Across the Fence #380
Washing clothes for most people consists of taking the dirty clothes that have filled up the clothes basket, throw them in the washing machine, add some detergent, close the lid, turn the machine on, and let it go to work. When the washer shuts off and the buzzer sounds, you take the wet clothes out and throw them in the dryer, usually located right next to the washer. Turn it on and go do some other work or put your feet up and rest. When the dryer quits, take the clothes out, fold them up, and put them away. Very few people iron clothes these days.
Lets take a journey back to “the good old days” as some people like to call them. Lets go way back before electricity and wringer washing machines, back to the old scrub board. I know some of you remember them because you told me how you used them.
For those of you who are too young to remember what it was like to wash clothes in those days, let me tell you a little about it. I can’t report that I had any hands-on experiences, but I do remember watching as my mother and grandmother washed our dirty clothes. In the good old days, washday meant exactly that, it was an all-day job.
Lets talk about washboards first. A washboard was a tool designed for hand washing clothing. The traditional washboard was usually constructed with a rectangular wooden frame in which a series of ridges or corrugations were mounted. In the summer, washing was often done outside on the lawn. In the winter it was moved inside, usually in the kitchen area. The clothing was soaked in a tub of hot water with soap added, and then was rubbed by hand over those ridges to remove dirt. One practitioner of this art said they used P&G Soap, a brown-looking soap. Another said they used lye soap. There was also “Bluing Agent” to make the whites whiter and starch to make them stiffer. By the way, the water had to be heated on the wood stove and then carried and emptied into the large tubs. It was hard, back-breaking work. You often skinned your knuckles and could even take a chunk out of your hand if a piece of the aluminum or steel ribbing broke.
After rubbing the dirt out, the soap had to be wrung out by hand, unless you had a portable wringer that you could attach to the washtub. The wringer was turned by hand. Then the clothing was placed in a second tub of hot water used to rinse the clothes. You needed to wring the water out of them again.
Luckily for most people, scrub boards are mainly used as decorations and as musical instruments these days. We have a small, old scrub board in our laundry area next to a modern washer and dryer.
A great improvement over the scrub board was the advent of the wringer-washing machine. Some of the first ones were made of wood and had a wood handle that you moved back and forth to work the agitator located inside the tub. You can see these early washing machines if you visit Norkedalen near Coon Valley, Wisconsin.
Next came the gas-operated and electric wringer-washers. Finally, the machine provided the agitation to clean the clothes, but you still had to heat the water on the wood stove unless you had hot-running water in the house. You still had to run the wet clothes through the wringer attached to the washer too. The wringers, located over the basin, swung out to open the cover and swung back so the water drained back into the basin when you ran the wet clothes through them. You still needed a second tub of hot, clean water to rinse the clothes. It was still a lot of work and an all-day job.
Linda said that washing clothes was a special time when she would talk with her mom while helping with the washing. They washed in the basement and she would sit on the steps leading to the basement while they talked.
In those good old days, people didn’t throw the clean clothes in a dryer. They were carried in a basket out to the clothesline, where they were hung up to dry in the fresh air. First, the lines had to be wiped clean of dirt and any bird droppings. The clothes were fastened to the lines with clothes pins. If you wanted to conserve on clothes pins you arranged two items so they could share one clothes pin. Early wooden pins just pushed down on the clothes and later ones were spring-loaded.
If a rain shower suddenly appeared you had to run out and gather up all the clothes and take them inside where they were usually dumped on the kitchen table. In the winter, clothes would be frozen solid and were also spread out on the kitchen table to thaw out. Can’t you just picture a frozen shirt or bib overalls?
In the good old days, many clothes were also ironed before folding and putting them away. That was really a lot of work when you had to heat irons on the wood stove.
I think whoever said those were the good old days, never had to wash clothes by hand.
