Across the Fence #324
The sun is sinking, as fast as the temperature, on another frigid day in the Frozen Tundra. We’re trapped in a bitter cold spell that seems to make a week-long appearance every January. It’s as welcome as a visitor knocking at your door with bad news or the arrival of a plague epidemic.
How cold was it lately? It was so cold I had to thaw my thoughts out before I could see what I was thinking, so I could write this column. We hit 21 below zero the other morning here in Sherpeland. That was the real temperature, not the wind chill. I don’t even want to know what that was. Last night it was ten below. To put it in simple terms, it’s darn cold. I imagine most of you are enjoying it as much as I am.
Last night the air was still and everything was quiet. Not even a branch was moving in the grove of trees near the house. No birds or wildlife were stirring as the sun was setting. I hope they all found some shelter to spend the night. This weather is hard on our feathered friends. It’s costing me a small fortune in birdseed to keep them fed.
My mother liked to say that we shouldn’t worry about things because God will take care of us. She was referring to a Bible verse: “Consider the ravens (birds) of the field, for they neither sow nor reap; which neither have storehouse or barn; and God feedeth them; How much more are ye better than the fowls?” It was her way of saying, “Don’t spend all your time worrying about things. If he watches out for the tiny birds, he’ll surely watch out for you.”
While I was feeding the birds that feed in our backyard and at the feeder in the grove of trees, I remembered her words. Those words don’t say how the birds would be fed. I think the answer to that question is that he has me feed the birds — at least around our place. That way the little critters have enough energy to stay warm and not freeze to death.
As most of you should know by now, I like to question and examine everything, and ask probing questions. I don’t take everything I read as gospel. I’m always looking for the rest of the story. Knowing what I know now, and have observed about life and death, I find the words about birds being fed an oversimplification of a complex situation. I have to ask the question, what about the estimated 100,000 people around the world that starve to death every day because they don’t have enough to eat? Who’s watching out for them?
Those are things I think and wonder about, even during hot weather, but this cold weather seems to magnify the questions in my mind. I guess you could say this frigid weather has caused me to experience brain freeze. That’s like when you come in from outside and your glasses fog over so you can’t see a thing until they clear up. It’s an accepted part of life in the Frozen Tundra.
I got a kick out of the news broadcasts today. They were telling about the frigid weather they were experiencing along the east coast. The temperatures were slightly below zero in some places, and it was as if life had come to a standstill because it was too cold to do anything. Welcome to our world.
Here in the upper Midwest, we wear our ability to withstand cold weather like a badge of courage. Its business as usual on those below zero days. We just add more layers of clothes, pull our stocking cap down over our ears, put on a facemask if it’s really cold, and make sure we have a pair of jumper cables in the car. We’re prepared, even if we don’t like this kind of weather.
Just as the birds near us know that food will be provided for them, we know that longer daylight hours and warmer weather will eventually arrive. The blanket of snow and ice will be slowly stripped away and new life will emerge. Before you know it, people will be complaining about the heat and humidity. As for me, I’ll take the heat any day. You can only put on so many layers of clothing to stay warm, before it gets hard to move around because you’re so restricted in all those clothes. On the positive side, all those layers can hide extra pounds and sagging bodies. That’s a lot harder to hide in hot weather.
When it gets hot out, I can always strip down to nothing but a pair of shorts, sit in the shade, listen to the wonderful sound of the wind blowing through the leaves, and let the cool breeze that always whips across the prairie, cool me off. It’s the same breeze that brings 35 below wind chill readings in January. Somehow that breeze feels a lot more comfortable and welcome in July. Let that be a lesson to all of us. What is negative in one situation can be a positive in another situation.
As for now, I’ll bundle up, kick back in my recliner, let my brain thaw out, and dream of those warm, summer days that will be here before we know it.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Winter: Bundle Up and Tunnel In
Across the Fence #323
We’re only into the second half of January, and winter has already worn out its welcome. The snow, ice, bone-chilling cold, and slippery roads, can head south any day now.
It looks like our winter weather even got sick of staying in the north this year and took a trip south. They’ve had a real taste of winter down there. The snowbirds who fly the coop each winter, and abandon us in the Frozen Tundra, couldn’t hide from Old Man Winter this year.
