Tobacco Planting, Not Just A Memory

Across the Fence #452

I was wrong. Last week I said that dry land was as scarce to find as a tobacco plant in Vernon Country. I was led to believe that no one was raising tobacco anymore in this part of the state.

Imagine my surprise over the weekend as we were driving around on the country roads. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There it was, slowly moving across a large field, a two-row tobacco planter. Thousands of small plants stood in long rows in the field. I didn’t think anyone still had a tobacco allotment. I guess I was wrong again. I didn’t trust my eyes, so I had to stop and take pictures, and get a close-up look at the plants. They were tobacco plants. I’ve seen enough tobacco plants in my time to know one when I see one.

Seeing a large field of tobacco soon had memories of tobacco planting bubbling to the surface. The first week of July is quite late to be planting tobacco, just like a lot of the corn crop was just planted. I know we usually planted tobacco the first part of June. Lets hope we don’t have an early frost this year or this tobacco crop will be in trouble. I’ll be keeping an eye on this field as it grows and see what happens.

Tobacco was the major cash crop on farms in Vernon County for many years and paid the taxes and many other bills. It goes all the way back to the 1800s when my great grandfathers raised a lot of tobacco. It was, and still is, a very labor-intensive crop. It started in the spring when the tobacco beds were steamed and seeded and didn’t end until the tobacco had been stripped and sold, which usually occurred in January. 

The area where the tobacco beds would be located was steamed to sterilize the soil and help control diseases, weeds, and insects. To steam the soil, a rectangular pan on wheels, around 4’x16’, was dropped down where the tobacco beds would be located. A hose running from the steamer to the pan provided the steam. After about 30 minutes the pan was moved and the process repeated. After the soil had been steamed, the tobacco seeds were sown in wood-framed beds and covered with a white, muslin-type cover for protection. The beds were watered every day and the plants soon filled the beds. When they were 6”-8” tall they were ready to be picked and transplanted in the field.

Even before we were old enough to plant, we helped water the beds each day and picked plants, placing them carefully in boxes and bushel baskets. These were then carried to the field where the plants were removed from the boxes and placed on the planter.  

When I was nine years old, I learned to “drop” tobacco. I was left handed, so my mother didn’t have to change sides and continued to drop right-handed. My father drove the John Deere B tractor that pulled the planter.  

The Ellis tobacco planter consisted of a large barrel filled with water, mounted on two large iron wheels. The two “droppers” sat on low iron seats, just inches off the ground behind the barrel, with their feet stretched out in front of them and resting on foot pegs under the barrel. It was not very comfortable. A board rested on our laps and the tobacco plants that had been removed from the boxes were piled on the boards. As the planter went slowly across the field, the shovel or “shoe,” as it was called, located between the two droppers, made a small furrow in the soil. With each click, water filled the hole, and the dropper inserted a plant. The furrow then closed around the plant and the process was repeated for the other dropper. If you inserted the plant too deep, the stem would break, if planted too shallow, it would also die. There was an “art” to dropping tobacco! The droppers would get into the rhythm of the clicks, with never a moment to even scratch an itchy nose for fear of missing a plant. This went on for row after row, hour after hour, day after day, until all ten acres of our tobacco had been planted.

It was hot, dirty work with little time to talk, especially when learning to drop. Ma often took my turn also, when I became confused and was about to miss. Dad didn’t look kindly on missing plants and would stop when he saw a blank space in another row. He’d make me get off and plant it by hand and give me “H” if too many plants were missing.

When my brother, David, became old enough to drop, my mother went back to pulling plants, along with my grandmother, Inga. David and I planted many acres together over the next years. We were quite a team and hardly ever missed a plant. I think we could still plant tobacco if we had to! My sister, Janet, took my place when I left for college. 

I thought tobacco planting was just a distant memory for most of us. Now I know a drive down some country roads can still catch us a glimpse of what was once a big part of our lives.

