Across the Fence #354
It’s been four months since I wrote a eulogy to the destruction of Sherpe Road and the farmland along Highway 14 between Westby and Viroqua. That column generated more comments than any story I’ve ever written. I had e-mails, phone calls, and I’m stilling getting people commenting about it when I meet someone on the street. I’d say that 99% of those people think the four-lane highway is a waste of money, especially during this time when we hear that the state is practically broke.
Education budgets are stripped to the bare bones and yet we throw money into projects like this road that local residents say isn’t needed. Except for two people who were in favor of the road, over two hundred people told me it was a total waste of money and destruction of land. One woman told me that during one of the listening sessions, where no one was listening, she asked if anyone had considered all the lost tax base from destroyed farms. The state officials admitted they hadn’t considered that problem.
I have to tell you what Trygve Thompson, a long time friend and neighbor, told me. I have his permission to relate his story.
I was born on the farm that was located just north of the Thompson farm. Our farm was located behind what is now Frontier Ag and Turf, the John Deere dealer along Highway 14. I grew up with Trygve and Joel Thompson and we often walked across the fields, and crossed the fences between our farms, to play with each other.
When the new highway was constructed back in the 1950’s, they put a tunnel under Highway 14, so Thompson’s cows could safely cross to the other side of the highway. They have around 180 acres on the west side of the road and all the buildings and 50 more acres on the east side of the road. It was fun for us kids to use the tunnel under the highway and it was a great place to play, catch frogs, and have frog races.
The new highway will eliminate that tunnel. Granted, Trygve no longer milks cows so they don’t need it for the cows to reach the other side. The problem is that the state will not put an access road across the four lanes, so farm machinery can cross to the other side. Now he’ll have to travel north from his driveway, on the two lanes to Frontier, where he can cross the road to his fields. To get back to his farm buildings, he’ll have to enter at the Frontier access and travel down the other two lanes, heading south, until he reaches the Rogers farm where he can cross the road and head back north to reach his driveway. That will be some dangerous travel with large, slow machinery.
Like everything else about this road construction, no one cares about things like this unless you’re the one affected by it. Time will tell how that access problem works out, but don’t blame Trygve if you get behind slow-moving machinery trying to do farm work. Point a finger toward the powers-to-be in Madison, who don’t seem to care about the rural disruptions and problems they create.
Many people, including readers in Iowa and Minnesota, have asked me how the road is coming along. The new lanes on the west side are almost completed. Then traffic will begin traveling on the new road and they’ll tear up the existing two lanes and redo them. Several people have commented about how empty the landscape looks now. I don’t think there’s a bush or tree left along the new highway, and the bike path that runs alongside the road will certainly be exposed.
Speaking of exposed, I’ve been suggesting that we invite the naked bike racers from Madison to come north to God’s Country and initiate the new trail when it opens. I understand they had 40-50 bikers show up for this year’s race/tour in Madison. I can guarantee that you’ll have a great view of the entire race from Westby to Viroqua, because there isn’t a bush or tree to obstruct your view. Maybe even some locals would like to join them, although I will respectfully decline any invitation. It’s tough enough biking with padded bike shorts, let alone, au naturel.
Now before you start getting together a party to tar and feather me, and run me out of town, we’ve got to have a little tongue-in-cheek humor to go along with this new highway and multi-use trail!
As I’ve said so many times in this column, times change and we can’t go back. According to the vast majority of people around here, this un-needed, wasteful spending, destructive, four-lane highway, is another of those changes we could have done without. But it’s here now and we’ll have to learn to live with it. I doubt if I’ll ever see Sherpe Road lined with large trees and brush, and full of wildlife again, in my lifetime. But I hope future generations will find it as beautiful as it was, before it was all destroyed this summer.
One last comment, if you get behind some slow-moving farm machinery near the John Deere dealer, don’t blame the farmers, they’re just trying to do their job.
*
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Cruisin' With WLS In the 60's
Across the Fence #353
Let’s take a trip back to the early 60’s… The 1960’s! Slip behind the wheel of your ’57 Chevy, crank the windows down, tune the radio to 890-AM on the dial, turn up the volume, shift into gear, pop the clutch, and we’re off for a night of cruisin’ and listenin’ fun.