I guess all the drifting that takes place around our house, makes the winter seem even worse. We’re located on a high point where the wind gets a good run at us from every direction and deposits big drifts all around the house and driveway. If I were a kid again, I’d love those big piles of snow and look at them as great places to dig snow caves and tunnels. I’d grab a shovel and get to work. But at my age, digging a snow cave, for any reason other than to use as a survival shelter, would make our neighbors and friends think I should be committed to a facility with padded walls.
I remember some of the wonderful snow caves and tunnels we dug at Smith School. We spent hours getting cold and wet as we built them. We never worried about snow collapsing on us. When you’re young you don’t think about the dangers involved in an activity. If they collapsed we simply turned the caves into snow forts and the tunnels into connecting trenches to use during our snowball fights.
We usually chose up sides for our armies. It seems like we spent days erecting elaborate forts, complete with gun ports to peek out of. Those holes didn’t do us much good because we had snowballs, not guns, and it was impossible to throw a snowball out through our gun ports from the inside. The only way to fire a snowball was to stick your head above the walls of the fort and expose yourself to a barrage of incoming fire.
The problem was, those gun ports were just big enough for an incoming snowball to smash through. If someone was extremely lucky with a throw, they might hit someone in the face as they looked through the hole. The thrower would always claim to have aimed at the hole, but none of us were expert marksmen of that caliber, and any hits were pure luck.
Before our battles began, we’d make and stockpile a large quantity of snowballs. You didn’t want to run out of ammunition in the middle of a fight if the other side charged your fort. If you had enough snowballs you could usually stop the charge and force them to retreat back to their fort.
Some years when the drifts were especially deep, we’d dig a tunnel from inside our fort and try to exit some place behind the opposing fort. We made snowballs and fortified our fort with the snow we scooped out of the tunnel. When recess was over, we’d cover the entrance of our tunnel, so the other side couldn’t find it. I don’t think we ever completed one of those tunnels. They usually caved in before we got very far.
If we had spent half the time and effort on our studies as we did building snow forts and digging tunnels, we’d have all been Rhodes scholars. On second thought, maybe that’s how we had a couple high school Valedictorians come out of our school. It must have been the work ethic they learned building snow caves and tunnels. I think we had more fun building tunnels and forts than having snowball fights when they were finished.
The unfortunate thing about snowball fights, like any fight, someone usually gets hurt. Those stockpiles of snowballs often became ice balls by the time we got around to using them. I was “wounded” one time when I took a direct hit from an ice ball, squarely in the groin. I rolled in the snow in the fetal position, in total agony, holding a part of my anatomy that shall go unmentioned, as my life passed before my eyes. I think that incident kept my voice from getting deeper for at least a couple years. The pain seemed to last that long too. I never did find out who threw that snowball.
Despite the pain, wet clothes, and frozen cheeks and fingers, that usually accompanied playing in the snow, it never seemed to deter or bother us. I guess winter is really meant for kids to have fun in. As we get older we tend to lose the playfulness that accompanies snow and winter weather. We get bogged down with the negatives of trying to cope with snow and cold weather, and forget all the positives that were there when we were young.
I haven’t helped make snow forts and tunnels since our kids were young. I think I had as much fun as they did. I’m still tempted to build a snowman when the snow is just right. I may even build another Viking ship like the one I built with the kids in Madison. If you drive out Sherpe Road one day and see a Viking ship made out of snow in our yard, you’ll know I’m ready for that padded cell.
We’re only into the second half of January, and winter has already worn out its welcome. The snow, ice, bone-chilling cold, and slippery roads, can head south any day now.
It looks like our winter weather even got sick of staying in the north this year and took a trip south. They’ve had a real taste of winter down there. The snowbirds who fly the coop each winter, and abandon us in the Frozen Tundra, couldn’t hide from Old Man Winter this year.
I guess all the drifting that takes place around our house, makes the winter seem even worse. We’re located on a high point where the wind gets a good run at us from every direction and deposits big drifts all around the house and driveway. If I were a kid again, I’d love those big piles of snow and look at them as great places to dig snow caves and tunnels. I’d grab a shovel and get to work. But at my age, digging a snow cave, for any reason other than to use as a survival shelter, would make our neighbors and friends think I should be committed to a facility with padded walls.
I remember some of the wonderful snow caves and tunnels we dug at Smith School. We spent hours getting cold and wet as we built them. We never worried about snow collapsing on us. When you’re young you don’t think about the dangers involved in an activity. If they collapsed we simply turned the caves into snow forts and the tunnels into connecting trenches to use during our snowball fights.