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Rain, Viking Ship, and A Peacock

Across the Fence #451

You don’t want to say to anyone around these parts, “We need some rain.” You just might end up in the emergency room after being beaten with water-logged umbrellas. Rain has become a four-letter word. It seems like it’s been raining for two months. 

As I write this a couple days before the 4th of July, very little, if any, corn is going to be knee high by the 4th. Much of the corn crop still hasn’t been planted. Many fields haven’t dried out enough to get equipment in them. This is not a good year to be a farmer or contractor. People who have basements that like to collect water aren’t very happy either. 

This is like the weather we had when we were trying to build our house. It was a real challenge with all the rain and water that collected in the swimming hole that was supposed to be our basement. At that time I wrote: “To heck with building a house. I’m calling our builder tomorrow and tell him to pour the floor in the basement as soon as he can get a cement truck in there without burying it in the mud. Then we’ll call it done. I’ll fill the basement with water, which shouldn’t be too hard to accomplish around here. We’ll do a little landscaping, haul in a few loads of sand to spread around the hole, and quicker than you can say, “Head for cover, here comes another rain shower,” we’ll have a great outdoor swimming pool… complete with a sandy beach. The price of our land just skyrocketed. Now we have waterfront property.”

I wonder if all this rain has something to do with Sherpe’s trying to build. Ever since my brother, Arden, and his family started to put an addition on their house it’s been raining. They’ve had to endure a mud hole around their house just like we did. If you ever hear that a Sherpe is planning to build something, call all the contractors you know and tell them to say they’re too busy to take on any new jobs. If not, you might as well get ready for another 40 days of rain.

Someone asked me if I’d started building an ark. I told them no. I’ve never seen a real ark and still don’t understand what a cubit is, so it would be hard to build one. I did tell them I’ve been thinking of building a Viking ship. Those ships are in my ancestry and I’ve even seen real ones at the Viking Ship Museum in Oslo. The way I figure, if someone’s building an ark, they’re never going to take me with. They’d say I’m too old and not a good candidate to repopulate the world after the water recedes. They’d let me drown with all the other people and animals they didn’t want on the ark. 

That’s why I need to start building a Viking ship and be prepared. Then when the Mississippi, Wisconsin, and Kickapoo Rivers begin overflowing and flooding everything, I’ll jump in my ship and sail off to Valhalla or wherever you sail to in a Viking ship when a major flood makes dry land as scarce to find as a tobacco plant in Vernon County. Who knows, maybe I’ll end up in Norway. The area where my Østrem ancestors came from is high up in the mountains. Maybe the water won’t reach them. I’ll drop anchor there and live with them until the water recedes. It’s good to have a plan.

Maybe all this rain is why we now have a female Peacock hanging out around our place. It was probably rejected by whoever’s building an ark because they had already booked a pair of Peacocks. She may have heard through the birdvine that I’m thinking of building a Viking ship. The poor bird wants to have a ride if the big flood comes. 

You probably think I’m joking about having a Peacock hanging around our place. I wish I was joking, but no, it’s been here for close to a week now. Linda first noticed this big bird peeking in the sidelight window of our front door. Needless to say, it freaked her out. The next day I was startled to see it as I came around the back corner of our house. It was in the window well, looking in our basement window. It headed under the deck when it saw me. I got my camera and took pictures to prove we had a Peacock in the area. I called the Sheriff’s Department to see if they had any missing Peacock reports. There were none.

The next evening it flew up on our back deck. I chased it off and it ran into the wooded area next to the house. Two days later it was back looking in the front window again. We shooed it away. Then Linda saw a huge bird fly up toward our roof. I went out and there she stood, proud as a Peacock, on our roof. I waved my arms and shouted at her to get lost. She suddenly took off and flew right over my head and disappeared into the wooded area again. I didn’t realize they could fly like that. I’ve only seen Peacocks penned up in zoos before.

