Across the Fence #383
Observers of nature are awaiting the resurrection. The snow has slowly retreated, leaving the exposed ground, bare and empty. It’s not a beautiful time of year. March is when we search through the debris of the past year for the first signs of spring and the return of life to the world around us. I like to call it “nature’s resurrection of life.”
As the snow retreats on a sunny, warm day, running water fills the ditches. When we feel the welcome warmth of the sun and hear the sound of running water, it always raises our hopes that spring has finally arrived. Then as quickly as that class tease in high school left you alone and bewildered, the cold winds of March come roaring in, leaving another blanket of snow on the ground. Suddenly spring is nowhere to be found.
March… that yearly tease of a month, that keeps getting our hopes up that spring has finally arrived, and then quickly sends them crashing back to earth and reality. Nature is fickle and is hard to figure out. The resurrection of spring is often delayed.
March is the month of strong, cold winds. They come roaring through the large evergreens with the sound of waves crashing against the shore. Wave after wave arrives with no letup. The bare branches of the hardwood trees scrape against each other with a grinding motion and sound. I love the sound of the wind in the trees. There’s a sense of power and life in the sound.
A walk through the woods may find the first hint of new life emerging from beneath the decaying leaves. The resurrection has begun. It’s a slow process at first, often suffering setbacks as another March snowfall arrives, but once the resurrection process has begun it’s hard to stop it.
For ice fishermen, it’s the time of thin ice and open water. As the ice retreats it opens up other possibilities as fishermen take to their boats and abandon the ice for another year. Even as snow still clings to the northern banks, fishermen pull on their waders, grab their flyrod, and head for the nearest trout stream.
March is the time of change. It closes one door, but opens another. I think of that every time I hear the sound of geese returning. The winter birds begin to disappear, replaced by the returning “snowbirds,” who abandoned us for warmer climates during the winter. We saw our first robins this week. Geese in large numbers, heading north, have been spotted. Red winged blackbirds have returned to the back yard after being AWOL all winter.
The long, dark, nights of winter are giving way to longer days. The sunlight seems to energize us, and like the hibernating animals, people begin to emerge from the warm, comfort of their homes and venture outside again. Life is slowly returning to the frozen north.
I shouldn’t complain. This has been a very mild winter for most of us in this part of the country. But even so, we get tired of the long, dark nights. There was just enough snow to hide the dead grass and broken branches that litter the yard and countryside. Now all the accumulated junk and debris lies exposed for all the world to see. Debris is also defined as the fragmented remains of dead or damaged cells or tissue. That’s about as good a definition of March as I can think of. It exposes the remains of the past year as the snow covering it recedes. March is a drab, brown, junk-strewn world. It will stay that way until the countryside comes alive and the color returns to the cheeks of nature. Perhaps those March winds help pump the life back into the earth… nature’s version of CPR.
March is a wet, dirty month as the ground gives up the frost and turns the bare ground into mud that will suck you in and slow your travels. March is when weight limits are posted on side roads. In years past, deep ruts through the mud where found on most country roads.
Come to think of it, there isn’t much that’s desirable about March. It’s the ugly duckling of months. It’s the relative who comes for a visit and you wonder if they’ll ever leave. It’s the salesman who comes on too strong and you want to show them where the carpenter made the door and don’t let it hit you in the butt on your way out. It’s March Madness and most of your picks get knocked out in the first round. It’s realizing that your taxes are soon due and you haven’t even started on them yet. That’s the month of March.
But, even with all the drabness, unpredictability, mud, and messiness of March, it’s also the month of hope and great expectations. We know that nature is at work below the surface and soon new life and color will emerge from the drab, tangled mess of decay. The days will lengthen, the warm sun will work its magic, April showers will arrive and freshen the earth, and nature’s resurrection will be complete. I’m ready for it.
