Across the Fence #328
I just returned from spending six days at a conference in Dallas, Texas. It was sunny and the temperature was in the 70’s each day. Now I’m back in Wisconsin and we’re in the middle of a major winter storm. I’m ready to cry “Uncle.” Like most of you, I’ve had enough of winter and don’t want to think about it any more. I’m ready for nice, spring weather, not snow, freezing rain, ice, and cold weather.
It’s time to start thinking about the early trout season and my thoughts are turning to fishing. There’s more to becoming a fisherman than just dropping your line in the water and catching fish.
Henry David Thoreau said, “Such is oftenest the young man's introduction to the forest, and the most original part of himself. He goes thither at first as a hunter and fisher, until at last, if he has the seeds of a better life in him, he distinguishes his proper objects, as a poet or naturalist it may be, and leaves the gun and fish-pole behind.”
There is truth in those words. A young boy is usually introduced to the woods and streams as a hunter and fisherman, generally tagging along with his father to learn the ways of being a part of the natural world around us. Such was my introduction to hunting, fishing, and spending time enjoying the outdoors. I still take a fishing pole with me when I go fishing, but catching fish is just one aspect of fishing when a person becomes a poet (writer) or naturalist, as Thoreau says.
I remember Sunday family picnics along the banks of a stream running through the Kickapoo Valley near Bloomingdale and Avalanche. They were Hanson family outings that included my grandparents, uncles, aunts, and the Hanson cousins.
Blankets were spread on the grass and picnic baskets, full to overflowing with food, were carried from the cars that had been parked alongside the winding country road.
The women sat on the blankets talking and unpacking the food while the men brought out the fishing gear and headed for the bank of the creek. Most of us kids followed close behind. A red and white bobber was attached to the line and a wiggling earthworm was retrieved from a coffee can filled with dirt. The men would impale the struggling worm on a simple hook at the end of the line attached to an old cane pole for each of us kids. They would even put the line in the water before finally handing the pole to us.
We would sit quietly on the bank, hanging onto the pole for dear life in case a monster fish would suddenly strike. We kept our eyes on the bobber as it floated undisturbed on the surface of the water with nary a ripple and no tug from a monster fish.
We sat and waited, and waited, and waited. The anticipation of our bobber suddenly disappearing, eventually gave way to boredom and we soon left our cane poles in the grass and went off exploring along the creek or playing catch. Youngsters are usually short on the patience needed for fishing.
The men would remain seated along the bank, pretending to fish, while discussing the problems of farming and the world in general. Maybe I should have called this column “Beside the Creek” instead of “Across the Fence.” Many stories were told and much information was exchanged on those leisurely Sunday afternoon picnics alongside the meandering creek. I don’t recall many fish being caught, but perhaps that wasn’t the real purpose of fishing after all. Those quiet, peaceful moments along the bank of the creek, with the sound of the water winding its way among the rocks, was music for the soul. This was something the men understood but us youngsters had yet to discover it.
As we got older, our fishing trips were to the Mississippi River. On those rare summer days when there was a lull in the workload on the farm, dad would take us with when he went fishing. We helped him dig worms while ma packed a lunch for us. After stowing the fishing gear, worms, lunch, life preservers, and outboard motor in the trunk of the car, we headed for Genoa, about half an hour away. Our first stop was at the general store in Romance to buy soda and a candy bar, which was always a treat. Of course dad had to check out the fishing gear and usually bought another lure that was sure to catch the big one. Next stop was the Blask Brothers near Genoa, where we rented a boat for the day. We spent some memorable days, fishing on the mighty Mississippi.
When I got older, I accompanied dad and his fishing buddies on trips to Hayward and Canada in search of trophy Muskies, Northerns, and Walleyes. That’s when I began to understand that fishing is much more than catching fish. It’s when Thoreau’s words began to make sense to me.