It’s Saturday night, the chores are done, the cows have been milked, you took a spit bath to get some of the barn smell off, put on a clean shirt, pants, and shoes, and now it’s time to howl. In my case, that meant heading to Westby and stopping at the pool hall to see who was around. That was our meeting place on Saturday nights. After a couple games of pool, we headed out to see what kind of excitement or trouble we could find. That usually meant heading north to Lloyds’ in Cashton, also referred to by my folks as “the Snake Pit.” It was an 18-year-old beer bar. You could drink beer at 18 in Wisconsin in the 1960’s.
There actually was a lowered area at Lloyds’ where you could dance. I guess you could call that the snake pit. Saturday nights also had live, local bands playing the latest hits. I’ve always wondered why we call it “a live band,” as if a “dead band” would be playing. Although there was The Grateful Dead band, but they never made it to Lloyds’. I guess we could say it was live music as opposed to jukebox music.
I was returning home from Viroqua recently after televising baseball games. It was a beautiful summer night. The sky was filled with stars, and oldies music was playing on the car radio. It transported me back to those early 1960s nights. I didn’t have a car back then. I had to “borrow” the folk’s car if I wanted to go out, meaning any place off the farm. We usually had Chevy’s, except for a Pontiac Bonneville in the early 60’s.
AM radio was the standard in those days. I don’t remember if I knew what FM radio was. Whenever I went out at night, the radio was tuned to 890-AM, WLS in Chicago. That’s where you could listen to the Top 40 hits of the day. My favorite DJ was Dick Biondi, “The Wild Italian.” Another was Larry Lujack.
I spent many Saturday nights, cruisin’ the countryside and listenin’ to Dick Biondi. Does anyone remember him singing “On Top of a Pizza,” to the tune of On Top of Old Smokey? I used to know every word and we’d belt out the song, along with Biondi, as we cruised down the highway with the moonlight casting intriguing shadows on the countryside. There was a special magic to those times that still evokes good memories. “There’s A Moon Out Tonight” by the Capris, blasting on the radio, added to the magic of the moment. Who remembers “Dedicated To the One I Love,” and “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?” by the Shirelles. There’s also that song that eventually drove us crazy, “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor On the Bedpost Overnight?” There was “Crying” by Roy Orbison, and “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” by Ray Charles. We would also sing along with Dion as he sang “The Wanderer,” as we wandered around the back roads of Vernon County.
When I told Linda what I was writing about this week, she recalled how they would “cruise the gut” in Platteville. Main Street was a one-way street and cars would slowly cruise down the street side by side, with all the windows rolled down, as they talked back and forth until they reached the end of the street. Then they drove around and back to the top of Main and did it all over again. I suspect carloads of girls were talking to boys cruising in the other cars. We couldn’t cruise the streets of Westby side by side or we’d have been stopped and ticketed for driving on the wrong side of the highway. We just cruised over to Cashton to see what girls might be looking for a dancing partner at Lloyd’s or at Danceland between Cashton and Ontario.
I won’t go into details of our exploits or who my cruising buddies were on those Saturday night adventures, both to protect myself and my guilty friends! I’ll just say that it made it a bit awkward if one of us connected with a girl we’d like to take home, when there were three or four other guys riding in the same car. I guess we all could have driven separately, but who wants to cruise around alone?
Sometimes our night ended up like the song by The Angels, “My Boyfriend’s Back, and you’re gonna’ be in trouble!” If you asked the wrong girl to dance, a boyfriend might suddenly show up, and as the lyrics go, “So look out now cause he’s comin’ after you. Hey-la-day-la, my boyfriend’s back.” Then it was time to “Turn Me Loose” and “Hit the Road Jack.” You could always wave and say, “Save the Last Dance for Me,” as you became a “Travelin’ Man,” and cruised back to Westby with WLS radio blasting and Elvis asking, “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Sam Cooke would chime in with, “Another Saturday Night and I Ain’t Got Nobody!” But we kept on hoping and searching for that “One Fine Day,” the Chiffons sang about.