*
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Slow Down and Enjoy the Ride
Across the Fence #382
Several years ago we were on our way back to Madison one Sunday afternoon after spending the weekend in Westby. As we got closer to Madison, the traffic increased and people seemed in much more of a hurry. I could feel my body tensing up as I melted into the rushing stream of humanity. The relaxed state I’d been in during the weekend was disappearing. I remarked to Linda, “We’re not in Timber Coulee anymore.” A reference to Dorothy’s line in the Wizard of Oz, when she says they aren’t in Kansas anymore.
That weekend, we had spent time in Timber Coulee, between Westby and Coon Valley, a picturesque area that reminds me of Norway. Many people who settled in those valleys, surrounded by majestic hills, emigrated from Norway. It’s no wonder they chose the area as their new home. A winding blacktop road runs through the valley. A wonderful trout stream meanders back and forth, running under bridges that weren’t present to help those early settlers in their travels. Scattered farms line the road. The steep hills remind me that life was not easy for the farmers who tilled this land and raised their families in the coulees.
County Highway P snakes it’s way down winding hills from Coon Prairie to the valley floor of Timber Coulee, where the ski jumping hills are located. I also remember the many cross-country ski races I’d taken part in among those hills. We continued our winding drive that day, up hill and down. I remarked to Linda that when we had roller ski races from Coon Valley to the ski hill on this road, I was too busy racing to appreciate the beauty of the country we were traveling through.
Near Coon Valley, I decided to take a different route back to Westby. I’ve never been accused of always taking the same road or path in my travels. I like to travel the scenic routes, which used to drive the kids crazy. I headed up the winding road to Spring Coulee Ridge Road. At the top of the ridge, the views are majestic as you look down through the valleys and all the connecting coulees. It reminds me of Norway.
Across Lovass Ridge, we headed back to Westby. Things were quiet and laid back for a Saturday evening as we rolled slowly through town. There are no stoplights to halt your progress. There are only three stoplights in the entire county, all of them in Viroqua.
Heading south out of Westby on Coon Prairie Road, we turned east on Gilbertson Road. It eventually joined Nustad Road and the top of the ridge where we have ten acres of Sherpe woodland.
Past the woods, we ventured down the steep hill into the Kickapoo Valley. Turning north on S, we followed the winding road along the banks of the West Fork of the Kickapoo River. The gently flowing “creek” is where our families and “Hanson” cousins gathered for picnics in the summer. We’d fish or wade in the water while the grown-ups visited and set the food out on blankets. They’d keep a close eye on us because I don’t think any of us cousins could swim. An occasional snake joined us and we’d all panic!
We drove to Bloomingdale and up a steep, gravel road to the old Bloomingdale Church that overlooks the village. It’s where my mother attended and my great-great grandparents on her father’s side are buried. Bloomingdale is filled with a lot of early family history for us.
Left on P, we continued up Clockmaker Valley, another beautiful area of winding country roads, surrounded by hills and woodland. A traveler in a hurry would never venture along these roads. That’s OK with me. I don’t want someone tailgating me as I drive leisurely along country roads. As we came up out of the valley and back onto Coon Prairie, a farmer on a John Deere tractor, waved as we passed. We waved back.
Darkness was settling in as we returned to our room at the Old Towne Motel south of Westby. We walked next door to enjoy the Saturday night Prime Rib Special at the Old Towne Inn. If you want a great dining experience, I would highly recommend it. It’s located across the road from the farm my great grandfather, Hans Hanson Sherpe, bought when he came from Norway in 1861. It remained in the Sherpe family until my Dad’s cousin, LaVerne Sherpe died.
On Sunday afternoon we headed back to Madison, leaving the coulees, hills, and prairies of Vernon County behind us and joined the speeding mass of humanity heading south on Highway 14. I wondered if they were taking time to notice and enjoy the beautiful scenery around them. As the tempo of traffic increased, I was reminded of the saying, “Life’s not a dress rehearsal.” This is the only chance we get. Don’t miss the main act.
Now that we live on the farm I grew up on, we can travel the roads through the coulees and hills of Vernon County every chance we get. It’s wonderful! No matter where you live, or what roads you may travel in your life, I hope you won’t rush through them. Slow down, greet your fellow travelers, enjoy life, and have a great ride.