Now I prowl the streams of Vernon County in search of trout. Fishing has become just one part of the total outdoor experience. The sights, sounds, and smells of nature make the experience complete. The quiet solitude found along a trout stream is good for the soul, as we become one with nature.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
February Snapshots In Words
Across the Fence #327
Many images and memories come drifting back through the bitterly cold days and nights of February as we look ahead and wait for spring to arrive. February is that ugly duckling of a month, when you’ve had enough of the cold weather and the mountains of snow. The only thing that will transform that ugly duckling into a beautiful swan is warm weather.
Until that time, here are a few snapshots of February, in words, that I hope will develop into pictures in your mind.
My cousin, Ron Hanson said, “The snow sounds like styrofoam under my feet. I’m stoking the woodburners like the boiler room on the Titanic. It’s a three dog night and all I’ve got are chihuahuas. Brrr!”
The past few days have definitely been three dog nights. I think we could have used a fourth dog here in Sherpeland, where the wind chill took your breath away.
Here’s another snapshot as the dawn arrives after one of those cold nights. The night sky grows brighter, giving way to the dawn, silhouetting the dark, bare branches against the soft light rising in the east. White smoke curls upward from a neighboring chimney, giving assurance of the warmth and life huddled safely inside on a cold, crisp winter morning. There are still no outward sounds or signs of life. It’s too early for birds and squirrels to venture forth and brave the cold in search of food. The sky turns slowly brighter; shades of yellow-gold now paint the horizon. There’s a flutter of wings through the cold, still air. The first Mourning Dove arrives at the feeder. A squirrel follows close behind to get first chance at the fresh ear of corn. In the quiet stillness of the morning they eat side by side, undisturbed by the crowds that will soon join them. A light pops on in a distant house, giving evidence of life arising. The swirling smoke reaches up and joins with the rising of the dawn. A new day is here and the world is slowly awakening.
When the Westby Snowflake Ski Jumping Tournament is held in February each year, it brings back snapshot memories of my attempts at flying through the air.
Jumping, cross-country, and downhill, are types of skiing, all perfected by Norwegians to a fine art. I can’t say that this Norwegian-American has perfected any of them, but I’ve tried them all.
I got my first pair of skis around the age of six or seven. They were simple wood skis with a strap that dad cut from a piece of inner tube. Our ski boots were our four buckle overshoes. Ski poles consisted of tobacco lathes. Not exactly high tech equipment, but we thought we were pretty hotshot skiers!
We’d ski through the fields and small rolling hills on our prairie farm. No one would ever mistake them for mountains. Neighbor friends would ski with us. We built a jump near the bottom of the hill in one of the back pastures. After packing the snow down on the hill, we got into our finest racing tuck, headed down the in-run, hit the takeoff and flew... four or five feet! Sometimes, we barely cleared the jump. Other times we jumped right out of our skis. It’s hard to jump when you don’t have the proper bindings to hold your skis on!
One year, we got new skis with real bindings for Christmas. We were king of the hill. They were more like cross-country skis, but we used them for jumping, because, coming from Westby, that’s what we thought skis were for.
We built a scaffold with Trygve and Joel Thompson on Birch Hill, located on their farm. It stood about eight feet high, with a ladder to reach the platform on top. We positioned it at the top of a hill where there was a clearing between the trees. I might add, the clearing wasn’t straight, but had a curve near the bottom! We packed the scaffold with snow and built a takeoff halfway down the hill. I think we “flew” about twenty feet on our Birch Hill ski jump, and with real bindings, our skis stayed on our feet! However, points for style were few! We had a lot of fun, but it was probably a lot more dangerous than if we had jumped on a hill designed for jumping.
Another February snapshot in my mind is of the frozen stock tank during the winter. Our milking cows were kept in the barn all winter. However, the heifers were outside and drank from the stock tank. We had to chop a hole in the ice with an axe each morning so they could get to the water. We should have thrown a few fish in the tank and we could have gone ice fishing too.
