Across the Fence #358
I’ll try to describe a typical day in the life of this milk hauler. Up at 4:00 am, grab a sandwich that my mother had made the night before, and out to the truck, parked at the farm. I headed out in the dark toward Cashton, north of Westby, to my first farm. At each stop I’d maneuver the truck as close to the milk house as possible. Some places were set up so you could drive right alongside the milk house. At others, you had to back down a winding path or around buildings to reach the milk house, using only your sideview mirrors.
The first order of business was to unload the empty cans for the next day’s milking. Each farmer had cans with numbers painted on in red or black, so the hauler and the creamery knew who the milk belonged to. I always carried extra cans without numbers in case a farmer needed them and then used a red marker to write their number on the cans.
All milk haulers wore a large leather apron like blacksmiths use. This was used because you were always pulling cold, wet cans out of the milk coolers in the milk houses and carrying them to the truck. Without the apron you’d have been soaking wet. I pulled the full cans from the cooler and carried them outside where I loaded them on the truck. At first I’d carry one can at a time and with a swinging motion, hoist it up into the truck. After all, they weighed a hundred pounds when full. Eventually I could carry two cans at a time, because it saved a lot of steps and time. Depending on the size of the dairy herd, a farm could have as little as two cans or as many as twenty. The truck had doors on the back and sides to make loading easier. After the cans were loaded, I secured the door latch on the truck and headed off to the next farm.
As I became more familiar with driving the truck, I’d roar along the back roads as fast as I could go in order to save time. At the creamery I usually had to wait in line for at least one other hauler to unload, and also for farmers who hauled their own milk in pickups. That meant spending a half hour in line and another twenty minutes unloading and loading. If Magnus Sather beat me to the creamery, it meant waiting even longer. He also had two loads a day.
Magnus was a friend of our family. His daughter and I graduated from high school together. Magnus was built like a bull, strong and muscular from hauling milk for over twenty years. He had bad knees, arthritis in his hands, back problems, and aches and pains from all those years of lifting heavy cans. He told me many times, “Howard, go back to school, you don’t want to be doing this for twenty years. It’s too hard. You’ll end up like me.” I was still having fun, but I hadn’t gone through a cold Wisconsin winter hauling milk at that point.
Magnus and I helped each other unload, because it went faster and we’d be back on the road for our second load, and finish sooner. But there was a friendly rivalry to see who could get to the creamery first.
One day Magnus and I arrived at a crossroad on Highway 27 at the same time, about a mile north of town. I pulled onto the highway first and Magnus pulled in right behind me. I barreled down the highway toward town with him on my bumper. At that time there were two stop signs at the north edge of Westby where 14 and 27 split. One went straight ahead to go south into Westby, the other veered to the right to go toward Coon Valley. As we came to the intersection, I pulled to a stop and leaned forward to look out my right window, and see if any cars were coming. No cars were coming, but there was Magnus, barreling by and waving to me. He had taken the right exit and must have run the stop sign, in order to get ahead of me. I roared after him, both of us double clutching our way down Main Street. We might have exceeded the speed limit just a bit. We pulled into the creamery in the south part of town and screeched to a halt.
Magnus got out of his truck grinning ear to ear. “Thought you were going to beat me, didn’t you?” He let out a big laugh and I had to laugh too.
Another milk hauler, Cal Anderson, pulled in behind us and got out. “Where’s the fire? I saw you guys racing into town as I was coming down 14.” He knew why we’d been in a hurry. Cal was probably trying to get there ahead of us so he wouldn’t have to wait an extra hour!
I felt sorry for some of the farmers who hauled their own cans when they got behind a line of our trucks. One woman arrived about the time I did. I always let her go ahead of me and helped her unload the four or five cans she had in the back of their pickup.
(Continued next week)
*
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Milk Hauling Days - Part 1
Across the Fence 357
I ran into two people recently that brought back memories of my milk hauling days. Many of you are familiar with the days of farming when milk was hauled in cans. I’d like to take you back to those days of yesteryear when I hauled milk to the Westby Cooperative Creamery for 14 months.
During the summer of 1963, I was working on the family farm. One day, while I was doing chores, our milk hauler, Vernal Bjornstad, arrived. I helped lift the cans out of the cooler and carried them from the milk house while he lifted them into the truck. That was back in the days when you still put milk in ten-gallon cans, not bulk tanks. A full can weighed 100 pounds.