*
Several years ago we were on our way back to Madison one Sunday afternoon after spending the weekend in Westby. As we got closer to Madison, the traffic increased and people seemed in much more of a hurry. I could feel my body tensing up as I melted into the rushing stream of humanity. The relaxed state I’d been in during the weekend was disappearing. I remarked to Linda, “We’re not in Timber Coulee anymore.” A reference to Dorothy’s line in the Wizard of Oz, when she says they aren’t in Kansas anymore.
That weekend, we had spent time in Timber Coulee, between Westby and Coon Valley, a picturesque area that reminds me of Norway. Many people who settled in those valleys, surrounded by majestic hills, emigrated from Norway. It’s no wonder they chose the area as their new home. A winding blacktop road runs through the valley. A wonderful trout stream meanders back and forth, running under bridges that weren’t present to help those early settlers in their travels. Scattered farms line the road. The steep hills remind me that life was not easy for the farmers who tilled this land and raised their families in the coulees.
County Highway P snakes it’s way down winding hills from Coon Prairie to the valley floor of Timber Coulee, where the ski jumping hills are located. I also remember the many cross-country ski races I’d taken part in among those hills. We continued our winding drive that day, up hill and down. I remarked to Linda that when we had roller ski races from Coon Valley to the ski hill on this road, I was too busy racing to appreciate the beauty of the country we were traveling through.
Near Coon Valley, I decided to take a different route back to Westby. I’ve never been accused of always taking the same road or path in my travels. I like to travel the scenic routes, which used to drive the kids crazy. I headed up the winding road to Spring Coulee Ridge Road. At the top of the ridge, the views are majestic as you look down through the valleys and all the connecting coulees. It reminds me of Norway.
Across Lovass Ridge, we headed back to Westby. Things were quiet and laid back for a Saturday evening as we rolled slowly through town. There are no stoplights to halt your progress. There are only three stoplights in the entire county, all of them in Viroqua.
Heading south out of Westby on Coon Prairie Road, we turned east on Gilbertson Road. It eventually joined Nustad Road and the top of the ridge where we have ten acres of Sherpe woodland.
Past the woods, we ventured down the steep hill into the Kickapoo Valley. Turning north on S, we followed the winding road along the banks of the West Fork of the Kickapoo River. The gently flowing “creek” is where our families and “Hanson” cousins gathered for picnics in the summer. We’d fish or wade in the water while the grown-ups visited and set the food out on blankets. They’d keep a close eye on us because I don’t think any of us cousins could swim. An occasional snake joined us and we’d all panic!
We drove to Bloomingdale and up a steep, gravel road to the old Bloomingdale Church that overlooks the village. It’s where my mother attended and my great-great grandparents on her father’s side are buried. Bloomingdale is filled with a lot of early family history for us.
Left on P, we continued up Clockmaker Valley, another beautiful area of winding country roads, surrounded by hills and woodland. A traveler in a hurry would never venture along these roads. That’s OK with me. I don’t want someone tailgating me as I drive leisurely along country roads. As we came up out of the valley and back onto Coon Prairie, a farmer on a John Deere tractor, waved as we passed. We waved back.
Darkness was settling in as we returned to our room at the Old Towne Motel south of Westby. We walked next door to enjoy the Saturday night Prime Rib Special at the Old Towne Inn. If you want a great dining experience, I would highly recommend it. It’s located across the road from the farm my great grandfather, Hans Hanson Sherpe, bought when he came from Norway in 1861. It remained in the Sherpe family until my Dad’s cousin, LaVerne Sherpe died.
On Sunday afternoon we headed back to Madison, leaving the coulees, hills, and prairies of Vernon County behind us and joined the speeding mass of humanity heading south on Highway 14. I wondered if they were taking time to notice and enjoy the beautiful scenery around them. As the tempo of traffic increased, I was reminded of the saying, “Life’s not a dress rehearsal.” This is the only chance we get. Don’t miss the main act.
Now that we live on the farm I grew up on, we can travel the roads through the coulees and hills of Vernon County every chance we get. It’s wonderful! No matter where you live, or what roads you may travel in your life, I hope you won’t rush through them. Slow down, greet your fellow travelers, enjoy life, and have a great ride.