Time keeps marching on and by the time you read this, hopefully the sub-zero February weather will be a distant memory, and our three dog nights will have turned into one dog nights. Looking back, it won’t seem nearly as bad as it was while we were in the middle of it. Yes, most of us griped about it at the time, but once milder temperatures prevail, we’ll hold bragging rites for years to come as we tell anyone who’ll listen, how we survived the frigid February temperatures of 2011.
Many images and memories come drifting back through the bitterly cold days and nights of February as we look ahead and wait for spring to arrive. February is that ugly duckling of a month, when you’ve had enough of the cold weather and the mountains of snow. The only thing that will transform that ugly duckling into a beautiful swan is warm weather.
Until that time, here are a few snapshots of February, in words, that I hope will develop into pictures in your mind.
My cousin, Ron Hanson said, “The snow sounds like styrofoam under my feet. I’m stoking the woodburners like the boiler room on the Titanic. It’s a three dog night and all I’ve got are chihuahuas. Brrr!”
The past few days have definitely been three dog nights. I think we could have used a fourth dog here in Sherpeland, where the wind chill took your breath away.
Here’s another snapshot as the dawn arrives after one of those cold nights. The night sky grows brighter, giving way to the dawn, silhouetting the dark, bare branches against the soft light rising in the east. White smoke curls upward from a neighboring chimney, giving assurance of the warmth and life huddled safely inside on a cold, crisp winter morning. There are still no outward sounds or signs of life. It’s too early for birds and squirrels to venture forth and brave the cold in search of food. The sky turns slowly brighter; shades of yellow-gold now paint the horizon. There’s a flutter of wings through the cold, still air. The first Mourning Dove arrives at the feeder. A squirrel follows close behind to get first chance at the fresh ear of corn. In the quiet stillness of the morning they eat side by side, undisturbed by the crowds that will soon join them. A light pops on in a distant house, giving evidence of life arising. The swirling smoke reaches up and joins with the rising of the dawn. A new day is here and the world is slowly awakening.
When the Westby Snowflake Ski Jumping Tournament is held in February each year, it brings back snapshot memories of my attempts at flying through the air.
Jumping, cross-country, and downhill, are types of skiing, all perfected by Norwegians to a fine art. I can’t say that this Norwegian-American has perfected any of them, but I’ve tried them all.
I got my first pair of skis around the age of six or seven. They were simple wood skis with a strap that dad cut from a piece of inner tube. Our ski boots were our four buckle overshoes. Ski poles consisted of tobacco lathes. Not exactly high tech equipment, but we thought we were pretty hotshot skiers!
We’d ski through the fields and small rolling hills on our prairie farm. No one would ever mistake them for mountains. Neighbor friends would ski with us. We built a jump near the bottom of the hill in one of the back pastures. After packing the snow down on the hill, we got into our finest racing tuck, headed down the in-run, hit the takeoff and flew... four or five feet! Sometimes, we barely cleared the jump. Other times we jumped right out of our skis. It’s hard to jump when you don’t have the proper bindings to hold your skis on!
One year, we got new skis with real bindings for Christmas. We were king of the hill. They were more like cross-country skis, but we used them for jumping, because, coming from Westby, that’s what we thought skis were for.
We built a scaffold with Trygve and Joel Thompson on Birch Hill, located on their farm. It stood about eight feet high, with a ladder to reach the platform on top. We positioned it at the top of a hill where there was a clearing between the trees. I might add, the clearing wasn’t straight, but had a curve near the bottom! We packed the scaffold with snow and built a takeoff halfway down the hill. I think we “flew” about twenty feet on our Birch Hill ski jump, and with real bindings, our skis stayed on our feet! However, points for style were few! We had a lot of fun, but it was probably a lot more dangerous than if we had jumped on a hill designed for jumping.
Another February snapshot in my mind is of the frozen stock tank during the winter. Our milking cows were kept in the barn all winter. However, the heifers were outside and drank from the stock tank. We had to chop a hole in the ice with an axe each morning so they could get to the water. We should have thrown a few fish in the tank and we could have gone ice fishing too.