Vernal said he could use help with his milk route. He had two trucks and wondered if I’d be interested in hauling milk for him. He’d pay me $125 dollars a month. That seemed like a lot of money, especially when I wasn’t making any money working at home. “Talk it over with your dad,” he said, “and let me know tomorrow.” The hours would be from four or five in the morning until around one in the afternoon. I could still help on the farm in the afternoon and evening.
Dad was reluctant to have me haul milk. “You don’t know how to drive a big truck like that, it’s different from driving a pickup.” He finally relented.
The next morning I told Vernal I’d take the job. He said he’d pick me up at 4:30 the next morning and I’d ride with on the route I’d be taking over. Depending on the time of year there would be from 175 to 250 cans, and it would take two loads per day.
The next morning I was ready to roll. It was my first “real” job. Before then, I’d only worked on the farm or helped neighbors with farm work for short periods of time.
My route was mostly in the area north of Westby along Highway 27, the Clockmaker area, Jersey Valley, Rognstad Ridge, Highway 33 near Cashton, and several farms south of Westby, including our farm. It was a lot of miles to cover every day and still get the second load to the Westby Creamery and unloaded before 1:00.
Vernal drove while I made notes on what farms were on the route, and other things I needed to know, such as how many pounds of butter each received, and which dogs to watch out for. After the truck was full we headed for the creamery to unload. Vernal said I should try to beat Magnus Sather to the creamery, or I’d lose half an hour waiting behind him while he unloaded. Magnus also had a big route and it usually took about twenty minutes to half an hour to unload the full cans and load empty cans back on the truck.
After we’d completed the second load, Vernal parked the truck, and said, “It’s all yours!” He told me to take it to the gas station on the south edge of town and fill it up each day when I finished my route. He had an account there. Then he got in another truck and drove away.
There I stood. I still hadn’t driven the truck. I’d only been a passenger and watched while he explained how to shift from high to low gear by pressing the little red button on the side of the shift knob, while double clutching. He said I’d learn quickly which gear to use, depending on how heavy the load was.
I climbed up into the cab of that truck and started it up. I tried shifting it into gear. I had problems at first, but eventually made it out of the creamery driveway and onto Highway 14, sweating profusely!
I felt pretty cool bouncing along on my way to the gas station. Look at me; I’m a double-clutching truck driver, a real macho-man. I tried not to grind the gears too much as I headed down the highway. It was fun running through all those gears and constantly shifting. Little did I know that a year later it’d be a big pain in the butt shifting all the time.
That was the start of my truck driving, milk hauling career. Thank goodness it was in the summer when the weather was nice and the roads were good.
The next morning I was up and on the road before 4:30. It took longer that first day because everything was new, and I was still learning how to drive and shift the truck. I also found it tricky backing into tight places near milk houses using only the side-view mirrors and trying to judge the distance
.
Somehow I survived that first day, with no accidents or spilled milk. I didn’t hit any milk houses, run over anyone, and even managed to maneuver the truck into the unloading dock without damaging the creamery.
By that evening every muscle in my body was sore. I was 19 and thought I was in great shape from doing farm work, but slinging 250 milk cans around and lifting them up into the bed of the truck was hard work. What had I gotten myself into?
Next week: A day in the life of a milk hauler.
*
I ran into two people recently that brought back memories of my milk hauling days. Many of you are familiar with the days of farming when milk was hauled in cans. I’d like to take you back to those days of yesteryear when I hauled milk to the Westby Cooperative Creamery for 14 months.
During the summer of 1963, I was working on the family farm. One day, while I was doing chores, our milk hauler, Vernal Bjornstad, arrived. I helped lift the cans out of the cooler and carried them from the milk house while he lifted them into the truck. That was back in the days when you still put milk in ten-gallon cans, not bulk tanks. A full can weighed 100 pounds.
Vernal said he could use help with his milk route. He had two trucks and wondered if I’d be interested in hauling milk for him. He’d pay me $125 dollars a month. That seemed like a lot of money, especially when I wasn’t making any money working at home. “Talk it over with your dad,” he said, “and let me know tomorrow.” The hours would be from four or five in the morning until around one in the afternoon. I could still help on the farm in the afternoon and evening.
Dad was reluctant to have me haul milk. “You don’t know how to drive a big truck like that, it’s different from driving a pickup.” He finally relented.