I’m sure that isn’t the end of this story. I suspect she’ll be back tonight, rain or shine, to see if I’ve started building that Viking ship.

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Firecrackers and Gettysburg

Across the Fence #450

When I was young, firecrackers, cherry bombs, and other assorted “things that go boom in the night,” were still legal. We always enjoyed exploding a few of them as we celebrated the 4th of July.

Many of you who were raised on a farm, probably experienced the old firecracker or cherry bomb in a cow pie explosion! It didn’t take much to entertain us. For those of you who’ve never tried to outrun an exploding “meadow muffin,” let me instruct you in the finer points of cow pie demolition.

The cow pen provided plenty of objects waiting to be blown apart. Some people liked fresh pies, but we preferred ones that had crusted over in the hot sun but were still soft on the inside. The firecracker was inserted in the middle of the pie with the top portion and fuse exposed. The fuse was then lit. We made sure it was burning and then turned and ran like an irritated skunk was chasing us. Ka-Boom! The pie hit the fan, so to speak, as pieces flew in all directions.

That’s all pretty harmless fun when you consider what happened from July 1–3, 1863. This is the 150th anniversary of that Civil War battle at Gettysburg. The explosions at Gettysburg were deadly, not little firecrackers. I think it’s important that we take a moment to reflect on that momentous battle that changed the course of the war and probably saved the Union. This would in all likelihood be a different country if General Lee’s southern forces had won the battle at Gettysburg. 

Between 46,000 and 51,000 soldiers from both sides were casualties in the three-day battle. One third of those who fought were killed or wounded. My mind can’t even imagine what those soldiers went through. All war is insane and mentally challenging, but this must have been like walking into a nightmare, far worse than anything we could ever imagine. 

Many veterans of other wars since that time know what it’s like to move into position for a fight, being shot at, and having explosions impact around you. But I can’t begin to imagine the fright those Civil War soldiers must have felt and the bravery it must have taken to line up shoulder to shoulder and begin marching across an open field into the withering fire of thousands of muskets and exploding cannon fire. They were mowed down, like a scythe cutting wheat. We look upon it now as a stupid way to fight, but during the Civil War it was the way you fought. If you were in the front ranks, your chance of survival was slim and none.

I’ve always had a fascination with the Civil War, especially the battle of Little Round Top at Gettysburg. I had a friend who was also a Vietnam veteran. We felt like we had known each other forever. One day while talking, we found out we both had a special feeling for Little Round Top and felt we needed to visit there together. Unfortunately, he died before we could go. Neither of us had ancestors who fought in the Civil War, so we knew it couldn’t be some wandering DNA calling to us. My friend said, I think we were there, fighting together as friends in another life. I think he was joking, but... I have a feeling he wasn’t. 

I had a great grandfather who had a chance to be in the Civil War. Hans O. Hanson Sherpe arrived from Norway a few months after the start of the war in 1861. He was 21 and began working as a hired man on a farm near the Country Coon Prairie Church. A man who didn’t want to go to war, offered Hans $1,200 to take his place. Great grandfather turned down the offer. That was a tremendous amount of money back in the 1860’s. He could have bought many farms with that money. Hans was either really smart or really dumb to turn down that much money. I have to thank him for not taking it. If he had been killed in the war, I and so many other Sherpe descendants wouldn’t be here. 

I think of all the men who did lose their lives at Gettysburg. They didn’t have a chance to be a father and grandfather. My great grandfather was lucky. Is it just luck that determines who lives and who dies? That doesn’t seem fair. I think of all the souls that never had a chance at life because war took the life of those who would have been their fathers.

I know most people will be thinking only of parades, brats, beer, picnics, exploding meadow muffins, and fireworks this 4th of July. But it’s important to take a moment to remember the many sacrifices that people made to make this a free country. The signers of the Declaration of Independence understood that as soon as they affixed their names to that document, it was like putting a noose around their necks. They had the courage to sign their names anyway. Soldiers at Gettysburg knew that many of them were going to die. They had the courage to keep going anyway. 