Time keeps marching on and by the time you read this, hopefully the sub-zero February weather will be a distant memory, and our three dog nights will have turned into one dog nights. Looking back, it won’t seem nearly as bad as it was while we were in the middle of it. Yes, most of us griped about it at the time, but once milder temperatures prevail, we’ll hold bragging rites for years to come as we tell anyone who’ll listen, how we survived the frigid February temperatures of 2011.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Lights Are Still On In Our Memories
Across the Fence #326
“The lights may have gone out in the old farm house where you lived, but not in your memories.” That sentiment came from a reader in Minnesota, after reading my story several weeks ago about how the lights have gone out in so many houses and barns around the countryside.
I think all writers sometimes wonder if anyone reads their columns. My friend, David Giffey, even made that statement in a recent column. We know some people are reading them when we hear from people that don’t agree with or like something we say, but we seldom hear from those who like what we write. The lights out story seems to have struck an emotional chord with many people. I’ve received many e-mails and even telephone calls. I appreciate hearing from all of you.
Jim in Cassville, expressed what many of you felt, “I so wish my boys could have had those wonderful experiences that I did. I’m sure that nothing has shaped my life more than growing up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. You are so right in describing the warm glow in the kitchen as we would walk up from the barn on a dark January night, stopping to carry an armload of wood while on our way in.”
A man who grew up on an Iowa farm and now lives in Florida wrote, “Some stories hit me hard with an emotional impact, and this is one of them. What particularly gripped me was the line about leaving the barn after the night milking and walking toward the light in the kitchen window where supper was being prepared and looking up at the bright stars on a cold, cloudless night. Your writing can be so poetic that it just grabs the reader.”
Another reader in Texas said, “This week’s writing brought a lump in my throat! It is beautiful, indeed! We are lucky to have had a farm background for our journey on Spaceship Earth!”
From the Madison area, “You hit a home run — great piece of writing.” Krissy in Colorado wrote, “What a special place the farm has in my heart... your mom’s warm heart made it ‘home.’ Oh what I would give to have just a few moments back there, on a balmy summer evening, sitting around the table with all of us together again... your writing is the next best thing!”
From Louann in Illinois, “When I drive in the pre-dawn or evening hours, I’m always comforted by the lit windows on barns. Sometimes, it’s the windows of a horse farm where someone is doing morning chores; however, more often, the barns are filled with cows waiting their turn, cats meandering around the aisle, and the CHUH-chuh-CHUH-chuh sound of the milking machines drowning out the radio’s morning news. I know this without having to set foot on the premises. It makes me feel as if all’s right in the world.”
A man from Highland found my number and called one night to talk about the story. We had a wonderful visit.
This story reinforces what I’ve always felt–our rural, farm background roots run very deep. Many people left the farm after graduating from high school to pursue fields other than farm fields, but it’s so true, you can take the boy out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the boy. That goes for girls too. The lights may have gone out in the buildings many of us once lived and worked in, but they still shine brightly in our memories.
I’m glad that our kids have a connection to the land and farm also. They always enjoyed their visits with “Grandma and Grandpa Farm,” as they called them when they were young. They got to help in the barn with feeding the cows, played with the kittens in the haymow, climbed in the maple trees, helped drive the John Deere tractor, and walked with us while we explored the back forty and pond. Amy even got to help grandma make cherry pies in the old farm kitchen. When we built our house on a corner of the back forty, Erik remembered riding on the tractor with grandpa in that field. They have many good memories from those visits to the farm when they were young. I think those visits helped instill in them a love and appreciation of nature and the outdoors.
I think Ben Logan said it best in The Land Remembers. “Once you have lived on the land, been a partner with its moods, secrets, and seasons, you cannot leave. The living land remembers, touching you in unguarded moments, saying, ‘I am here. You are a part of me.’ When this happens to me, I go home again, in mind or in person…”
I can certainly relate to those words. I know many of you can too. The land is a part of us and if we can’t go back there in person, we can still go back there in our mind.