We usually chose up sides for our armies. It seems like we spent days erecting elaborate forts, complete with gun ports to peek out of. Those holes didn’t do us much good because we had snowballs, not guns, and it was impossible to throw a snowball out through our gun ports from the inside. The only way to fire a snowball was to stick your head above the walls of the fort and expose yourself to a barrage of incoming fire.
The problem was, those gun ports were just big enough for an incoming snowball to smash through. If someone was extremely lucky with a throw, they might hit someone in the face as they looked through the hole. The thrower would always claim to have aimed at the hole, but none of us were expert marksmen of that caliber, and any hits were pure luck.
Before our battles began, we’d make and stockpile a large quantity of snowballs. You didn’t want to run out of ammunition in the middle of a fight if the other side charged your fort. If you had enough snowballs you could usually stop the charge and force them to retreat back to their fort.
Some years when the drifts were especially deep, we’d dig a tunnel from inside our fort and try to exit some place behind the opposing fort. We made snowballs and fortified our fort with the snow we scooped out of the tunnel. When recess was over, we’d cover the entrance of our tunnel, so the other side couldn’t find it. I don’t think we ever completed one of those tunnels. They usually caved in before we got very far.
If we had spent half the time and effort on our studies as we did building snow forts and digging tunnels, we’d have all been Rhodes scholars. On second thought, maybe that’s how we had a couple high school Valedictorians come out of our school. It must have been the work ethic they learned building snow caves and tunnels. I think we had more fun building tunnels and forts than having snowball fights when they were finished.
The unfortunate thing about snowball fights, like any fight, someone usually gets hurt. Those stockpiles of snowballs often became ice balls by the time we got around to using them. I was “wounded” one time when I took a direct hit from an ice ball, squarely in the groin. I rolled in the snow in the fetal position, in total agony, holding a part of my anatomy that shall go unmentioned, as my life passed before my eyes. I think that incident kept my voice from getting deeper for at least a couple years. The pain seemed to last that long too. I never did find out who threw that snowball.
Despite the pain, wet clothes, and frozen cheeks and fingers, that usually accompanied playing in the snow, it never seemed to deter or bother us. I guess winter is really meant for kids to have fun in. As we get older we tend to lose the playfulness that accompanies snow and winter weather. We get bogged down with the negatives of trying to cope with snow and cold weather, and forget all the positives that were there when we were young.
I haven’t helped make snow forts and tunnels since our kids were young. I think I had as much fun as they did. I’m still tempted to build a snowman when the snow is just right. I may even build another Viking ship like the one I built with the kids in Madison. If you drive out Sherpe Road one day and see a Viking ship made out of snow in our yard, you’ll know I’m ready for that padded cell.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Smells Are Fuels for Time Travel
Across the Fence #322
It’s time to talk about smells again. I once read that smells are one of the main triggers to memories. How true that is for me. We’ve all experienced this. It’s like a time machine powered by smells. Take a moment and try to remember some smells that have transported you back to another time and place.
The warm smell of fresh apple pie or chocolate chip cookies, fresh from the oven, takes me back to the kitchen of the old farmhouse where I grew up. I can see Ma and Grandma Inga with their aprons on, opening the oven door to check the progress of the pie and the wonderful aroma filling the room. I see Ma placing chocolate chip cookies and date-filled cookies on the kitchen counter to cool off, and me getting to sample one, still warm from the oven. It was hard to tell if they were any good eating just one, so I’d beg to have a second one. Can’t you just smell and taste those cookies based on your own memories of similar experiences in your life?
I was reminded of this when we received a package of chocolate chip cookies from Alice (Sherpe) Parish, who lives in Arizona. Alice sends them to us every year around Christmas time. She remembers how my mother had sent me a box filled with chocolate chip cookies for Christmas when I was in Vietnam. It took forever for those cookies to arrive, but when they did, they didn’t last long. I shared them with my buddies and they tasted better than any cookies I’d ever eaten, even if they were rather hard from being in transit for so long. We didn’t have microwave ovens to heat things up in those days. But, there was always C-ration coffee to dunk a cookie in.