*
Let’s take a trip back to the early 60’s… The 1960’s! Slip behind the wheel of your ’57 Chevy, crank the windows down, tune the radio to 890-AM on the dial, turn up the volume, shift into gear, pop the clutch, and we’re off for a night of cruisin’ and listenin’ fun.
It’s Saturday night, the chores are done, the cows have been milked, you took a spit bath to get some of the barn smell off, put on a clean shirt, pants, and shoes, and now it’s time to howl. In my case, that meant heading to Westby and stopping at the pool hall to see who was around. That was our meeting place on Saturday nights. After a couple games of pool, we headed out to see what kind of excitement or trouble we could find. That usually meant heading north to Lloyds’ in Cashton, also referred to by my folks as “the Snake Pit.” It was an 18-year-old beer bar. You could drink beer at 18 in Wisconsin in the 1960’s.
There actually was a lowered area at Lloyds’ where you could dance. I guess you could call that the snake pit. Saturday nights also had live, local bands playing the latest hits. I’ve always wondered why we call it “a live band,” as if a “dead band” would be playing. Although there was The Grateful Dead band, but they never made it to Lloyds’. I guess we could say it was live music as opposed to jukebox music.
I was returning home from Viroqua recently after televising baseball games. It was a beautiful summer night. The sky was filled with stars, and oldies music was playing on the car radio. It transported me back to those early 1960s nights. I didn’t have a car back then. I had to “borrow” the folk’s car if I wanted to go out, meaning any place off the farm. We usually had Chevy’s, except for a Pontiac Bonneville in the early 60’s.
AM radio was the standard in those days. I don’t remember if I knew what FM radio was. Whenever I went out at night, the radio was tuned to 890-AM, WLS in Chicago. That’s where you could listen to the Top 40 hits of the day. My favorite DJ was Dick Biondi, “The Wild Italian.” Another was Larry Lujack.
I spent many Saturday nights, cruisin’ the countryside and listenin’ to Dick Biondi. Does anyone remember him singing “On Top of a Pizza,” to the tune of On Top of Old Smokey? I used to know every word and we’d belt out the song, along with Biondi, as we cruised down the highway with the moonlight casting intriguing shadows on the countryside. There was a special magic to those times that still evokes good memories. “There’s A Moon Out Tonight” by the Capris, blasting on the radio, added to the magic of the moment. Who remembers “Dedicated To the One I Love,” and “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?” by the Shirelles. There’s also that song that eventually drove us crazy, “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor On the Bedpost Overnight?” There was “Crying” by Roy Orbison, and “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” by Ray Charles. We would also sing along with Dion as he sang “The Wanderer,” as we wandered around the back roads of Vernon County.
When I told Linda what I was writing about this week, she recalled how they would “cruise the gut” in Platteville. Main Street was a one-way street and cars would slowly cruise down the street side by side, with all the windows rolled down, as they talked back and forth until they reached the end of the street. Then they drove around and back to the top of Main and did it all over again. I suspect carloads of girls were talking to boys cruising in the other cars. We couldn’t cruise the streets of Westby side by side or we’d have been stopped and ticketed for driving on the wrong side of the highway. We just cruised over to Cashton to see what girls might be looking for a dancing partner at Lloyd’s or at Danceland between Cashton and Ontario.
I won’t go into details of our exploits or who my cruising buddies were on those Saturday night adventures, both to protect myself and my guilty friends! I’ll just say that it made it a bit awkward if one of us connected with a girl we’d like to take home, when there were three or four other guys riding in the same car. I guess we all could have driven separately, but who wants to cruise around alone?
Sometimes our night ended up like the song by The Angels, “My Boyfriend’s Back, and you’re gonna’ be in trouble!” If you asked the wrong girl to dance, a boyfriend might suddenly show up, and as the lyrics go, “So look out now cause he’s comin’ after you. Hey-la-day-la, my boyfriend’s back.” Then it was time to “Turn Me Loose” and “Hit the Road Jack.” You could always wave and say, “Save the Last Dance for Me,” as you became a “Travelin’ Man,” and cruised back to Westby with WLS radio blasting and Elvis asking, “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Sam Cooke would chime in with, “Another Saturday Night and I Ain’t Got Nobody!” But we kept on hoping and searching for that “One Fine Day,” the Chiffons sang about.