For me the 4th of July symbolizes freedom, courage, the luck of survival, and even homecoming–it was the day I returned home from Vietnam.

Enjoy the 4th, but also remember why we’re celebrating.

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Call Me A Tree Hugger

Across the Fence #449

We’ve been trying to get some trees growing around our house. Let’s put it this way, I won’t be climbing in them anytime soon, even if I could get up in a tree without a ladder. I read a Chinese proverb that said the best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago. The next best time is now. How true that is.

It takes many years for a tree to mature; depending on what kind you plant. I guess most of us who have a few years behind us, are planting them for the next generation to enjoy. I think of the big maple trees we climbed in when I was young. The Jacob Sorenson family, who sold the farm to my parents, probably planted those trees. I can thank them for all the fun we had and the shade they provided. We spent many hot, muggy summer evenings sitting in the shade under those trees. We didn’t have air conditioning back then. We also rested there after eating the noon meal, before we headed back to the fields.

The grove of trees that is west of the house where we now live, were probably planted by Gullik Gullikson, a bachelor who lived in a small house in that grove of trees. There was also a two-story shed that was still standing when we were young. Both are long gone. Now the area is a haven for birds and wildlife. For three years, a doe has given birth to her fawns in the secluded safety of that grove of trees and brush. We love having those trees next to us. I can thank Gullik for those trees and our McClurg neighbors for leaving them standing and providing a place for wildlife and birds. Many of those trees are old and full of holes where the birds find refuge from the cold days and nights during the winter. We have a bird feeder and birdhouses in the trees on our side of the line fence. I suspect the Eastern Screech Owl, that ended up sitting in the rafters of our house when it was being built, has a home in one of those trees.

Call me a tree hugger if you want, but I find it hard to watch trees that have been growing for years, destroyed. I know I railed on about all the trees that were destroyed along Sherpe Road when the new highway was built. They were pushed down, put in piles, and burned. I looked at the plans and they could have left the trees on one whole side of the road. It wouldn’t have affected the highway, bike path, or the relocation of Sherpe Road. It would have provided a nice windbreak, sound barrier, and place for birds and wildlife. But I guess it’s easier to destroy than to work around something.

I also see a lot of trees disappearing along fence lines. Actually, the fence lines are disappearing too. Large corporations buy up the land for crop farming. The fences are the first to go, and then they cut down and burn the trees so they can have one large field. I now see open fields with hundreds of acres, like you would expect to see out west where the land is flat. You wouldn’t expect to see long, straight rows on the rolling countryside of the Coon Prairie. What happened to the strip cropping that our fathers practiced to preserve the land from eroding?

I realize that everything is changing in the world we live, and as farms and equipment get larger, we’ll see even more changing of the farm landscape from what it once was. The timber frame, red barns that dotted the countryside are disappearing too. Many that still stand, are falling apart from non-use and neglect. I can see the day coming when all those farmsteads will be gone, along with the trees that surrounded the houses, and they will become part of the large, open fields. 

I know the local farmers who have increased the size of their farms are concerned about the land, but I wonder about the large, out of state, corporate owners. Do they care about how their farming practices may affect their neighbors? Another quote about trees could also include all those disappearing farmsteads. “The tree, which moves some to tears of joy; is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way.”

We are lucky that we live in the Driftless Area of Wisconsin, where we have an abundance of wild areas, with tree-covered hills and valleys, as far as the eye can see. I can’t imagine living in an area where we weren’t surrounded by this magnificent landscape. I should also mention that it’s hard to find a straight road anywhere in the area. We have lots of curves and crooked roads. Even the Kickapoo River is referred to as the Crooked River, because it meanders back and forth through the coulees. And to top it off, we only have three stoplights in the entire county to slow you down. Most people find that hard to believe when they’re used to a stoplight on every corner.