*
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Remembering the Montagnards
Across the Fence #379
When I was asked to do the program for our next Sons of Norway meeting, I decided it was time to talk about my work with the Montagnards in Vietnam. I wanted people to know about these remarkable people. I bet most of you have never heard of them.
The term Montagnard means “Mountain People” in French and comes from the French colonial period in Vietnam. The Vietnamese called them moi, meaning “savages.” As the indigenous people of the Central Highlands, the Montagnards had a completely different culture and language than the Vietnamese. I had many misconceptions about the Montagnards when I first worked with them, based on what the Vietnamese had said about them.
All that changed after I got to know them. I loved working with the Montagnards and still hold a special respect and affection for them. They were primitive by our standards, but they were good and trustworthy people. I believe my helping them and gaining their trust and friendship helped keep me from harm and perhaps even death.
I spent many days on MEDCAP (Medical Civic Action Program) during my year in Vietnam. Volunteers were wanted to go out to remote Montagnard tribal villages and provide medical treatment, but they warned us that it would be dangerous. I decided if I was going to be killed, I’d rather go trying to help people. When we weren’t out on combat operations, we’d try to visit villages a couple days a week and spend the day providing medical treatment. We always had an interpreter along because we couldn’t speak the language. Many times, only Sgt. Ishe-the interpreter, and myself would go.
When I look back on the many times we headed out across small trails through the boonies in our jeep ambulance, I realize how lucky I am that we never hit a mine, a booby trap, or were ambushed. This was especially true when just the two of us went.
But it was all worth it. I had so many great experiences working with the Montagnards. There were also some heartbreaking times when I couldn’t help someone and they died. Many times it was because the village Shaman wouldn’t let the villagers accept our treatments. They had survived without modern medicine for centuries and it’s hard to change the old ways of providing sacrifices and bloodletting to appease the spirits and heal the people. It wasn’t until the mid 1950s, that many of the once-isolated Montagnards began experiencing contact with outsiders. A couple remote villages I visited had very little outside contact before we arrived.
I found it fascinating to learn about their beliefs and experience how they lived. There are so many stories to tell, and I’ll touch on some of them during the Sons of Norway program and show slides that I took of their way of life.
They practiced slash-and-burn farming. A village community would clear a few acres in the jungle by cutting down and burning the forests. They would farm that area for several years and then move on to another area. They hunted with crossbows and arrows and used spears. Clothing was minimal during the warm seasons. The men wore a g-string, the woman a wrap-around garment on the lower part of their body and nothing on top. Most young children wore nothing. Everyone was barefoot.
The traditional religion of the Montagnards was animism. This is a belief that spirits are active in all things in the natural world. There are both good and bad spirits. I was invited to sit in on rituals that often involved the sacrifice and blood letting of animals. Another practice I witnessed was a man making a large cut in his thigh to release any bad spirits that were inhabiting his family. It was part of a funeral celebration for a family member who had just died. He then took a red-hot stick and cauterized his own wound. All this was done without showing any sign of pain. They were a very stoic people.
There was a very sick young girl in one of my villages. Her only chance of survival was getting her to our base camp aid station where she could be fed intravenously. I wanted to start an IV and take her with us back to our camp. We wanted her parents to let me treat her, but village elders and the Shaman convinced them that she must remain in the village and let their Spirits heal her. No matter how much we tried, Sgt. Ishe couldn’t get them to change their minds. At the time I didn’t know all their beliefs, but now I understand why they wouldn’t let me remove her from the village. If she had died away from her village, her Spirit would have wandered the countryside for eternity trying to find its way home.
I remember looking into the little girls eyes as she lay on the mat in their longhouse. She was too weak to even move. It made me sick to know we could help her but weren’t allowed to. It wasn’t fair to that little girl. As I knelt beside her, I squeezed her hand before I left. The next morning she was dead.
It was just another day in Vietnam, but that little girl’s death still haunts me.
*
When I was asked to do the program for our next Sons of Norway meeting, I decided it was time to talk about my work with the Montagnards in Vietnam. I wanted people to know about these remarkable people. I bet most of you have never heard of them.