The next morning I told Vernal I’d take the job. He said he’d pick me up at 4:30 the next morning and I’d ride with on the route I’d be taking over. Depending on the time of year there would be from 175 to 250 cans, and it would take two loads per day.
The next morning I was ready to roll. It was my first “real” job. Before then, I’d only worked on the farm or helped neighbors with farm work for short periods of time.
My route was mostly in the area north of Westby along Highway 27, the Clockmaker area, Jersey Valley, Rognstad Ridge, Highway 33 near Cashton, and several farms south of Westby, including our farm. It was a lot of miles to cover every day and still get the second load to the Westby Creamery and unloaded before 1:00.
Vernal drove while I made notes on what farms were on the route, and other things I needed to know, such as how many pounds of butter each received, and which dogs to watch out for. After the truck was full we headed for the creamery to unload. Vernal said I should try to beat Magnus Sather to the creamery, or I’d lose half an hour waiting behind him while he unloaded. Magnus also had a big route and it usually took about twenty minutes to half an hour to unload the full cans and load empty cans back on the truck.
After we’d completed the second load, Vernal parked the truck, and said, “It’s all yours!” He told me to take it to the gas station on the south edge of town and fill it up each day when I finished my route. He had an account there. Then he got in another truck and drove away.
There I stood. I still hadn’t driven the truck. I’d only been a passenger and watched while he explained how to shift from high to low gear by pressing the little red button on the side of the shift knob, while double clutching. He said I’d learn quickly which gear to use, depending on how heavy the load was.
I climbed up into the cab of that truck and started it up. I tried shifting it into gear. I had problems at first, but eventually made it out of the creamery driveway and onto Highway 14, sweating profusely!
I felt pretty cool bouncing along on my way to the gas station. Look at me; I’m a double-clutching truck driver, a real macho-man. I tried not to grind the gears too much as I headed down the highway. It was fun running through all those gears and constantly shifting. Little did I know that a year later it’d be a big pain in the butt shifting all the time.
That was the start of my truck driving, milk hauling career. Thank goodness it was in the summer when the weather was nice and the roads were good.
The next morning I was up and on the road before 4:30. It took longer that first day because everything was new, and I was still learning how to drive and shift the truck. I also found it tricky backing into tight places near milk houses using only the side-view mirrors and trying to judge the distance
.
Somehow I survived that first day, with no accidents or spilled milk. I didn’t hit any milk houses, run over anyone, and even managed to maneuver the truck into the unloading dock without damaging the creamery.
By that evening every muscle in my body was sore. I was 19 and thought I was in great shape from doing farm work, but slinging 250 milk cans around and lifting them up into the bed of the truck was hard work. What had I gotten myself into?
Next week: A day in the life of a milk hauler.
*
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Let's Park for a While
Across the Fence #356
At least I know a few people read Across the Fence. I hear my cruisin’ with WLS in the 60’s story sparked some memories in many of you.
I walked into Borgen’s Café in Westby one day and ran into two of my high school classmates. One of them remarked, “I didn’t know you were a dancer?” I was a bit puzzled, until she said she read my story about going to Lloyd’s and Danceland. I doubt if anyone in my high school class ever saw me dance. I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly in high school. I was more like a moth stuck inside a cocoon and couldn’t find my way out.
By the way, I was 19 years old, had been out of high school for over a year, and was hauling milk, when I was frequenting Lloyd’s and Danceland. Let’s just say, those were my coming out of my cocoon years.
One day we stopped in Ole and Lena’s Kaffe Hus in Westby. Mike, the owner, said, “I was hoping you’d come in this week.” Then he burst into song. “On top of a pizza all covered with cheese…” At that point I joined in… “I saw my first meatball, til’ somebody sneezed. It rolled off the table and onto the floor…” You’d have thought Mike and I were cruisin’ down the highway in a ’57 Chev, and singing along with Dick Biondi on WLS! Other people in Ole and Lena’s must have wondered what was wrong with the two of us.
Mike was surprised to find out we had been listening to WLS in Westby. Mike is a Chicago-area native and even got to attend a Rockin’ New Year’s Eve with Dick Biondi at the Chicago Theatre one year. We had a good time reminiscing about our cruisin’ and listenin’ to WLS years. It’s a small world. Kids in Westby and kids in Chicago were tuned into the same radio station and doing the same things.