This is great country. We just need to be aware of how we treat the land, so future generations can enjoy it too. A few shade trees to enjoy wouldn’t hurt either.

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A House Is Not A Home

Across the Fence #448

Five years ago I wrote about the death of our old barn. It had outlived its usefulness and was falling apart and was pulled down and buried. That barn held a lot of memories for me. Since that time, several other buildings from my younger days have met the same fate. Most of the friends, neighbors, and relatives of my parent’s generation are now gone, along with the buildings that were a part of my life. 

Life and the world we live in are constantly changing. Many of those changes are subtle at first and we don’t notice. But as time goes on we begin to see physical changes as things begin to show wear and tear, and start to deteriorate. The same is true for people and buildings. There are many similarities in the aging process.

Old bodies and old buildings eventually begin to wear out. The structure isn’t as strong and firm as it once was. Things begin to sag, joints begin to creak, things break down from years of use, and the list goes on and on. I don’t like to think about it, but I’m getting closer and closer to the condition our old buildings found themselves in. Years and years of physically challenging myself have taken a toll and are catching up with me. Arthritic joints and a weakening infrastructure let me know that I’m not in the physical shape I once was. The memory storage compartments of my brain seem to be filling up and it’s becoming harder to find and retrieve information or a name I’m looking for. It’s like that old storage attic or closet in most houses that becomes so full and cluttered you can’t find anything back when you need it. I refer to it as OTMRS, Old Timer’s Memory Retrieval Syndrome. I suspect a few of you have also encountered OTMRS from time to time. 

We were in Ixonia, near Milwaukee, over the weekend, celebrating our grandson’s first birthday, when another important building from my life was laid to rest. The old, two-story farmhouse that I was raised in, became just a memory. Luckily, I have no problem retrieving memories about that old house. My memory bank is full of them. The house was pushed over and buried in a large hole that had been dug next to it. We knew its days were numbered, but I had hoped to be there for its death and burial. It was like missing the funeral of a close friend.

As I stood by the hole looking at the pile of splintered lumber and twisted pieces that used to be a house, I realized that a house is just material stuff; it’s not a home. No house becomes a home until people and families occupy it and interact within that house. The people who once shared that house grew older and scattered to the four winds. Time caught up with our parents and they left us to journey to the next adventure in the great unknown. Time also caught up with the old house that was once our home. It’s also gone and buried. Now memories are all that remain.

I’ve written about many of those memories in previous columns. I wonder what Ma would say if she could see what was left of the house she once made a home out of, for all of us. The kitchen had been her castle. It was old, it wasn’t modern, but it was always clean and neat, and the smells of food were always present. I can still picture her standing in the kitchen window looking to the west as she watched the glorious sunsets we now get to observe. I wonder what she was thinking. I never bothered to ask.

I remember the cold winter nights in our bedroom on the second floor. The only heat came through the round hole in the floor, covered with a decorative iron grate. I wish I had saved that item to remind me of how lucky we are now on cold winter nights. I also remember the thick frost covering the windows and the patterns that Johnny Frost left in them.

I also wonder if our treasure map that fell between the walls in the attic, was still intact after all these years? We drew a map to show where we had buried my father’s collection of Indianhead pennies. We never found them back and my father was not a happy camper. It was not my finest hour. Even if we did have the map, I suspect the large bull thistle is long gone that we had to take ten paces to the west from. 

Now the map, the windows, and the grate are among the pile of twisted lumber and fieldstone blocks that was once the house I grew up in. It holds many memories, some good, some not so good, but the good far outweigh the bad. As I stood silently and looked around, with the rain still falling, I couldn’t help but think that it was just like standing in the rain beside the open grave of a friend while the minister blessed the remains and said, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” The only thing missing was the minister.

I would add that my memories will continue to feel the home, even though I can no longer see the house.