The term Montagnard means “Mountain People” in French and comes from the French colonial period in Vietnam. The Vietnamese called them moi, meaning “savages.” As the indigenous people of the Central Highlands, the Montagnards had a completely different culture and language than the Vietnamese. I had many misconceptions about the Montagnards when I first worked with them, based on what the Vietnamese had said about them.
All that changed after I got to know them. I loved working with the Montagnards and still hold a special respect and affection for them. They were primitive by our standards, but they were good and trustworthy people. I believe my helping them and gaining their trust and friendship helped keep me from harm and perhaps even death.
I spent many days on MEDCAP (Medical Civic Action Program) during my year in Vietnam. Volunteers were wanted to go out to remote Montagnard tribal villages and provide medical treatment, but they warned us that it would be dangerous. I decided if I was going to be killed, I’d rather go trying to help people. When we weren’t out on combat operations, we’d try to visit villages a couple days a week and spend the day providing medical treatment. We always had an interpreter along because we couldn’t speak the language. Many times, only Sgt. Ishe-the interpreter, and myself would go.
When I look back on the many times we headed out across small trails through the boonies in our jeep ambulance, I realize how lucky I am that we never hit a mine, a booby trap, or were ambushed. This was especially true when just the two of us went.
But it was all worth it. I had so many great experiences working with the Montagnards. There were also some heartbreaking times when I couldn’t help someone and they died. Many times it was because the village Shaman wouldn’t let the villagers accept our treatments. They had survived without modern medicine for centuries and it’s hard to change the old ways of providing sacrifices and bloodletting to appease the spirits and heal the people. It wasn’t until the mid 1950s, that many of the once-isolated Montagnards began experiencing contact with outsiders. A couple remote villages I visited had very little outside contact before we arrived.
I found it fascinating to learn about their beliefs and experience how they lived. There are so many stories to tell, and I’ll touch on some of them during the Sons of Norway program and show slides that I took of their way of life.
They practiced slash-and-burn farming. A village community would clear a few acres in the jungle by cutting down and burning the forests. They would farm that area for several years and then move on to another area. They hunted with crossbows and arrows and used spears. Clothing was minimal during the warm seasons. The men wore a g-string, the woman a wrap-around garment on the lower part of their body and nothing on top. Most young children wore nothing. Everyone was barefoot.
The traditional religion of the Montagnards was animism. This is a belief that spirits are active in all things in the natural world. There are both good and bad spirits. I was invited to sit in on rituals that often involved the sacrifice and blood letting of animals. Another practice I witnessed was a man making a large cut in his thigh to release any bad spirits that were inhabiting his family. It was part of a funeral celebration for a family member who had just died. He then took a red-hot stick and cauterized his own wound. All this was done without showing any sign of pain. They were a very stoic people.
There was a very sick young girl in one of my villages. Her only chance of survival was getting her to our base camp aid station where she could be fed intravenously. I wanted to start an IV and take her with us back to our camp. We wanted her parents to let me treat her, but village elders and the Shaman convinced them that she must remain in the village and let their Spirits heal her. No matter how much we tried, Sgt. Ishe couldn’t get them to change their minds. At the time I didn’t know all their beliefs, but now I understand why they wouldn’t let me remove her from the village. If she had died away from her village, her Spirit would have wandered the countryside for eternity trying to find its way home.
I remember looking into the little girls eyes as she lay on the mat in their longhouse. She was too weak to even move. It made me sick to know we could help her but weren’t allowed to. It wasn’t fair to that little girl. As I knelt beside her, I squeezed her hand before I left. The next morning she was dead.
It was just another day in Vietnam, but that little girl’s death still haunts me.
*
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Delia, A Very Remakable Lady
Across the Fence #378
Abraham Lincoln said, “We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.”