What we all did was similar to the movie, American Graffiti, where they cruised around listening to Wolfman Jack. Readers reminded me that guys and gals also parked their cars for a while in that movie. That was another activity that went on in that era… parking. You do remember parking, don’t you? Some people wondered if young people still park. We suspect it’s not a common activity these days. In all our travels around back roads in the country, day or night, I’ve never come across a situation that even resembles parking.
Perhaps I need to do a little explaining here for the younger crowd, and for those in my age group or older, who’ve been living in isolation in the back woods. Now I’m not saying I have any experience with parking, but any writer worth his weight in printer’s ink, researches his subject before putting words to paper. I’ve tried asking people about the subject, but it’s almost impossible to find anyone who will admit they used to park. As I’ve already mentioned, I’m not saying I have any experience on this subject either, but I’ve heard a lot about parking.
For the younger crowd, I’m not talking about driving to the local mall, parking your car, and going shopping. Back in the cruisin’ days, so I’ve been told, guys and gals would go cruisin’ around some lonely back roads at night and find a secluded place to park the car so they could spend some time alone… and sit and talk.
Back in those days, most cars didn’t have bucket seats and shifting knobs between the seats. It was just one seat and the shifting lever was on the steering column. That made it easier for a girl, way over on the passenger side, to slide over closer to the guy in case she couldn’t hear what he was saying. I should also mention that we didn’t have seat belts in those days, to keep us in our proper place. Sitting closer did make for some stimulating conversation, so I’ve been told.
Another interesting activity associated with parking, was bushwhacking. Again, I’m not saying I ever engaged in such activities, but I have it on good authority that such things took place. Bushwhacking was an activity carried out by a group of guys who didn’t have any girls to park and talk with. They would go looking for people who were parking. It was best to have the use of an old pickup truck, so one guy could drive, and the rest could ride in the back. Then we headed for the prime parking spots that we knew of. Did I say we? I meant to say, “they” headed for the prime parking spots. When they spotted a car parked in the shadows, they sprang into action. If it was in a field, they’d circle the car and guys would whoop and yell while pounding on the sides of the pickup. The occupants looked like a couple of deer caught in the headlights.
Then we roared off down the road as quickly as we’d arrived. We didn’t want to hurt anyone, just give them a little excitement, and a break from their heavy conversation.
Cruisin’, parking, and bushwhacking… activities that are a part of me and my generation. Just don’t blame me if this sparks a revival of those activities.
*
At least I know a few people read Across the Fence. I hear my cruisin’ with WLS in the 60’s story sparked some memories in many of you.
I walked into Borgen’s Café in Westby one day and ran into two of my high school classmates. One of them remarked, “I didn’t know you were a dancer?” I was a bit puzzled, until she said she read my story about going to Lloyd’s and Danceland. I doubt if anyone in my high school class ever saw me dance. I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly in high school. I was more like a moth stuck inside a cocoon and couldn’t find my way out.
By the way, I was 19 years old, had been out of high school for over a year, and was hauling milk, when I was frequenting Lloyd’s and Danceland. Let’s just say, those were my coming out of my cocoon years.
One day we stopped in Ole and Lena’s Kaffe Hus in Westby. Mike, the owner, said, “I was hoping you’d come in this week.” Then he burst into song. “On top of a pizza all covered with cheese…” At that point I joined in… “I saw my first meatball, til’ somebody sneezed. It rolled off the table and onto the floor…” You’d have thought Mike and I were cruisin’ down the highway in a ’57 Chev, and singing along with Dick Biondi on WLS! Other people in Ole and Lena’s must have wondered what was wrong with the two of us.
Mike was surprised to find out we had been listening to WLS in Westby. Mike is a Chicago-area native and even got to attend a Rockin’ New Year’s Eve with Dick Biondi at the Chicago Theatre one year. We had a good time reminiscing about our cruisin’ and listenin’ to WLS years. It’s a small world. Kids in Westby and kids in Chicago were tuned into the same radio station and doing the same things.
What we all did was similar to the movie, American Graffiti, where they cruised around listening to Wolfman Jack. Readers reminded me that guys and gals also parked their cars for a while in that movie. That was another activity that went on in that era… parking. You do remember parking, don’t you? Some people wondered if young people still park. We suspect it’s not a common activity these days. In all our travels around back roads in the country, day or night, I’ve never come across a situation that even resembles parking.