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One Year Old and Full of Curiosity

Across the Fence #447

Sean on the rocking horse his mother received on her first birthday.

Our grandson, Sean, will be entering his second year by the time you read this. He was born on June 8, 2012. It’s hard to believe it’s been a year since he came into this world. Where did the time go? 

At that time I wrote the following words. “It’s an exciting world that awaits Sean. It’s filled with challenges, wonders, and opportunities. There will be many roads to explore and many doors to open to see what’s inside. My wish for him is that he’ll be filled with curiosity to explore those roads and open those doors; that he will think for himself and not blindly follow others.”

We’re lucky that we live only three hours away and have been able to spend time with him, watch him grow, and reach new milestones in his life. It must be hard for all you grandmas and grandpas who have grandchildren far away and you’re not able to just jump in the car and be there in a few hours. Some people are lucky to see them once or twice a year. Sean’s other grandparents’ live in Mississippi and they’re in that category. We realize how fortunate we are.

Technology has changed a lot of things since we were young. Now we can send e-mails and attach photos almost instantaneously. We don’t need to wait several days to get the photos developed and then send them by mail. Depending on how far away you are, that could take several days. With digital cameras, we take the photos, download them to our computers, and attach them to an e-mail. If you take the photos on an iPhone or other Smartphone, you can e-mail them right from your phone in a matter of seconds. You can also take video (movies), and send them over the Internet. My grandparents and parents could never have imagined such technology. 

These days, you can also Skype with your grandchildren. It’s a great way to see and hear Sean in real time. The Davis grandparents in Mississippi also have Skype. For those of you who aren’t familiar with Skype, it’s like having a phone conversation with someone, except you can also see them and they can see you. All you need is a computer or iPad. The Skype program is free software. You can even converse face to face with relatives and friends in foreign countries. When I was young, this would have been something that only happened in science fiction movies. As I said, technology has really changed things since I was young. What changes will Sean see by the time he’s old enough to be a grandfather? 

I mentioned a year ago that I hoped Sean would be filled with curiosity. I can now report that he is. It’s so fun to watch him as he tries to figure out how to do things. It will serve him well as he explores the world around him, and it will always keep him young and energized. I think having the curiosity to explore different roads and ideas, and being willing to open new doors and see what lies behind them, is so important as we journey through life. Just as technology is constantly changing, our thinking also is in constant change as we adapt and try to understand all the changes around us. I personally think that’s an exciting part of life. 

I’d love to live long enough to see what kind of changes Sean will see and experience by the time he’s 21, or 50, or my age, 69. I know I’ll be just a fading memory in 68 years, but aren’t you curious to know and see what the world will be like by that time? I’d like to be around to see humans depart on a one-way trip to Mars in ten years. At least that’s the projected timetable. Remember how exciting it was when Neil Armstrong stepped onto the surface of the moon? 

Without curiosity about the unknown, there would be no discoveries and advances, whether it’s exploration of our universe, or trying to find a cure for cancer and other diseases. The human race would still be mired in the past and we’d still think that if we sailed far enough out into the ocean, we’d drop over the edge of the world. Thank goodness for people with curiosity and the guts to explore the boundaries of the known world. I know there are still people who think the earth is only ten thousand years old, but I think I can safely say that Sean won’t be a member of the Flat Earth Society.

I’m glad to see that he already has a curiosity about nature. In this modern, technology-filled world, it’s important that he also knows and appreciates the natural world around him. I want him to know of the rural roots of his ancestors. No matter where he ends up in the future, I hope he always has an appreciation for the land, nature, and all the species that populate the land, including the rural people. 

Many people are losing their connection to the land and rural people. They feel like rural America is as alien a world to them, as if they had landed on Mars. This old grandpa will do what he can to help Sean view nature as a wonderful part of his technological world.