If there was ever a person who personifies that quote by Abe Lincoln, it’s Delia Stendalen from Westby. She’s not a complainer. She rejoices because thorn bushes have roses.
I recently interviewed Delia on our “Conversations Across the Fence” program on Vernon Communication’s Community Channel 14. I’ve wanted to interview her for a long time. She’ll be 98 on April 16, 2012.
Delia and I share common ancestors. Her grandmother and my great grandmother were sisters. Let me tell you a few things about this remarkable lady.
Delia still has the attitude that she can do anything she sets her mind to. She still drives her own car. Her license is good until she turns 103. She said they probably won’t want to give her a new one at that time. She still mows her own lawn and shovels her own driveway most of the time. Other people have tried to beat her to the punch and shovel it for her, but they need to get up mighty early in the morning. She usually has it almost cleared by the time help arrives. Two years ago she had the ladder up against the house and was clearing her gutters. Her daughters told her she shouldn’t be climbing up ladders and onto the roof any more and took her ladder away. So what did Delia do? She went to a neighbor and borrowed their ladder and then waited until dark to clean her gutters so no one would see her. Her daughters have now warned the neighbors to not lend her a ladder if she asks for one! Next time you have some aches and pains or don’t feel like doing something, think of Delia. She’s not about to let anything stop her. When a neighbor lady had problems pumping gas because of pain in her hands, Delia said she’d ride with and pump it for her.
This is a lady who never complains about thorns, she only sees the roses. I don’t think the words, “I can’t do it,” are in her vocabulary. At the age of 91 she went parasailing. She’d like to do it again. Even though she has a life-long fear of water, she went tubing on the river when she was in her 80’s.
Delia grew up on a farm near Bloomingdale, Wisconsin and as she puts it, she was her father’s right hand and later her husband’s right hand. She helped with all the chores, milked cows by hand, used a wheel borrow to take the manure out of the barn, piled hay bales on the wagons, climbed in tobacco sheds and helped hang tobacco, and the list goes on and on. While cutting tobacco when she was young, her sister, who was chopping behind her, accidentally cut her in the butt. People who have raised tobacco know how sharp those axes are. She said it bled a lot but they didn’t want her folks to find out, so they never told them, and she never had the cut looked at by a doctor. Another time she broke two ribs but kept on working despite the pain. I don’t know how she did it.
She’s a tough Norwegian and still drinks many cups of coffee each day, including one before she goes to bed. She also loves cookies and chocolates.
Delia finished eighth grade but wasn’t able to go to high school because she had to help on the farm. She was also an accomplished musician and played piano and accordion for many years in a band called The Prairie Ramblers. With money she had saved, she was able to buy a small accordion. She never had a music lesson and learned to play it on her own. Their band was in great demand, and they were even featured on a radio program in La Crosse. It was during a dance that she met her husband. He was playing in another band. Her daughters didn’t know she had been in a dance band until a few years ago. Delia is not one to brag about anything.
In her almost 98 years she has seen many changes. She saw the transition of going from farming with horses to using tractors. She went from riding in a buggy and sleigh pulled by horses to her first ride in a car. She saw her first airplane fly over when she was young and wondered how long it could stay up in the sky. She remembers first hearing a radio and was fascinated by the music that came out of it. She lived through those tough days of the Great Depression, but even when telling about it doesn’t complain. “Everyone suffered through it,” she says, “but we made due with what we had.”
Delia said, “When times were hard we just had to keep on going and we made it.” You don’t hear her complaining about the thorns of life, she just keeps her eyes on the roses. Later that day after doing the interview, three of us were at a conference. We came to a place where we could take the escalator or the stairs up to where our meeting was. Randi Smalley, who had done the videotaping during the interview, said, “What would Delia do?” The answer was easy; we took the stairs.
*
Abraham Lincoln said, “We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.”
If there was ever a person who personifies that quote by Abe Lincoln, it’s Delia Stendalen from Westby. She’s not a complainer. She rejoices because thorn bushes have roses.