*
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Life Is Full of Surprises
Across the Fence #352
You never know when someone from your past will suddenly enter your life again.
This past week, the National American Legion - Central Plains Region Baseball Tournament was held for four days in Viroqua, Wisconsin. Part of my responsibilities at Vernon Communications is supervising our community channels. We did live telecasts of all 14 games. That included a couple of 16-hour days when it was hot and humid. It seems like we’ve had that same kind of weather for many weeks now.
Our television control booth was located upstairs in the press box at the ball field. The tin roof added to the accumulated heat. To say we were perspiring is a bit of an understatement. I was sweating. Perhaps this is more information than you need, but one day I went through a large coffee in the morning to start the day. I have Norwegian blood, you know, and it’s never too hot for coffee. I also downed two bottles of water, two large Gatorades, and a large bottle of iced tea, and never had to go to the bathroom during the day. That shows how important it is to keep drinking fluids on a hot day to stay hydrated.
The televised games were also streamed over the Internet on Ustream, where people all over the country could watch the games. We even had an e-mail from someone watching in Hawaii. People in Pahrump, Nevada, were watching the games on a large screen at a local store. They were thrilled to be able to watch their sons, grandsons, and friends play in a national tournament. For three days, food arrived at noon for everyone in the press box, compliments of the fans in Nevada who were able to watch the games. It made all the work and long hours seem worth the effort when we heard from appreciative people all over the country.
But the highlight of the games occurred for me on the first day. After the introduction of players before each game, a veteran was introduced and read the Athlete’s Code of Sportsmanship. These are all American Legion sponsored teams. I had been asked to read the code at the third game of the tournament, between Richland Center, Wisconsin and Eden Valley-Watkins, Minnesota. In the introduction, Pete Swanson, the tournament director, announced who you were, when you were in service, where you served, and what unit you served in.
When 4th Infantry and Vietnam were mentioned, I heard someone in the stands, shout, “4th Infantry!” As I came off the field, a man was there to meet me. He smiled at me and said, “Do you remember me?” I looked at him, but had no clue, and had to admit it. “Herb Willner,” he said. “Holy s…” were the first words out of my mouth. It had been 44 years since we had seen each other and that was in Vietnam.
Herb was drafted out of Minnesota the same time that I was drafted. We were sworn in together in Minneapolis, went through the reception station at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri together, and were in the same basic training company in Fort Lewis, Washington. We then went to Vietnam together with the 4th Infantry Division. And now, 44 years later, we met up again in the most unlikely place. If I hadn’t read the code at the game that Eden Valley-Watkins was playing in, we’d never have connected. Herb’s grandson was a pitcher on the team, and Herb’s whole family was at the tournament.
Needless to say, neither of us looks like the lean, mean, fighting machine we were 44 years ago. When we went to Vietnam we both weighed around 175 pounds. I was 135 pounds when I came home a year later. Herb also came home a lot lighter. We both weigh a “bit” more these days! Is it any wonder that he didn’t recognize me either, until my name and unit were announced?
During the four-day tournament, we were able to reconnect as we visited between games. I’ve said it before, the phrase “Band of Brothers,” is so true when describing those of us who shared the experience of war. There’s a special bond that can’t be broken. It’s a shame that most of us never kept in contact after we came home. I guess we just wanted to put the whole experience behind us and try to forget about it.
Now after all these years, as several of us have reconnected, we find that a strong bond of friendship is still there. I called Larry Skolos, who lives near Viroqua, and he came to the ballpark to reconnect with Herb too. We’re just “three old vets” who, once upon a time, spent two “interesting years” together, sharing a common experience.
I have to admit that I was pulling for Eden Valley-Watkins, the Minnesota state champion, to win, after they beat Viroqua, our local host team, in a 3-2 thriller. Herb’s grandson won the game he pitched, and their team went undefeated in the tournament, defeating the Nevada state champion in the national championship game.