Many of the buildings where I spent time are gone. The big maple trees that we climbed in are gone. The shanty where we had our Prairie Ghost meetings is gone. But in our mind, you and I can still visit all the places we once frequented. We have the best of both worlds — the past and the present.
“The lights may have gone out in the old farm house where you lived, but not in your memories.” That sentiment came from a reader in Minnesota, after reading my story several weeks ago about how the lights have gone out in so many houses and barns around the countryside.
I think all writers sometimes wonder if anyone reads their columns. My friend, David Giffey, even made that statement in a recent column. We know some people are reading them when we hear from people that don’t agree with or like something we say, but we seldom hear from those who like what we write. The lights out story seems to have struck an emotional chord with many people. I’ve received many e-mails and even telephone calls. I appreciate hearing from all of you.
Jim in Cassville, expressed what many of you felt, “I so wish my boys could have had those wonderful experiences that I did. I’m sure that nothing has shaped my life more than growing up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. You are so right in describing the warm glow in the kitchen as we would walk up from the barn on a dark January night, stopping to carry an armload of wood while on our way in.”
A man who grew up on an Iowa farm and now lives in Florida wrote, “Some stories hit me hard with an emotional impact, and this is one of them. What particularly gripped me was the line about leaving the barn after the night milking and walking toward the light in the kitchen window where supper was being prepared and looking up at the bright stars on a cold, cloudless night. Your writing can be so poetic that it just grabs the reader.”
Another reader in Texas said, “This week’s writing brought a lump in my throat! It is beautiful, indeed! We are lucky to have had a farm background for our journey on Spaceship Earth!”
From the Madison area, “You hit a home run — great piece of writing.” Krissy in Colorado wrote, “What a special place the farm has in my heart... your mom’s warm heart made it ‘home.’ Oh what I would give to have just a few moments back there, on a balmy summer evening, sitting around the table with all of us together again... your writing is the next best thing!”
From Louann in Illinois, “When I drive in the pre-dawn or evening hours, I’m always comforted by the lit windows on barns. Sometimes, it’s the windows of a horse farm where someone is doing morning chores; however, more often, the barns are filled with cows waiting their turn, cats meandering around the aisle, and the CHUH-chuh-CHUH-chuh sound of the milking machines drowning out the radio’s morning news. I know this without having to set foot on the premises. It makes me feel as if all’s right in the world.”
A man from Highland found my number and called one night to talk about the story. We had a wonderful visit.
This story reinforces what I’ve always felt–our rural, farm background roots run very deep. Many people left the farm after graduating from high school to pursue fields other than farm fields, but it’s so true, you can take the boy out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the boy. That goes for girls too. The lights may have gone out in the buildings many of us once lived and worked in, but they still shine brightly in our memories.
I’m glad that our kids have a connection to the land and farm also. They always enjoyed their visits with “Grandma and Grandpa Farm,” as they called them when they were young. They got to help in the barn with feeding the cows, played with the kittens in the haymow, climbed in the maple trees, helped drive the John Deere tractor, and walked with us while we explored the back forty and pond. Amy even got to help grandma make cherry pies in the old farm kitchen. When we built our house on a corner of the back forty, Erik remembered riding on the tractor with grandpa in that field. They have many good memories from those visits to the farm when they were young. I think those visits helped instill in them a love and appreciation of nature and the outdoors.
I think Ben Logan said it best in The Land Remembers. “Once you have lived on the land, been a partner with its moods, secrets, and seasons, you cannot leave. The living land remembers, touching you in unguarded moments, saying, ‘I am here. You are a part of me.’ When this happens to me, I go home again, in mind or in person…”
I can certainly relate to those words. I know many of you can too. The land is a part of us and if we can’t go back there in person, we can still go back there in our mind.