I recently interviewed Delia on our “Conversations Across the Fence” program on Vernon Communication’s Community Channel 14. I’ve wanted to interview her for a long time. She’ll be 98 on April 16, 2012.
Delia and I share common ancestors. Her grandmother and my great grandmother were sisters. Let me tell you a few things about this remarkable lady.
Delia still has the attitude that she can do anything she sets her mind to. She still drives her own car. Her license is good until she turns 103. She said they probably won’t want to give her a new one at that time. She still mows her own lawn and shovels her own driveway most of the time. Other people have tried to beat her to the punch and shovel it for her, but they need to get up mighty early in the morning. She usually has it almost cleared by the time help arrives. Two years ago she had the ladder up against the house and was clearing her gutters. Her daughters told her she shouldn’t be climbing up ladders and onto the roof any more and took her ladder away. So what did Delia do? She went to a neighbor and borrowed their ladder and then waited until dark to clean her gutters so no one would see her. Her daughters have now warned the neighbors to not lend her a ladder if she asks for one! Next time you have some aches and pains or don’t feel like doing something, think of Delia. She’s not about to let anything stop her. When a neighbor lady had problems pumping gas because of pain in her hands, Delia said she’d ride with and pump it for her.
This is a lady who never complains about thorns, she only sees the roses. I don’t think the words, “I can’t do it,” are in her vocabulary. At the age of 91 she went parasailing. She’d like to do it again. Even though she has a life-long fear of water, she went tubing on the river when she was in her 80’s.
Delia grew up on a farm near Bloomingdale, Wisconsin and as she puts it, she was her father’s right hand and later her husband’s right hand. She helped with all the chores, milked cows by hand, used a wheel borrow to take the manure out of the barn, piled hay bales on the wagons, climbed in tobacco sheds and helped hang tobacco, and the list goes on and on. While cutting tobacco when she was young, her sister, who was chopping behind her, accidentally cut her in the butt. People who have raised tobacco know how sharp those axes are. She said it bled a lot but they didn’t want her folks to find out, so they never told them, and she never had the cut looked at by a doctor. Another time she broke two ribs but kept on working despite the pain. I don’t know how she did it.
She’s a tough Norwegian and still drinks many cups of coffee each day, including one before she goes to bed. She also loves cookies and chocolates.
Delia finished eighth grade but wasn’t able to go to high school because she had to help on the farm. She was also an accomplished musician and played piano and accordion for many years in a band called The Prairie Ramblers. With money she had saved, she was able to buy a small accordion. She never had a music lesson and learned to play it on her own. Their band was in great demand, and they were even featured on a radio program in La Crosse. It was during a dance that she met her husband. He was playing in another band. Her daughters didn’t know she had been in a dance band until a few years ago. Delia is not one to brag about anything.
In her almost 98 years she has seen many changes. She saw the transition of going from farming with horses to using tractors. She went from riding in a buggy and sleigh pulled by horses to her first ride in a car. She saw her first airplane fly over when she was young and wondered how long it could stay up in the sky. She remembers first hearing a radio and was fascinated by the music that came out of it. She lived through those tough days of the Great Depression, but even when telling about it doesn’t complain. “Everyone suffered through it,” she says, “but we made due with what we had.”
Delia said, “When times were hard we just had to keep on going and we made it.” You don’t hear her complaining about the thorns of life, she just keeps her eyes on the roses. Later that day after doing the interview, three of us were at a conference. We came to a place where we could take the escalator or the stairs up to where our meeting was. Randi Smalley, who had done the videotaping during the interview, said, “What would Delia do?” The answer was easy; we took the stairs.