*
Sunday, March 4, 2012
I'm Not Ready for the Glue Factory
Across the Fence #381
This past week I felt like an old horse who wonders if his useful days are in the past and it’s time to be put out to pasture or shipped off to the glue factory. For younger readers, that’s an old expression used when a horse had outlived his usefulness as a work animal and was shipped to the slaughter house where glue was made from connective tissue, found in hoofs, bones, tendons, ligaments, and cartilage in animals.
There’s a famous jockey who seldom lost a race. When asked how he achieved this he replied, “I whisper in the horse’s ear: Roses are red, violets are blue. Horses that lose are made into glue.”
Thank goodness horses don’t have to deal with computers or they’d have one more thing to worry about. They have enough problems just pulling their load every day. At least they don’t have to deal with their equipment and harness being changed and updated every couple years or sooner.
You’ve probably guessed by now that I’ve been dealing with computer problems lately. As anyone knows who’s used a computer, when everything’s working they are great, but when things don’t work its very frustrating. It’s enough to drive you crazy.
Technology is changing so fast it’s hard to keep up. Technology people say a computer is now out of date after two years. According to that, my personal computer, a MacBook, is heading toward triple antique status. Is it any wonder that things don’t work the way they should? When I get files from other people I have trouble opening them because my system and programs are too old. Whenever I tried to update a program, the computer told me it couldn’t do it because my system wasn’t compatible, meaning it was out-of-date. It was too darn old. I was beginning to feel pretty ancient too, but knew I needed to keep up with technology or head off to the glue factory.
I’m not ready to become somebody’s glue, so I finally decided to bite the bullet and spend the money to purchase a new MacBook Pro. As you may have surmised by now, I’m a Mac guy and have been since I bought my first computer soon after Apple started making Macintosh computers. It’s the only way to go if you work in desktop publishing and graphic arts. Of course us Mac people think it’s the “only” computer!
I also have a Mac at work. That Mac is over four years old, only a double antique. I decided to try upgrading the operating system on that one instead of buying a new computer. That would extent its life for a while. However, because of its age we couldn’t go straight to Lion, a Mac term for their latest operating system. We had to install an older operating system first – Snow Leopard. Then we could install Lion. So now both computers I use have the latest and greatest systems. But not for long; I found out the next system upgrade, Mountain Lion, comes out this summer. Uff da, isn’t technology fun.
At least with the newest operating system I was finally able to update QuarkXPress, my desktop publishing program. So now everything should be fine, right? Wrong! Most of my programs are so outdated they won’t work properly on the new system. Some won’t work at all. Another Uff da.
When I started my office computer on Monday morning, it was the start of “frustration city.” I couldn’t receive or send e-mail. I couldn’t access our company server to get info or update anything. When I tried scanning a photo, the scanner couldn’t find the computer. My new QuarkXPress updated program wouldn’t open and kept crashing. My frustration level and blood pressure was quickly rising and ready to explode. My “Hothead Sven” gene was rising to the surface. I told someone later, if I’d had a .45 within reach, I’d have sent both of my computers on their way to Apple Heaven.
Technology that doesn’t work can really get under your fingernails and becomes a new torture device. It’s even more frustrating when you know just enough about all this new technology to be dangerous. I never know if I’m going to hit the wrong button or command and send the entire operating system into free-fall and crashing into the ground. The problem with a dead computer is that you can’t even make glue out of it.
At that point I knew I had to call in the experts to make everything work properly again. It took most of the day before Dale had it functioning like a computer again. So now I’m back in business, at least for now. I still find glitches as I go along, but most have been corrected.
Now I need to get all my old programs and files transferred to my new personal computer. Uff da, then the frustration will start all over again. That’s the computer I do all my personal work on and write all my stories. Until then, I’m still using my ”triple-ancient” MacBook. I wish I could stick with it. It’s an old, trusted friend and we work well together. But time and technology changes and I need to ride a new horse or get off and walk. I’ll keep riding as long as I can. I’m not ready for the glue factory yet.