Many of the buildings where I spent time are gone. The big maple trees that we climbed in are gone. The shanty where we had our Prairie Ghost meetings is gone. But in our mind, you and I can still visit all the places we once frequented. We have the best of both worlds — the past and the present.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
February Was A Special Month
Across the Fence #325
When I was in grade school, attending a one-room country school, February was always a special month. A glance at the February calendar shows four important events; Groundhog Day on the 2nd, Lincoln’s birthday on the 12th, Valentine’s Day on the 14th, and Washington’s birthday on the 22nd. It also lists President’s Day on Monday the 21st, but I don’t count that one. That’s a 3-day weekend for federal employees and doesn’t affect me, except that I don’t find any junk mail and bills in my mailbox that day. I don’t remember that we paid much attention to Groundhog Day when I was a kid, but some of my friends may remember otherwise. If so, let me know.
It seems like we have a bunch of 3-day holidays now that we never had when I was young. It wouldn’t have made much difference because all the farm families had seven-days-a-week, 365-days-a-year jobs. Holidays didn’t mean much, when you still had to work.
Lincoln and Washington’s birthdays probably don’t mean much unless you’re in the AARP card-carrying age bracket. I remember their birthdays as being special when I was in grade school. I think every school had a framed picture of Washington and Lincoln hanging on the front wall of the school. I know we did at Smith School.
I also remember cutting out black silhouettes of them. I don’t remember what we did with all those cutouts, but making them helped us become more familiar with them and what they had done for our country. We also learned that Washington told the truth after he had cut down the cherry tree. I don’t know if that was a true story or just part of folklore, but it was a good story with a moral for us young kids — never tell a lie.
We learned that Lincoln was born in a log cabin, was very poor, and would walk many miles to borrow a book and read it by the light from the fireplace because he had a thirst for knowledge. It didn’t occur to me at the time, that a lot of people were born in log cabins during that period. What registered was that even a poor boy from the country could grow up to be president. Those were valuable lessons for us young kids to learn.
I suspect that in this technology age, those qualities don’t impress kids today as much as they impressed us back in the 50s, the 1950s—not the 1850s. When I was in school, their birthdays were important events each year. One was considered the father of our country and the other had saved the Union and freed the slaves. Those are monumental events in the history of our country.
Sandwiched between their birthdays was Valentine’s Day. That was a day of anticipation and suspense. Yes, suspense, as we anxiously looked through the valentines that had been dropped into our hand-decorated box, to see what message would be found on the cards from certain people. At least we didn’t have to suffer like poor Charlie Brown each year as he went to the mailbox and always found it empty. Our teachers made sure that each student had a card for each student in school. In our case, that meant around twenty cards each year.
Sometimes we made the valentines that we gave to each other, although we must have given store-bought cards some years, because I remember my mother buying a package of the cutout cards for David and me to hand out. Janet and Arden, my younger sister and brother, weren’t in school yet when I was at Smith. I imagine we had to pick out and sign the card for each person, but I don’t remember. Maybe Valentine’s Day was such a traumatic time for me that I’ve shut it out of my memory bank! I would think that I picked out or made a special card for certain girls.
Corrine Fredrickson, my teacher at Smith for three years, said “Valentine’s Day was a day when the mothers came to school in the afternoon! You kids helped me serve them coffee and a treat, so for once, they could just come, enjoy themselves, and not have to bring something for a treat. Valentine’s Day meant ‘spring is nearly here!’ The hours of daylight were getting longer. It was a delightful time of year! Kids made most of the valentines that they gave to each other. As kids looked at their cards, the smiles on some faces could tell which boy or girl was special to them, but no one was mean, and nobody sent nasty valentines; nobody was left out.”
Those were special times when we attended our one-room country school, and February was a special month, even though it was the shortest month. We realized when we had our reunion last summer that we were like one big family in those small schools. I have many good memories from those days, and I credit that to the wonderful people and neighbors that I went to school with.
February—when we learned about a rodent predicting how much longer winter would be; honesty from George Washington, that a poor kid can become president from Abe Lincoln; and expressing feelings from our heart on Valentine’s Day. February is truly a special month.