*
Sunday, February 5, 2012
The Soulful Sounds of Winter
Across the Fence #377
What sounds do you think of when you think of winter? This week I had an e-mail from my long-time friend, Lowell Nordling, who lives in Madison. His message gave me the idea for a story. I told him I’d dedicate this column to him. He said, “I was thinking of you this morning. When I walked out for the paper, there was that special crunch to the snow that reminded me of walking across the yard on my way to school. Whenever I hear it I’m halfway across the yard, by the swing made from discarded telephone poles. It’s quite vivid. In trying to think of a way to explain it to those who have never experienced the pleasure of the sound I thought, ‘I’d like to hear Howard explain it.’”
OK Lowell, here goes. My mind transports me back to cold winter nights when the chores and milking were done. The last milk cans had been carried to the cooler in the milk house and deposited in the cold water. A dozen cats were busy lapping up the milk we had poured into an overturned milk can lid. The stillness in the barn was a sharp contrast to the loud noise of the vacuum pump motor that provided suction for the milking machines. With the motor turned off we could hear the snarling of the cats as they jostled for position to get their share of the milk. The jangling of the stanchions was heard as cows stretched, trying to pilfer remaining feed from a neighboring cow, before bedding down for the night.
As I headed for the house, the sound of my boots crunching snow crystals in the evening snow, created a soothing tempo with each step I took. I was headed for the warmth of our house and each step took me closer. The colder the night, the more it made a squeaky crunch as I made my way over the hard-packed snow. It shattered the stillness of the cold night. When I stopped to look at the stars, not a sound could be heard. My breath turned to clouds of smoke in the below zero air. Billions of stars could be seen in the crystal clear sky. It would be a cold night. I didn’t know at the time that many of those stars I was looking at were actually galaxies far beyond our Milky Way. I had no concept of the enormity of our universe at the time. I was experiencing the same sound of crunching snow and seeing the same celestial sights that my ancestors did when they walked through the snow on a cold winter night, long before I was born. Some things never change.
As I continued toward the house, a slight breeze made the windmill groan and creak for a moment. Then the silence of the night enveloped me again. The sounds, or lack of sounds, in winter are very soothing to those of us who cherish nature’s sounds over constant man-made noise. Snow creates a blanket that softens and muffles sound. It also provides a mirror that reflects light, making everything brighter. It can fill that blanket of snow with millions of sparkling diamonds. An evening walk in the snow is an experience that everyone should enjoy at some point in their life. It’s like Lowell said, it’s hard to explain the experience to someone who’s never had it.
Winter is also the chatter of Chickadees and the flutter of wings as they hurry to the feeder when I bring their food. It’s the sound of a flock of Mourning Doves taking flight from the safety of their evening shelter as I approach the grove of trees. It’s the evening call of the Barred Owl from those same trees, “Who, Who, Who Cooks for You.”
When the temperature dips below zero, you can hear the foundation of a house settle in as it snaps in the cold. It’s like venturing across a lake in the dead of winter and hearing the ice snap under your feet, sounding like a gunshot.
Winter is standing in the silence and beauty of large snowflakes falling all around you and catching them on your tongue. There’s no sound as they land, just a brief, cool moment before the warmth of your tongue returns the intricate, lacy designs back to water.
Winter is the sound of downhill skis chattering across the snow as you fly down a ski run on a cold evening in Wisconsin. My cousin-in-law, Lou, says you can always tell a Midwestern skier. They’re used to leaning forward, carving into icy snow, instead of sitting back and riding the powder runs they have in Colorado. It takes ice skiers a while to learn the technique of skiing powder. I also hear the gentle shush of cross-country skis as they glide across the snow, the cool wind stinging my cheeks, as I lick at the icicles that my heavy breathing has formed in my mustache. Night skiing with the stars surrounding you enhances the peacefulness and beauty of the moment.
Perhaps those are the words I’ve been looking for to describe these winter experiences. There’s a quiet, peacefulness and beauty of the moment that seems to permeate your soul and make you one with nature. It’s when you reach that point that you feel totally alive and that all is well with the world.