It’s great to still receive a package of cookies at Christmas, thanks to Alice. She’s even thoughtful enough to include some cookies for Linda, made with Splenda. Alice said she still thinks of my mother sending cookies to me as she bakes them each year. Now when I think of chocolate chip cookies, I think of both Ma and Alice. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that Linda and our daughter, Amy, also make darn good cookies.
There are many farm smells that take me back in time. The smell of fermented silage finds me up in the silo on a cold, winter day. Each fork-full of silage I throw down the silo chute releases the sweet-smelling silage. When David Torgerson and I were talking one day, he reminded me that I haven’t mentioned those frozen silage ledges. Everyone who has worked in a silo in the winter, knows how it would freeze around the outside edge. Sometimes it would be many inches thick and you had to chop at it with a pick-axe. Sparks would fly as the axe banged against the silo blocks. You ended up with heavy, frozen chunks that would bang against the sides of the chute as you tossed them down. The cows never seemed to mind if it was frozen. They always ate everything up.
Of course there’s also the sickening smell of fermented silage when you got down to the bottom of the silo pit in the spring. That was not a good smell! Not all smells bring back good memories.
How do we distinguish between good and bad smells? I read some research that mice and humans both have about 1,000 sensors in their noses. Who sits around and counts these sensors? We do have the upper hand on the evolutionary scale over mice though. Humans can identify 10,000 odors, whereas the lowly mouse can only identify 5,000. Again my question is, how does the mouse tell the researcher it can identify a smell. You see, I don’t take everything someone tells me at face value. I like to ask those tough questions, such as, if a person has a big nose, does he also have more sensors and do smells affect him more? Dogs have great noses for picking up smells too, but at least I don’t feel the need to roll around in every nasty smell I come across. You’ll never find me rolling around in new-spread manure on the hayfield behind our house… at least not on purpose!
I will admit that the smell of manure (not liquid manure) brings back memories of wallowing around in it. I ended up rolling in it a couple times when I slipped off an icy board while pushing a wheelbarrow full of the “sweet-smelling stuff” from the barn to the large manure pile behind the barn. Admit it, some of you have probably been there too.
Not all smells in a house are pleasant either. Marjorie Haugen remembers her family sprinkling white sugar or cinnamon on the burner of a hot, wood-burning stove, to get rid of bad odors in the house. The heat released pleasant smells into the air. It was an early form of air freshener, before the canned variety.
Some other smells that come to mind are new-mown hay, freshly overturned sod, Lava soap, a wood-burning stove, and the summer air after a thunderstorm. All these smells bring back memories of moments we’ve experienced. Smells, both good and bad, are the fuel of our personal time machine.
It’s time to talk about smells again. I once read that smells are one of the main triggers to memories. How true that is for me. We’ve all experienced this. It’s like a time machine powered by smells. Take a moment and try to remember some smells that have transported you back to another time and place.
The warm smell of fresh apple pie or chocolate chip cookies, fresh from the oven, takes me back to the kitchen of the old farmhouse where I grew up. I can see Ma and Grandma Inga with their aprons on, opening the oven door to check the progress of the pie and the wonderful aroma filling the room. I see Ma placing chocolate chip cookies and date-filled cookies on the kitchen counter to cool off, and me getting to sample one, still warm from the oven. It was hard to tell if they were any good eating just one, so I’d beg to have a second one. Can’t you just smell and taste those cookies based on your own memories of similar experiences in your life?
I was reminded of this when we received a package of chocolate chip cookies from Alice (Sherpe) Parish, who lives in Arizona. Alice sends them to us every year around Christmas time. She remembers how my mother had sent me a box filled with chocolate chip cookies for Christmas when I was in Vietnam. It took forever for those cookies to arrive, but when they did, they didn’t last long. I shared them with my buddies and they tasted better than any cookies I’d ever eaten, even if they were rather hard from being in transit for so long. We didn’t have microwave ovens to heat things up in those days. But, there was always C-ration coffee to dunk a cookie in.
It’s great to still receive a package of cookies at Christmas, thanks to Alice. She’s even thoughtful enough to include some cookies for Linda, made with Splenda. Alice said she still thinks of my mother sending cookies to me as she bakes them each year. Now when I think of chocolate chip cookies, I think of both Ma and Alice. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that Linda and our daughter, Amy, also make darn good cookies.