*
This past week I felt like an old horse who wonders if his useful days are in the past and it’s time to be put out to pasture or shipped off to the glue factory. For younger readers, that’s an old expression used when a horse had outlived his usefulness as a work animal and was shipped to the slaughter house where glue was made from connective tissue, found in hoofs, bones, tendons, ligaments, and cartilage in animals.
There’s a famous jockey who seldom lost a race. When asked how he achieved this he replied, “I whisper in the horse’s ear: Roses are red, violets are blue. Horses that lose are made into glue.”
Thank goodness horses don’t have to deal with computers or they’d have one more thing to worry about. They have enough problems just pulling their load every day. At least they don’t have to deal with their equipment and harness being changed and updated every couple years or sooner.
You’ve probably guessed by now that I’ve been dealing with computer problems lately. As anyone knows who’s used a computer, when everything’s working they are great, but when things don’t work its very frustrating. It’s enough to drive you crazy.
Technology is changing so fast it’s hard to keep up. Technology people say a computer is now out of date after two years. According to that, my personal computer, a MacBook, is heading toward triple antique status. Is it any wonder that things don’t work the way they should? When I get files from other people I have trouble opening them because my system and programs are too old. Whenever I tried to update a program, the computer told me it couldn’t do it because my system wasn’t compatible, meaning it was out-of-date. It was too darn old. I was beginning to feel pretty ancient too, but knew I needed to keep up with technology or head off to the glue factory.
I’m not ready to become somebody’s glue, so I finally decided to bite the bullet and spend the money to purchase a new MacBook Pro. As you may have surmised by now, I’m a Mac guy and have been since I bought my first computer soon after Apple started making Macintosh computers. It’s the only way to go if you work in desktop publishing and graphic arts. Of course us Mac people think it’s the “only” computer!
I also have a Mac at work. That Mac is over four years old, only a double antique. I decided to try upgrading the operating system on that one instead of buying a new computer. That would extent its life for a while. However, because of its age we couldn’t go straight to Lion, a Mac term for their latest operating system. We had to install an older operating system first – Snow Leopard. Then we could install Lion. So now both computers I use have the latest and greatest systems. But not for long; I found out the next system upgrade, Mountain Lion, comes out this summer. Uff da, isn’t technology fun.
At least with the newest operating system I was finally able to update QuarkXPress, my desktop publishing program. So now everything should be fine, right? Wrong! Most of my programs are so outdated they won’t work properly on the new system. Some won’t work at all. Another Uff da.
When I started my office computer on Monday morning, it was the start of “frustration city.” I couldn’t receive or send e-mail. I couldn’t access our company server to get info or update anything. When I tried scanning a photo, the scanner couldn’t find the computer. My new QuarkXPress updated program wouldn’t open and kept crashing. My frustration level and blood pressure was quickly rising and ready to explode. My “Hothead Sven” gene was rising to the surface. I told someone later, if I’d had a .45 within reach, I’d have sent both of my computers on their way to Apple Heaven.
Technology that doesn’t work can really get under your fingernails and becomes a new torture device. It’s even more frustrating when you know just enough about all this new technology to be dangerous. I never know if I’m going to hit the wrong button or command and send the entire operating system into free-fall and crashing into the ground. The problem with a dead computer is that you can’t even make glue out of it.
At that point I knew I had to call in the experts to make everything work properly again. It took most of the day before Dale had it functioning like a computer again. So now I’m back in business, at least for now. I still find glitches as I go along, but most have been corrected.
Now I need to get all my old programs and files transferred to my new personal computer. Uff da, then the frustration will start all over again. That’s the computer I do all my personal work on and write all my stories. Until then, I’m still using my ”triple-ancient” MacBook. I wish I could stick with it. It’s an old, trusted friend and we work well together. But time and technology changes and I need to ride a new horse or get off and walk. I’ll keep riding as long as I can. I’m not ready for the glue factory yet.
*
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Washing Clothes: The Good Old Days
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.
*
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.
*
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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