*
What sounds do you think of when you think of winter? This week I had an e-mail from my long-time friend, Lowell Nordling, who lives in Madison. His message gave me the idea for a story. I told him I’d dedicate this column to him. He said, “I was thinking of you this morning. When I walked out for the paper, there was that special crunch to the snow that reminded me of walking across the yard on my way to school. Whenever I hear it I’m halfway across the yard, by the swing made from discarded telephone poles. It’s quite vivid. In trying to think of a way to explain it to those who have never experienced the pleasure of the sound I thought, ‘I’d like to hear Howard explain it.’”
OK Lowell, here goes. My mind transports me back to cold winter nights when the chores and milking were done. The last milk cans had been carried to the cooler in the milk house and deposited in the cold water. A dozen cats were busy lapping up the milk we had poured into an overturned milk can lid. The stillness in the barn was a sharp contrast to the loud noise of the vacuum pump motor that provided suction for the milking machines. With the motor turned off we could hear the snarling of the cats as they jostled for position to get their share of the milk. The jangling of the stanchions was heard as cows stretched, trying to pilfer remaining feed from a neighboring cow, before bedding down for the night.
As I headed for the house, the sound of my boots crunching snow crystals in the evening snow, created a soothing tempo with each step I took. I was headed for the warmth of our house and each step took me closer. The colder the night, the more it made a squeaky crunch as I made my way over the hard-packed snow. It shattered the stillness of the cold night. When I stopped to look at the stars, not a sound could be heard. My breath turned to clouds of smoke in the below zero air. Billions of stars could be seen in the crystal clear sky. It would be a cold night. I didn’t know at the time that many of those stars I was looking at were actually galaxies far beyond our Milky Way. I had no concept of the enormity of our universe at the time. I was experiencing the same sound of crunching snow and seeing the same celestial sights that my ancestors did when they walked through the snow on a cold winter night, long before I was born. Some things never change.
As I continued toward the house, a slight breeze made the windmill groan and creak for a moment. Then the silence of the night enveloped me again. The sounds, or lack of sounds, in winter are very soothing to those of us who cherish nature’s sounds over constant man-made noise. Snow creates a blanket that softens and muffles sound. It also provides a mirror that reflects light, making everything brighter. It can fill that blanket of snow with millions of sparkling diamonds. An evening walk in the snow is an experience that everyone should enjoy at some point in their life. It’s like Lowell said, it’s hard to explain the experience to someone who’s never had it.
Winter is also the chatter of Chickadees and the flutter of wings as they hurry to the feeder when I bring their food. It’s the sound of a flock of Mourning Doves taking flight from the safety of their evening shelter as I approach the grove of trees. It’s the evening call of the Barred Owl from those same trees, “Who, Who, Who Cooks for You.”
When the temperature dips below zero, you can hear the foundation of a house settle in as it snaps in the cold. It’s like venturing across a lake in the dead of winter and hearing the ice snap under your feet, sounding like a gunshot.
Winter is standing in the silence and beauty of large snowflakes falling all around you and catching them on your tongue. There’s no sound as they land, just a brief, cool moment before the warmth of your tongue returns the intricate, lacy designs back to water.
Winter is the sound of downhill skis chattering across the snow as you fly down a ski run on a cold evening in Wisconsin. My cousin-in-law, Lou, says you can always tell a Midwestern skier. They’re used to leaning forward, carving into icy snow, instead of sitting back and riding the powder runs they have in Colorado. It takes ice skiers a while to learn the technique of skiing powder. I also hear the gentle shush of cross-country skis as they glide across the snow, the cool wind stinging my cheeks, as I lick at the icicles that my heavy breathing has formed in my mustache. Night skiing with the stars surrounding you enhances the peacefulness and beauty of the moment.
Perhaps those are the words I’ve been looking for to describe these winter experiences. There’s a quiet, peacefulness and beauty of the moment that seems to permeate your soul and make you one with nature. It’s when you reach that point that you feel totally alive and that all is well with the world.
*
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