When I was in grade school, attending a one-room country school, February was always a special month. A glance at the February calendar shows four important events; Groundhog Day on the 2nd, Lincoln’s birthday on the 12th, Valentine’s Day on the 14th, and Washington’s birthday on the 22nd. It also lists President’s Day on Monday the 21st, but I don’t count that one. That’s a 3-day weekend for federal employees and doesn’t affect me, except that I don’t find any junk mail and bills in my mailbox that day. I don’t remember that we paid much attention to Groundhog Day when I was a kid, but some of my friends may remember otherwise. If so, let me know.
It seems like we have a bunch of 3-day holidays now that we never had when I was young. It wouldn’t have made much difference because all the farm families had seven-days-a-week, 365-days-a-year jobs. Holidays didn’t mean much, when you still had to work.
Lincoln and Washington’s birthdays probably don’t mean much unless you’re in the AARP card-carrying age bracket. I remember their birthdays as being special when I was in grade school. I think every school had a framed picture of Washington and Lincoln hanging on the front wall of the school. I know we did at Smith School.
I also remember cutting out black silhouettes of them. I don’t remember what we did with all those cutouts, but making them helped us become more familiar with them and what they had done for our country. We also learned that Washington told the truth after he had cut down the cherry tree. I don’t know if that was a true story or just part of folklore, but it was a good story with a moral for us young kids — never tell a lie.
We learned that Lincoln was born in a log cabin, was very poor, and would walk many miles to borrow a book and read it by the light from the fireplace because he had a thirst for knowledge. It didn’t occur to me at the time, that a lot of people were born in log cabins during that period. What registered was that even a poor boy from the country could grow up to be president. Those were valuable lessons for us young kids to learn.
I suspect that in this technology age, those qualities don’t impress kids today as much as they impressed us back in the 50s, the 1950s—not the 1850s. When I was in school, their birthdays were important events each year. One was considered the father of our country and the other had saved the Union and freed the slaves. Those are monumental events in the history of our country.
Sandwiched between their birthdays was Valentine’s Day. That was a day of anticipation and suspense. Yes, suspense, as we anxiously looked through the valentines that had been dropped into our hand-decorated box, to see what message would be found on the cards from certain people. At least we didn’t have to suffer like poor Charlie Brown each year as he went to the mailbox and always found it empty. Our teachers made sure that each student had a card for each student in school. In our case, that meant around twenty cards each year.
Sometimes we made the valentines that we gave to each other, although we must have given store-bought cards some years, because I remember my mother buying a package of the cutout cards for David and me to hand out. Janet and Arden, my younger sister and brother, weren’t in school yet when I was at Smith. I imagine we had to pick out and sign the card for each person, but I don’t remember. Maybe Valentine’s Day was such a traumatic time for me that I’ve shut it out of my memory bank! I would think that I picked out or made a special card for certain girls.
Corrine Fredrickson, my teacher at Smith for three years, said “Valentine’s Day was a day when the mothers came to school in the afternoon! You kids helped me serve them coffee and a treat, so for once, they could just come, enjoy themselves, and not have to bring something for a treat. Valentine’s Day meant ‘spring is nearly here!’ The hours of daylight were getting longer. It was a delightful time of year! Kids made most of the valentines that they gave to each other. As kids looked at their cards, the smiles on some faces could tell which boy or girl was special to them, but no one was mean, and nobody sent nasty valentines; nobody was left out.”
Those were special times when we attended our one-room country school, and February was a special month, even though it was the shortest month. We realized when we had our reunion last summer that we were like one big family in those small schools. I have many good memories from those days, and I credit that to the wonderful people and neighbors that I went to school with.
February—when we learned about a rodent predicting how much longer winter would be; honesty from George Washington, that a poor kid can become president from Abe Lincoln; and expressing feelings from our heart on Valentine’s Day. February is truly a special month.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
I Think I Have Winter Brain Freeze
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.
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.
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.
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