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Sing and Dance In the Rain

Across the Fence #446

As twilight envelopes Sherpeland on this Memorial Day, a light fog has descended upon the countryside. Everything is very green and very wet. It rains and rains and rains. After a very long winter we’ve been blessed or cursed with a very wet spring. Your outlook all boils down to whether you see the rain gauge as half empty or half full.

Right now, it’s full enough for most people around here, especially the farmers. It’s almost the end of May and many farmers haven’t been able to get in their fields to plant the corn crop. It never dries out enough between rain showers to get in the fields without burying the equipment in the mud. Farming is a tough job, but this spring has been an especially trying time for them.

I’m tired of the wet weather too, but I can’t complain. I’m high and dry as I sit here and I don’t have to worry about a corn crop that still needs planting. On this Memorial Day evening I’m safe and dry in our house as the fog sets in and darkness begins to surround us. As I sit here looking out the window, my mind drifts back to nights like this many years ago in a far away land. Rain-soaked vegetation with fog settling in low areas, especially at twilight, seems to be a trigger that unlocks those memories for me.

We were miserable at times in the stifling heat and humidity, torrential downpours during the Monsoon rains, water-logged boots and socks, mud that sucked us in and trapped us, blood-sucking malaria-carrying mosquitoes, creepy-crawly critters, poisonous snakes, booby traps, and oh yes, enemy forces lurking in the bushes that wanted to kill us. But, I would rather have had all those conditions to deal with than the snow and freezing cold that our troops endured during the Battle of the Bulge in World War II and in Korea. I can’t imagine how miserable they must have been and how hard it must have been to fight when they were freezing to death. I have so much respect for them. 

This year marks the 60th anniversary of the signing of the armistice that ended the fighting in the Korean War on July 27, 1953. Lately, there have been articles about the war and I imagine there will be more as the anniversary date approaches. It’s about time the Korean vets are recognized for the sacrifices they made. Korean War KIA’s and MIA’s were the focal points of my talk at the Viroqua Memorial Day program.

I also stressed that it’s important that those of us who are still alive, remember those who weren’t as lucky as we were. These extra years have been a gift and we shouldn’t waste a single day. 

I think Wisconsin author Ben Logan said it best. He was an LST commander in World War II and the only one in his crew to survive the war. When I visited with him at his farm nine years ago and interviewed him about his World War II experiences for a Veteran’s Day column, he told me, “I still think of those men. The incident changed my life and made life increasingly precious. I pledged then that I would never waste a moment. I dedicated myself to live for them too.”

This past week I was talking with a Vietnam vet friend. We’re both rather driven and always busy doing something. I mentioned what I was going to talk about in my Memorial Day talk. He said he felt the same way. He didn’t want to waste any of these extra days and years he’d been given either. Life is precious. We must make the best of the time we have. Too many of our friends didn’t get this chance. I used to think I was the only one who felt that way, but now I suspect a great many veterans feel the same way.

Because I don’t want to waste this extra “bonus” time I’ve been given, it bothered me when I read the new Department of Veterans Affairs report that said 22 veterans commit suicide every day. That’s alarming. Also alarming is that 69% were over the age of 50. That puts them in the Vietnam, Korea, and World War II age group. Evidently those people were hurting and didn’t seek or get help. Maybe it’s the old medic in me that wants to help and heal everyone, but I think it’s tragic that so many people see no hope ahead, and the only way out is to end it all. That needs to change.

Perhaps for some, the fog of war gets in the way, just like when driving in a heavy fog, they can hardly make out the road ahead. When people can no longer see clearly, it’s easy to lose the way. We all need to remember that the fog will eventually rise and the sun will shine again.

These rainy days we’ve been experiencing will eventually give way to dry days. Like Gene Kelly, when it's raining we need to sing and dance in the rain and enjoy it. When dry weather comes and we need the rain, we can even do a rain dance! Keep dancing and don’t waste these years that we’ve been given. Our fallen comrades would love to be in our place. 

Every day is a great day to be alive! 

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