There are many farm smells that take me back in time. The smell of fermented silage finds me up in the silo on a cold, winter day. Each fork-full of silage I throw down the silo chute releases the sweet-smelling silage. When David Torgerson and I were talking one day, he reminded me that I haven’t mentioned those frozen silage ledges. Everyone who has worked in a silo in the winter, knows how it would freeze around the outside edge. Sometimes it would be many inches thick and you had to chop at it with a pick-axe. Sparks would fly as the axe banged against the silo blocks. You ended up with heavy, frozen chunks that would bang against the sides of the chute as you tossed them down. The cows never seemed to mind if it was frozen. They always ate everything up.
Of course there’s also the sickening smell of fermented silage when you got down to the bottom of the silo pit in the spring. That was not a good smell! Not all smells bring back good memories.
How do we distinguish between good and bad smells? I read some research that mice and humans both have about 1,000 sensors in their noses. Who sits around and counts these sensors? We do have the upper hand on the evolutionary scale over mice though. Humans can identify 10,000 odors, whereas the lowly mouse can only identify 5,000. Again my question is, how does the mouse tell the researcher it can identify a smell. You see, I don’t take everything someone tells me at face value. I like to ask those tough questions, such as, if a person has a big nose, does he also have more sensors and do smells affect him more? Dogs have great noses for picking up smells too, but at least I don’t feel the need to roll around in every nasty smell I come across. You’ll never find me rolling around in new-spread manure on the hayfield behind our house… at least not on purpose!
I will admit that the smell of manure (not liquid manure) brings back memories of wallowing around in it. I ended up rolling in it a couple times when I slipped off an icy board while pushing a wheelbarrow full of the “sweet-smelling stuff” from the barn to the large manure pile behind the barn. Admit it, some of you have probably been there too.
Not all smells in a house are pleasant either. Marjorie Haugen remembers her family sprinkling white sugar or cinnamon on the burner of a hot, wood-burning stove, to get rid of bad odors in the house. The heat released pleasant smells into the air. It was an early form of air freshener, before the canned variety.
Some other smells that come to mind are new-mown hay, freshly overturned sod, Lava soap, a wood-burning stove, and the summer air after a thunderstorm. All these smells bring back memories of moments we’ve experienced. Smells, both good and bad, are the fuel of our personal time machine.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Many Lights Have Gone Out
Across the Fence #321
The nights are long in the winter. When I go to work in the morning, the sun is just peeking over the horizon and it’s dark when I head home. It doesn’t leave any time to travel the back roads and enjoy the scenery. We do a lot of that in the other seasons of the year. Now it’s dark if we go out.
When I do travel back roads of this county at night, it’s very evident that the lights have gone out on many farms. There was a time when the countryside was dotted with the warm glow from the windows of farmhouses and barns. It made the cold nights of winter seem a little warmer. Each cluster of farm buildings was like a welcome island in a sea of darkness. You knew farmers were busy milking cows and the barns were full of life, noise, and activity. Nearby a warm glow also emanated from the kitchen windows of the house as supper was being prepared.
I thought about this the other evening as I drove home from work in the dark. As I passed the house where I grew up, there was no light, no warm glow, no sign of activity, no path or tracks in the snow leading to the door. The old farmhouse looked cold and lifeless. It has joined the ranks of so many other old farmhouses that are no longer lived in. Those drafty, uninsulated, old houses have not improved with age. The only source of heat for the upstairs in our old house was a small register in the floor of one room. Even that room was so cold by morning that frost and ice covered the windows and windowsills. You hated to put your bare feet on the cold floor when you had to get out of bed.
At the time, that was all we knew. Most of the people we knew lived in the same type of winter conditions as we did. We had no idea that some people lived in houses that had heat in every room. For those of you who lived in houses like ours, remember the wonderful designs that Jack Frost left on the windows each night. You had to scrape a hole in the heavy frost to see outside.
They may have been cold in the winter, but there was life in those old houses. The warmth came from old woodstoves and oil-burners, but the life and light came from the families who lived in those houses. Now so many farmhouses that once lit up the evening countryside are dark.
I hauled milk for over a year back in the early 1960s. All the farms I stopped at were small, family-run, dairy operations. Today, only a handful of those farms still have cows that need to be milked twice a day. The lights and life have gone out in most of those barns. At several places, the barns are gone, and in some cases, all the buildings have disappeared. I’m very aware that life has changed a lot since those days, but there’s a sadness about the loss of a lifestyle that was the norm for so many people at one time.