Perhaps I need to do a little explaining here for the younger crowd, and for those in my age group or older, who’ve been living in isolation in the back woods. Now I’m not saying I have any experience with parking, but any writer worth his weight in printer’s ink, researches his subject before putting words to paper. I’ve tried asking people about the subject, but it’s almost impossible to find anyone who will admit they used to park. As I’ve already mentioned, I’m not saying I have any experience on this subject either, but I’ve heard a lot about parking.
For the younger crowd, I’m not talking about driving to the local mall, parking your car, and going shopping. Back in the cruisin’ days, so I’ve been told, guys and gals would go cruisin’ around some lonely back roads at night and find a secluded place to park the car so they could spend some time alone… and sit and talk.
Back in those days, most cars didn’t have bucket seats and shifting knobs between the seats. It was just one seat and the shifting lever was on the steering column. That made it easier for a girl, way over on the passenger side, to slide over closer to the guy in case she couldn’t hear what he was saying. I should also mention that we didn’t have seat belts in those days, to keep us in our proper place. Sitting closer did make for some stimulating conversation, so I’ve been told.
Another interesting activity associated with parking, was bushwhacking. Again, I’m not saying I ever engaged in such activities, but I have it on good authority that such things took place. Bushwhacking was an activity carried out by a group of guys who didn’t have any girls to park and talk with. They would go looking for people who were parking. It was best to have the use of an old pickup truck, so one guy could drive, and the rest could ride in the back. Then we headed for the prime parking spots that we knew of. Did I say we? I meant to say, “they” headed for the prime parking spots. When they spotted a car parked in the shadows, they sprang into action. If it was in a field, they’d circle the car and guys would whoop and yell while pounding on the sides of the pickup. The occupants looked like a couple of deer caught in the headlights.
Then we roared off down the road as quickly as we’d arrived. We didn’t want to hurt anyone, just give them a little excitement, and a break from their heavy conversation.
Cruisin’, parking, and bushwhacking… activities that are a part of me and my generation. Just don’t blame me if this sparks a revival of those activities.
*
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Days of Summer Are Fading
Across the Fence #355
As the days become shorter and cooler, I can feel the beginning of fall in the air. Summer is heading south for the winter and leaving us behind.
Colorful wildflowers are disappearing and the wind rushing through the cornfields near our house sounds like waves rolling onto a beach. Summer is winding down and students have headed back to school. That can be an exciting or very apprehensive time in the life of every student, regardless of their age.
It’s also a tough time for parents as their child begins the first day of kindergarten, first grade, high school, or college. I know that emptiness and sadness you’re feeling. Been there, done that. On the other hand, maybe some of you are whooping it up and dancing in the streets. Summer vacation’s over and the kids are back in school! It makes me wonder how my parents felt when we headed off to school each fall.
Back to school for us farm kids was a mixed blessing. It was also tobacco harvesting time. We never got out of helping with tobacco when we were young. There was always lots of tobacco to pile as soon as we got home from school. I think Dad timed the cutting of the tobacco so it would be wilted and ready to pile when we arrived. In a way, we hated to miss the excitement of the harvest. Dad always put an ad in the paper, advertising for experienced tobacco harvest help. He got more than enough people who were willing to work for a dollar an hour, plus meals. That was the going wage at that time for a long day of physical labor.
When we were very young, we got the job of suckering and piling. I hated both jobs, but we didn’t have a choice. Those unglamorous jobs were reserved for us kids, as if any job in tobacco could be called glamorous. Things got better when we graduated to helping cut tobacco down and spear it onto laths. Those seemed like more grown-up jobs. When we got to help haul and hang tobacco in the shed, we knew we’d been promoted to the major leagues. That was “manly” work.
I think the best part of harvesting was when Ma brought coffee out to the field mid-morning and mid-afternoon. Then everyone stopped what they were doing and gathered around the tobacco rack for not just coffee, but sandwiches, cookies, and assorted other goodies. We ate more for coffee than I eat at a regular meal now. We all drank water out of a large mason jar. Many of the men chewed tobacco and I can still see that tobacco juice swirling around in the water. It didn’t look the most appetizing, but we never considered not drinking it.