Life is full of surprises. 46 years ago we entered each other’s lives, and now 44 years after last seeing each other, we’ve reconnected. Now we’re even Facebook friends. Life never ceases to amaze me.
*
You never know when someone from your past will suddenly enter your life again.
This past week, the National American Legion - Central Plains Region Baseball Tournament was held for four days in Viroqua, Wisconsin. Part of my responsibilities at Vernon Communications is supervising our community channels. We did live telecasts of all 14 games. That included a couple of 16-hour days when it was hot and humid. It seems like we’ve had that same kind of weather for many weeks now.
Our television control booth was located upstairs in the press box at the ball field. The tin roof added to the accumulated heat. To say we were perspiring is a bit of an understatement. I was sweating. Perhaps this is more information than you need, but one day I went through a large coffee in the morning to start the day. I have Norwegian blood, you know, and it’s never too hot for coffee. I also downed two bottles of water, two large Gatorades, and a large bottle of iced tea, and never had to go to the bathroom during the day. That shows how important it is to keep drinking fluids on a hot day to stay hydrated.
The televised games were also streamed over the Internet on Ustream, where people all over the country could watch the games. We even had an e-mail from someone watching in Hawaii. People in Pahrump, Nevada, were watching the games on a large screen at a local store. They were thrilled to be able to watch their sons, grandsons, and friends play in a national tournament. For three days, food arrived at noon for everyone in the press box, compliments of the fans in Nevada who were able to watch the games. It made all the work and long hours seem worth the effort when we heard from appreciative people all over the country.
But the highlight of the games occurred for me on the first day. After the introduction of players before each game, a veteran was introduced and read the Athlete’s Code of Sportsmanship. These are all American Legion sponsored teams. I had been asked to read the code at the third game of the tournament, between Richland Center, Wisconsin and Eden Valley-Watkins, Minnesota. In the introduction, Pete Swanson, the tournament director, announced who you were, when you were in service, where you served, and what unit you served in.
When 4th Infantry and Vietnam were mentioned, I heard someone in the stands, shout, “4th Infantry!” As I came off the field, a man was there to meet me. He smiled at me and said, “Do you remember me?” I looked at him, but had no clue, and had to admit it. “Herb Willner,” he said. “Holy s…” were the first words out of my mouth. It had been 44 years since we had seen each other and that was in Vietnam.
Herb was drafted out of Minnesota the same time that I was drafted. We were sworn in together in Minneapolis, went through the reception station at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri together, and were in the same basic training company in Fort Lewis, Washington. We then went to Vietnam together with the 4th Infantry Division. And now, 44 years later, we met up again in the most unlikely place. If I hadn’t read the code at the game that Eden Valley-Watkins was playing in, we’d never have connected. Herb’s grandson was a pitcher on the team, and Herb’s whole family was at the tournament.
Needless to say, neither of us looks like the lean, mean, fighting machine we were 44 years ago. When we went to Vietnam we both weighed around 175 pounds. I was 135 pounds when I came home a year later. Herb also came home a lot lighter. We both weigh a “bit” more these days! Is it any wonder that he didn’t recognize me either, until my name and unit were announced?
During the four-day tournament, we were able to reconnect as we visited between games. I’ve said it before, the phrase “Band of Brothers,” is so true when describing those of us who shared the experience of war. There’s a special bond that can’t be broken. It’s a shame that most of us never kept in contact after we came home. I guess we just wanted to put the whole experience behind us and try to forget about it.
Now after all these years, as several of us have reconnected, we find that a strong bond of friendship is still there. I called Larry Skolos, who lives near Viroqua, and he came to the ballpark to reconnect with Herb too. We’re just “three old vets” who, once upon a time, spent two “interesting years” together, sharing a common experience.
I have to admit that I was pulling for Eden Valley-Watkins, the Minnesota state champion, to win, after they beat Viroqua, our local host team, in a 3-2 thriller. Herb’s grandson won the game he pitched, and their team went undefeated in the tournament, defeating the Nevada state champion in the national championship game.
Life is full of surprises. 46 years ago we entered each other’s lives, and now 44 years after last seeing each other, we’ve reconnected. Now we’re even Facebook friends. Life never ceases to amaze me.