Farming involves long hours, seven days a week, in every kind of weather. It’s hard work, involves a lot of investment, and it’s hard to make a profit when milk and crop prices go down and gas, seed, fertilizer, and equipment prices keep rising. According to the Wisconsin Farm Bureau Federation, the average dairy farm in the state lost about $100 per cow per month last summer. Meanwhile, large food companies are making hefty profits and consumers are paying higher prices. Something is very wrong with that picture. Is it any surprise that so many lights have gone out.
Farmers are a tough, special class of people. I have a lot of respect for them. Farming was, and still is, one of the few businesses where a family can work together. That’s special. Unfortunately, many of us didn’t appreciate it at the time.
I left the farm after high school, but no matter where I went or what I did, the experience of growing up on a working farm had a big influence on me. The majority of people raised on farms have a work ethic that’s hard to find any place else, and it generally follows them no matter what they do in life. Even when I was in the army, the subject of farm boys came up. After we completed basic training, our platoon sergeant told several of us, “When I found out I’d be training guys who would be going to Vietnam with me, I told them I wanted Midwestern farm boys. They know how to work, they know their way around the outdoors in all kinds of weather, and they know how to shoot.” He got his wish. Most of us were Midwestern farm boys.
Times change and fewer and fewer kids have the opportunity to grow up on a farm in the country. Those of us who had that experience should consider ourselves lucky. There are many good memories to look back on. That warm glow from the windows on a cold winter night, as you walked from the barn to the house, with the sky full of stars above, is a great memory for many of us.
The nights are long in the winter. When I go to work in the morning, the sun is just peeking over the horizon and it’s dark when I head home. It doesn’t leave any time to travel the back roads and enjoy the scenery. We do a lot of that in the other seasons of the year. Now it’s dark if we go out.
When I do travel back roads of this county at night, it’s very evident that the lights have gone out on many farms. There was a time when the countryside was dotted with the warm glow from the windows of farmhouses and barns. It made the cold nights of winter seem a little warmer. Each cluster of farm buildings was like a welcome island in a sea of darkness. You knew farmers were busy milking cows and the barns were full of life, noise, and activity. Nearby a warm glow also emanated from the kitchen windows of the house as supper was being prepared.
I thought about this the other evening as I drove home from work in the dark. As I passed the house where I grew up, there was no light, no warm glow, no sign of activity, no path or tracks in the snow leading to the door. The old farmhouse looked cold and lifeless. It has joined the ranks of so many other old farmhouses that are no longer lived in. Those drafty, uninsulated, old houses have not improved with age. The only source of heat for the upstairs in our old house was a small register in the floor of one room. Even that room was so cold by morning that frost and ice covered the windows and windowsills. You hated to put your bare feet on the cold floor when you had to get out of bed.
At the time, that was all we knew. Most of the people we knew lived in the same type of winter conditions as we did. We had no idea that some people lived in houses that had heat in every room. For those of you who lived in houses like ours, remember the wonderful designs that Jack Frost left on the windows each night. You had to scrape a hole in the heavy frost to see outside.
They may have been cold in the winter, but there was life in those old houses. The warmth came from old woodstoves and oil-burners, but the life and light came from the families who lived in those houses. Now so many farmhouses that once lit up the evening countryside are dark.
I hauled milk for over a year back in the early 1960s. All the farms I stopped at were small, family-run, dairy operations. Today, only a handful of those farms still have cows that need to be milked twice a day. The lights and life have gone out in most of those barns. At several places, the barns are gone, and in some cases, all the buildings have disappeared. I’m very aware that life has changed a lot since those days, but there’s a sadness about the loss of a lifestyle that was the norm for so many people at one time.
Farming involves long hours, seven days a week, in every kind of weather. It’s hard work, involves a lot of investment, and it’s hard to make a profit when milk and crop prices go down and gas, seed, fertilizer, and equipment prices keep rising. According to the Wisconsin Farm Bureau Federation, the average dairy farm in the state lost about $100 per cow per month last summer. Meanwhile, large food companies are making hefty profits and consumers are paying higher prices. Something is very wrong with that picture. Is it any surprise that so many lights have gone out.
Farmers are a tough, special class of people. I have a lot of respect for them. Farming was, and still is, one of the few businesses where a family can work together. That’s special. Unfortunately, many of us didn’t appreciate it at the time.