When we had our noon meal in the house, everyone washed up outside. We had a pail of water and wash basins on an old table behind the shanty. Most people didn’t worry about getting all the dirt off, just enough to look presentable at the kitchen table. Anyone who’s worked in tobacco knows how hard it is to get caked-on tobacco juice and dirt off. We used Lava soap. It seemed to be the only thing that would take most of it off, other than dousing your hands with gasoline, but then you had that gas smell that lingered forever.
Stained hands and smelling like I’d taken a bath in gasoline, or had just come from cleaning the barn, were part of our life. The barn smell was a natural smell to us and I never gave it a second thought until I got to high school. Going from a one-room school to high school was a big transition for me.
At Smith School we were like one big family with around 20 kids in all eight grades. We were all farm kids and everyone helped with chores at home. Most of us didn’t have indoor plumbing and I suspect most of the kids were like us, and only had a bath in a portable tub once a week. Many of you grew up on farms and you know how the many barn smells seem to permeate your clothes and hair. It was no big deal. I never even thought that I smelled like a barn. That was life as we knew it. Maybe we subconsciously carried that barn smell like a badge of honor. It let people know that we knew how to work. We certainly didn’t smell like fancy, store-bought cologne. I don’t think we ever used cologne or deodorant when we were young. I’m not saying we didn’t need some; we just didn’t use any.
But then I headed off to high school in Westby. We still used an outhouse, and didn’t have indoor plumbing, although Ma had a hand pump at the kitchen sink to draw water from. I became much more self-conscious of how I smelled when sitting in class with “city girls.” By the time I started my sophomore year we had a bathroom and indoor plumbing. It didn’t seem to enhance my status with the girls, so maybe it wasn’t just smelling like I’d been born in a barn that was hindering my social standing!
Life is full of changes, obstacles, insecurities, and possibilities. Summer transitioning to fall is one of them. Don’t fight it. Enjoy it!
*
As the days become shorter and cooler, I can feel the beginning of fall in the air. Summer is heading south for the winter and leaving us behind.
Colorful wildflowers are disappearing and the wind rushing through the cornfields near our house sounds like waves rolling onto a beach. Summer is winding down and students have headed back to school. That can be an exciting or very apprehensive time in the life of every student, regardless of their age.
It’s also a tough time for parents as their child begins the first day of kindergarten, first grade, high school, or college. I know that emptiness and sadness you’re feeling. Been there, done that. On the other hand, maybe some of you are whooping it up and dancing in the streets. Summer vacation’s over and the kids are back in school! It makes me wonder how my parents felt when we headed off to school each fall.
Back to school for us farm kids was a mixed blessing. It was also tobacco harvesting time. We never got out of helping with tobacco when we were young. There was always lots of tobacco to pile as soon as we got home from school. I think Dad timed the cutting of the tobacco so it would be wilted and ready to pile when we arrived. In a way, we hated to miss the excitement of the harvest. Dad always put an ad in the paper, advertising for experienced tobacco harvest help. He got more than enough people who were willing to work for a dollar an hour, plus meals. That was the going wage at that time for a long day of physical labor.
When we were very young, we got the job of suckering and piling. I hated both jobs, but we didn’t have a choice. Those unglamorous jobs were reserved for us kids, as if any job in tobacco could be called glamorous. Things got better when we graduated to helping cut tobacco down and spear it onto laths. Those seemed like more grown-up jobs. When we got to help haul and hang tobacco in the shed, we knew we’d been promoted to the major leagues. That was “manly” work.
I think the best part of harvesting was when Ma brought coffee out to the field mid-morning and mid-afternoon. Then everyone stopped what they were doing and gathered around the tobacco rack for not just coffee, but sandwiches, cookies, and assorted other goodies. We ate more for coffee than I eat at a regular meal now. We all drank water out of a large mason jar. Many of the men chewed tobacco and I can still see that tobacco juice swirling around in the water. It didn’t look the most appetizing, but we never considered not drinking it.
When we had our noon meal in the house, everyone washed up outside. We had a pail of water and wash basins on an old table behind the shanty. Most people didn’t worry about getting all the dirt off, just enough to look presentable at the kitchen table. Anyone who’s worked in tobacco knows how hard it is to get caked-on tobacco juice and dirt off. We used Lava soap. It seemed to be the only thing that would take most of it off, other than dousing your hands with gasoline, but then you had that gas smell that lingered forever.
