creeps across the landscape, the wind, a cooling wind, has arrived. It feels good. It feels refreshing. It lifts my spirits.

I’m not one who spends a lot of time sitting and watching television. I’d rather be living life, and watching and listening to the life taking place around me in the natural world. I took a walk along the fence line and listened to the wind in the tall grass swaying in the breeze. As I came to a grove of trees the sounds changed. I closed my eyes and listened to all the sounds around me, trying to distinguish the many subtle differences. The wind rustling the leaves in the poplar tree has a different sound than a maple or an evergreen.

As I stood and listened, I was reminded of a scene in the movie, “Dances With Wolves,” where the wind is blowing through the trees and tall grass as they talk about how many white men will be coming. I thought of how much this land I was standing on had changed since 1848 when the first white man set foot on this area called Coon Prairie. At that time, this land was covered with trees and tall prairie grass waving in the breeze. The Ho Chunk occupied the land. One of their villages was located a mile from where our house is. That area became known as Old Towne.

Even Olson Gullord, the first white man to explore this area, staked a claim to land southeast of our house, near where Smith School would later be located. I can see that spot from where I sit as I write this. So many changes have taken place since those days.

I wonder what the natives who occupied this land thought, as more and more white men arrived and started cutting down trees and building houses on the land they called home and had been home to their ancestors for many centuries?

How would I feel and what would I do today, if people suddenly arrived and began occupying our land, cutting down trees, building houses, and acting like they could do whatever they wanted with the area that’s now my home. This area has been home to my ancestors since the 1850’s. I know I’d try to stop intruders from moving in and pushing me off the land, even if I had to resort to taking up arms against them.

Those thoughts and images blew in with the wind today and rattled around in my mind.

Listening to the wind also made me think of Chief Joseph’s words, “The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of the pond, the smell of the wind itself cleansed by a midday rain, or scented with pinion pines…” I can certainly relate to those words.

As I observed the world around me, four hawks flew lazy circles in the field behind our house. Wings outstretched, they floated and circled effortlessly, like spirits returning from the distant past to a land long gone, but not forgotten. When I see birds gliding around like that, hovering on invisible shafts of air, I wish that I could fly. Such freedom. Such beauty.

I experienced more of the beauty of the land when we were in Woodville over the weekend for Uff da Days and a book signing at Lena and Ole’s Gifts, owned by Julie and Lane Backus. Julie is my cousin. On Sunday morning, Lane and I explored their seventy acres of rolling hills, wild flowers, woods, and pond on a two-mile path he’s made around the property. Wild flowers of all kinds were in full bloom and the trees were filled with colorful berries and fruit. There were some that neither of us could identify. We came to a wild patch of black caps and stopped to pick and eat some. The thorny vines tried to keep us out, but when those delicious berries were ripe for the picking, nothing could stop us.

The fields were filled with birds, and turtles cooled themselves in the pond. I’ve never seen as many Humming Birds as we saw that day at their feeders. We watched as wasps busily built a home in the ground. The sunlight allowed us to peer into the bottom of the foot-deep hole and watch as each wasp dug a mouthful of dirt, crawled back out of the hole, flew away, and deposited it elsewhere. We listened to the many sounds of nature around us, and of course, enjoyed the wind blowing gently through the wild flowers and leaves of the trees. There was such quiet and peacefulness. This was nature’s cathedral, as magnificent as any man-made cathedral you could enter. Stained glass windows can’t hold a candle to it.

This is a wonderful time of year in the Midwest. The trees and fields are alive with fruits, berries, and wildflowers. Don’t miss the sights, sounds, and smells. Go for a drive or walk in the country and be sure you listen for the voices of the wind.