I left the farm after high school, but no matter where I went or what I did, the experience of growing up on a working farm had a big influence on me. The majority of people raised on farms have a work ethic that’s hard to find any place else, and it generally follows them no matter what they do in life. Even when I was in the army, the subject of farm boys came up. After we completed basic training, our platoon sergeant told several of us, “When I found out I’d be training guys who would be going to Vietnam with me, I told them I wanted Midwestern farm boys. They know how to work, they know their way around the outdoors in all kinds of weather, and they know how to shoot.” He got his wish. Most of us were Midwestern farm boys.
Times change and fewer and fewer kids have the opportunity to grow up on a farm in the country. Those of us who had that experience should consider ourselves lucky. There are many good memories to look back on. That warm glow from the windows on a cold winter night, as you walked from the barn to the house, with the sky full of stars above, is a great memory for many of us.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
A Plethora of Winter Information
Across the Fence #320
The view out the windows, in every direction from our four-season room, is like a calendar picture. Snow clings to the pines and provides white caps to the bare branches of trees. The snow is so deep that even walking with snowshoes is a real workout.
As I sit here writing, snow is falling again. I could do without that. We have more than enough snow to last the whole winter as far as I’m concerned.
I imagine people who live in warmer climates wonder what we Northerners do all winter. I guess we sit around and talk about the weather. In my case, I write about it too, mainly because dealing with snow and cold weather occupies a lot of our time.
It seems like each time it snows, it also turns cold, bitterly cold in many cases. That’s when you put on several layers of clothes and a facemask just to go out and feed the birds. It’s not as simple as just filling the feeders when you live in the country. The wind howls and deposits huge drifts in any path that was open a few minutes earlier. I try to keep a path open to our LP tank, so Rich from Heartland Country Co-op doesn’t have to fight his way through three feet of snow to reach it. His job is tough enough in the winter. He filled it a few days ago, so we’re good for a while. Now that our fuel supply is taken care of, I’ve resorted to using my snowshoes to walk across the snow to feed the birds instead of trying to keep a path open.
I imagine some people think I should be writing about more important things than the weather, but when you live in the Frozen Tundra, weather ranks at the top of topics for discussion when people get together and talk. In days gone by, men would gather around the pot-bellied stove in a general store and discuss the weather. Now it’s hard to find a pot-bellied stove or a general store, so this column will have to do. We could talk across the fence, but the snow’s too deep along our fence-line to do much visiting there. I’ll probably get some negative feedback from people who have to work out in the snow and cold temperatures, when I talk about how nice the snow looks out our windows.
My good friend, David Giffey, is editor of the Spring Green Home News. Each week he writes a column called “Another Story.” In one of his columns he tells about an interesting discussion he had with a reader of his newspaper who was critical of things he wrote about, as well as things he didn’t write about.
He was accused of writing about trivial things, like Howard the Dog, when he should have been commenting on more important issues, namely war and body counts, specifically from the war in Afghanistan. The man had a son in Iraq at the time, and was against “Obama’s Wars.” David reminded him that the wars had been going on since 2001 when Obama was still a state senator in Illinois, and he had inherited both wars.
I found this discussion very interesting because my friend David is a Vietnam veteran, who served with the 1st Infantry Division. He knows all about war, first hand and up close. Like most of us who found ourselves involved in a war, he didn’t like what he saw and experienced either. David has been a peace activist for the 25 years I’ve known him. If there were more people with his strong convictions and courage to oppose war, perhaps this world might even experience peace one day. If you’ve driven along Highway 14 near Arena, Wisconsin on a Saturday morning and seen a man walking along the highway carrying a sign with a simple one word message, “Peace,” that’s my friend David. I hope none of the readers of this column are among the people who have thrown objects at him, shouted obscenities, or given him the one finger salute. I’m always puzzled how the word “peace” can bring out the worst in some people.
Now back to Howard the Dog that was mentioned by that man in his discussion with David. I was hoping he had named him after me, but David claims he didn’t. Darn! I think it’s a great name for a dog.
Speaking of names, in last week’s column I mention the card game “Wisk.” I meant “Whist.” I bet those of you who know your card games are wondering what Wisk is. I guess I’ll have to invent a game called Wisk now. Thanks to Matt, editor at the Jackson County Chronicle, who caught my mistake and alerted me, I was able to get the correct spelling in some papers. Maybe I can blame the Whist blunder on the weather and cold temperatures for giving me brain freeze. For those still trying to find the rules for Wisk, stay tuned. As David would say, “That’s another story.”