*
Saturday, August 6, 2011
What A Tangled Web We Grow
Across the Fence #351
I come from a long line of farmers. My father, grandfathers, great grandfathers, and many generations that reach back to the Viking age in Norway were farmers. From my genealogy research, it appears the vast majority of my ancestors farmed the land. That’s a lot of DNA dirt under my fingernails. Is it any wonder that I feel an irresistible urge to dig in the dirt and try to make things grow?
Times have changed and today there are fewer farmers. I’ve become one of the many offspring who no longer follow the farming tradition that we grew up in. Fortunately, my brother, Arden, has continued the tradition and has the home farm. Chances are, he could be the last Sherpe, in a long, unbroken line, who knows what it’s like to plant and harvest a crop, and milk a cow.
I can’t call myself a farmer, but I’m still planting and harvesting. I have a garden. It helps keep some dirt under my fingernails. It’s not a big garden. Actually, it’s quite small as gardens go, but I still call it a garden. My mother had a huge garden when I was young. The rows were long and straight. She had a wide variety of vegetables and very few weeds in her garden. We got to help her plant and keep the weeds out.
She must be looking at my garden from the Spirit World and shaking her head in pity. My garden isn’t exactly a thing of beauty. Truth be told, it’s down right ugly. On the bright side, it’s such a tangled web of interwoven vines that even the animals and birds can’t find anything to pilfer.
The problem is that it’s a very small garden with way too much stuff, planted too close together. Ma’s garden was so large that Dad used our John Deere B tractor and pulled a disk and drag to prepare the soil for planting. My garden’s not that big.
I like to call myself frugal, but Linda claims I’m cheap. I know I should have rented a rototiller for half a day, but decided I could prepare the ground with a shovel and rake. I also told myself that I could use the exercise. It was a lot of digging and the size of garden I had in my mind, kept getting smaller the longer I dug. I eventually ran out of gas and decided I’d just plant shorter rows and put them closer together. In the end, I should have rented that rototiller, but I was too cheap. Ok, there I said it! I’m cheap.
After beating and raking the big lumps of dirt into little lumps, I planted sugar snap peas, green beans, cucumbers, radishes, onions, tomatoes, beets, and this year decided to try raising some pumpkins too. Not a good idea in a small garden. Those of you who know about gardens probably took note that many of the things I planted have vines that spread out.
My garden has turned into a battlefield as all the clinging, spreading, climbing vines attack each other. It’s become a tangled, green web that would be the envy of any spider. On the positive side again, it’s even strangled the life out of most of the weeds. Although, some very hardy thistles have managed to survive and come back every year, no matter how hard I try beating them into submission.
Despite the pitiful appearance of the garden, it’s actually producing. The problem is to untangle all the clinging vines and leaves in order to find the peas, beans, and cucumbers. When I planted the seeds, I wondered if pumpkins would grow in that area. I can now report that they’re thriving and spreading. If I get a pumpkin for every blossom, I’ll need to set up a stand down by the highway and sell pumpkins this fall. I’ll keep you posted on how they develop.
I didn’t plant any sunflowers this year, but there in the center of all the tangled mess, rising toward the sky, is a sunflower, produced from a fallen seed. It’s always surprising to see what springs forth from those tiny seeds. There’s also a sunflower growing next to the cornfield near our driveway. Probably a seed carried by a bird and dropped there last fall. Now it stands tall and colorful in all its glory. Many seeds we plant in our gardens never germinate under the best of conditions, and yet these wayward seeds took root on their own and produced sunflowers. I’m continually amazed by the life cycle of plants.
I guess that’s what brings out the farmer in all of us who attempt growing gardens filled with plants and vegetables. It’s always fun to watch those small seeds emerge and develop… in my case, into a tangled mess. Even if it’s not a thing of beauty to look at, there’s still something special about producing your own food. Those radish sandwiches taste so much better when you know they grew from seeds you planted and were nourished by some of the dirt under your fingernails.
I can’t break the chain of tradition, practiced by my long line of ancestral farmers. My contribution is only a small plot of land, with a tangled, unsightly, web of vines and veggies, but I still call it “my garden.”