In this story we’ve discussed many important subjects: the weather, snow, bird feeding, LP gas, snowshoes, Obama, war, peace, signs, newspapers, dog names, card games, pot-bellied stoves, general stores, and brain freeze. Where else can you find such a plethora of information, other than visiting across the fence each week?
The view out the windows, in every direction from our four-season room, is like a calendar picture. Snow clings to the pines and provides white caps to the bare branches of trees. The snow is so deep that even walking with snowshoes is a real workout.
As I sit here writing, snow is falling again. I could do without that. We have more than enough snow to last the whole winter as far as I’m concerned.
I imagine people who live in warmer climates wonder what we Northerners do all winter. I guess we sit around and talk about the weather. In my case, I write about it too, mainly because dealing with snow and cold weather occupies a lot of our time.
It seems like each time it snows, it also turns cold, bitterly cold in many cases. That’s when you put on several layers of clothes and a facemask just to go out and feed the birds. It’s not as simple as just filling the feeders when you live in the country. The wind howls and deposits huge drifts in any path that was open a few minutes earlier. I try to keep a path open to our LP tank, so Rich from Heartland Country Co-op doesn’t have to fight his way through three feet of snow to reach it. His job is tough enough in the winter. He filled it a few days ago, so we’re good for a while. Now that our fuel supply is taken care of, I’ve resorted to using my snowshoes to walk across the snow to feed the birds instead of trying to keep a path open.
I imagine some people think I should be writing about more important things than the weather, but when you live in the Frozen Tundra, weather ranks at the top of topics for discussion when people get together and talk. In days gone by, men would gather around the pot-bellied stove in a general store and discuss the weather. Now it’s hard to find a pot-bellied stove or a general store, so this column will have to do. We could talk across the fence, but the snow’s too deep along our fence-line to do much visiting there. I’ll probably get some negative feedback from people who have to work out in the snow and cold temperatures, when I talk about how nice the snow looks out our windows.
My good friend, David Giffey, is editor of the Spring Green Home News. Each week he writes a column called “Another Story.” In one of his columns he tells about an interesting discussion he had with a reader of his newspaper who was critical of things he wrote about, as well as things he didn’t write about.
He was accused of writing about trivial things, like Howard the Dog, when he should have been commenting on more important issues, namely war and body counts, specifically from the war in Afghanistan. The man had a son in Iraq at the time, and was against “Obama’s Wars.” David reminded him that the wars had been going on since 2001 when Obama was still a state senator in Illinois, and he had inherited both wars.
I found this discussion very interesting because my friend David is a Vietnam veteran, who served with the 1st Infantry Division. He knows all about war, first hand and up close. Like most of us who found ourselves involved in a war, he didn’t like what he saw and experienced either. David has been a peace activist for the 25 years I’ve known him. If there were more people with his strong convictions and courage to oppose war, perhaps this world might even experience peace one day. If you’ve driven along Highway 14 near Arena, Wisconsin on a Saturday morning and seen a man walking along the highway carrying a sign with a simple one word message, “Peace,” that’s my friend David. I hope none of the readers of this column are among the people who have thrown objects at him, shouted obscenities, or given him the one finger salute. I’m always puzzled how the word “peace” can bring out the worst in some people.
Now back to Howard the Dog that was mentioned by that man in his discussion with David. I was hoping he had named him after me, but David claims he didn’t. Darn! I think it’s a great name for a dog.
Speaking of names, in last week’s column I mention the card game “Wisk.” I meant “Whist.” I bet those of you who know your card games are wondering what Wisk is. I guess I’ll have to invent a game called Wisk now. Thanks to Matt, editor at the Jackson County Chronicle, who caught my mistake and alerted me, I was able to get the correct spelling in some papers. Maybe I can blame the Whist blunder on the weather and cold temperatures for giving me brain freeze. For those still trying to find the rules for Wisk, stay tuned. As David would say, “That’s another story.”
In this story we’ve discussed many important subjects: the weather, snow, bird feeding, LP gas, snowshoes, Obama, war, peace, signs, newspapers, dog names, card games, pot-bellied stoves, general stores, and brain freeze. Where else can you find such a plethora of information, other than visiting across the fence each week?
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