I come from a long line of farmers. My father, grandfathers, great grandfathers, and many generations that reach back to the Viking age in Norway were farmers. From my genealogy research, it appears the vast majority of my ancestors farmed the land. That’s a lot of DNA dirt under my fingernails. Is it any wonder that I feel an irresistible urge to dig in the dirt and try to make things grow?
Times have changed and today there are fewer farmers. I’ve become one of the many offspring who no longer follow the farming tradition that we grew up in. Fortunately, my brother, Arden, has continued the tradition and has the home farm. Chances are, he could be the last Sherpe, in a long, unbroken line, who knows what it’s like to plant and harvest a crop, and milk a cow.
I can’t call myself a farmer, but I’m still planting and harvesting. I have a garden. It helps keep some dirt under my fingernails. It’s not a big garden. Actually, it’s quite small as gardens go, but I still call it a garden. My mother had a huge garden when I was young. The rows were long and straight. She had a wide variety of vegetables and very few weeds in her garden. We got to help her plant and keep the weeds out.
She must be looking at my garden from the Spirit World and shaking her head in pity. My garden isn’t exactly a thing of beauty. Truth be told, it’s down right ugly. On the bright side, it’s such a tangled web of interwoven vines that even the animals and birds can’t find anything to pilfer.
The problem is that it’s a very small garden with way too much stuff, planted too close together. Ma’s garden was so large that Dad used our John Deere B tractor and pulled a disk and drag to prepare the soil for planting. My garden’s not that big.
I like to call myself frugal, but Linda claims I’m cheap. I know I should have rented a rototiller for half a day, but decided I could prepare the ground with a shovel and rake. I also told myself that I could use the exercise. It was a lot of digging and the size of garden I had in my mind, kept getting smaller the longer I dug. I eventually ran out of gas and decided I’d just plant shorter rows and put them closer together. In the end, I should have rented that rototiller, but I was too cheap. Ok, there I said it! I’m cheap.
After beating and raking the big lumps of dirt into little lumps, I planted sugar snap peas, green beans, cucumbers, radishes, onions, tomatoes, beets, and this year decided to try raising some pumpkins too. Not a good idea in a small garden. Those of you who know about gardens probably took note that many of the things I planted have vines that spread out.
My garden has turned into a battlefield as all the clinging, spreading, climbing vines attack each other. It’s become a tangled, green web that would be the envy of any spider. On the positive side again, it’s even strangled the life out of most of the weeds. Although, some very hardy thistles have managed to survive and come back every year, no matter how hard I try beating them into submission.
Despite the pitiful appearance of the garden, it’s actually producing. The problem is to untangle all the clinging vines and leaves in order to find the peas, beans, and cucumbers. When I planted the seeds, I wondered if pumpkins would grow in that area. I can now report that they’re thriving and spreading. If I get a pumpkin for every blossom, I’ll need to set up a stand down by the highway and sell pumpkins this fall. I’ll keep you posted on how they develop.
I didn’t plant any sunflowers this year, but there in the center of all the tangled mess, rising toward the sky, is a sunflower, produced from a fallen seed. It’s always surprising to see what springs forth from those tiny seeds. There’s also a sunflower growing next to the cornfield near our driveway. Probably a seed carried by a bird and dropped there last fall. Now it stands tall and colorful in all its glory. Many seeds we plant in our gardens never germinate under the best of conditions, and yet these wayward seeds took root on their own and produced sunflowers. I’m continually amazed by the life cycle of plants.
I guess that’s what brings out the farmer in all of us who attempt growing gardens filled with plants and vegetables. It’s always fun to watch those small seeds emerge and develop… in my case, into a tangled mess. Even if it’s not a thing of beauty to look at, there’s still something special about producing your own food. Those radish sandwiches taste so much better when you know they grew from seeds you planted and were nourished by some of the dirt under your fingernails.
I can’t break the chain of tradition, practiced by my long line of ancestral farmers. My contribution is only a small plot of land, with a tangled, unsightly, web of vines and veggies, but I still call it “my garden.”
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