Stained hands and smelling like I’d taken a bath in gasoline, or had just come from cleaning the barn, were part of our life. The barn smell was a natural smell to us and I never gave it a second thought until I got to high school. Going from a one-room school to high school was a big transition for me.
At Smith School we were like one big family with around 20 kids in all eight grades. We were all farm kids and everyone helped with chores at home. Most of us didn’t have indoor plumbing and I suspect most of the kids were like us, and only had a bath in a portable tub once a week. Many of you grew up on farms and you know how the many barn smells seem to permeate your clothes and hair. It was no big deal. I never even thought that I smelled like a barn. That was life as we knew it. Maybe we subconsciously carried that barn smell like a badge of honor. It let people know that we knew how to work. We certainly didn’t smell like fancy, store-bought cologne. I don’t think we ever used cologne or deodorant when we were young. I’m not saying we didn’t need some; we just didn’t use any.
But then I headed off to high school in Westby. We still used an outhouse, and didn’t have indoor plumbing, although Ma had a hand pump at the kitchen sink to draw water from. I became much more self-conscious of how I smelled when sitting in class with “city girls.” By the time I started my sophomore year we had a bathroom and indoor plumbing. It didn’t seem to enhance my status with the girls, so maybe it wasn’t just smelling like I’d been born in a barn that was hindering my social standing!
Life is full of changes, obstacles, insecurities, and possibilities. Summer transitioning to fall is one of them. Don’t fight it. Enjoy it!
*
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Road Destruction-Construction Update
Across the Fence #354
It’s been four months since I wrote a eulogy to the destruction of Sherpe Road and the farmland along Highway 14 between Westby and Viroqua. That column generated more comments than any story I’ve ever written. I had e-mails, phone calls, and I’m stilling getting people commenting about it when I meet someone on the street. I’d say that 99% of those people think the four-lane highway is a waste of money, especially during this time when we hear that the state is practically broke.
Education budgets are stripped to the bare bones and yet we throw money into projects like this road that local residents say isn’t needed. Except for two people who were in favor of the road, over two hundred people told me it was a total waste of money and destruction of land. One woman told me that during one of the listening sessions, where no one was listening, she asked if anyone had considered all the lost tax base from destroyed farms. The state officials admitted they hadn’t considered that problem.
I have to tell you what Trygve Thompson, a long time friend and neighbor, told me. I have his permission to relate his story.
I was born on the farm that was located just north of the Thompson farm. Our farm was located behind what is now Frontier Ag and Turf, the John Deere dealer along Highway 14. I grew up with Trygve and Joel Thompson and we often walked across the fields, and crossed the fences between our farms, to play with each other.
When the new highway was constructed back in the 1950’s, they put a tunnel under Highway 14, so Thompson’s cows could safely cross to the other side of the highway. They have around 180 acres on the west side of the road and all the buildings and 50 more acres on the east side of the road. It was fun for us kids to use the tunnel under the highway and it was a great place to play, catch frogs, and have frog races.
The new highway will eliminate that tunnel. Granted, Trygve no longer milks cows so they don’t need it for the cows to reach the other side. The problem is that the state will not put an access road across the four lanes, so farm machinery can cross to the other side. Now he’ll have to travel north from his driveway, on the two lanes to Frontier, where he can cross the road to his fields. To get back to his farm buildings, he’ll have to enter at the Frontier access and travel down the other two lanes, heading south, until he reaches the Rogers farm where he can cross the road and head back north to reach his driveway. That will be some dangerous travel with large, slow machinery.
Like everything else about this road construction, no one cares about things like this unless you’re the one affected by it. Time will tell how that access problem works out, but don’t blame Trygve if you get behind slow-moving machinery trying to do farm work. Point a finger toward the powers-to-be in Madison, who don’t seem to care about the rural disruptions and problems they create.
Many people, including readers in Iowa and Minnesota, have asked me how the road is coming along. The new lanes on the west side are almost completed. Then traffic will begin traveling on the new road and they’ll tear up the existing two lanes and redo them. Several people have commented about how empty the landscape looks now. I don’t think there’s a bush or tree left along the new highway, and the bike path that runs alongside the road will certainly be exposed.
Speaking of exposed, I’ve been suggesting that we invite the naked bike racers from Madison to come north to God’s Country and initiate the new trail when it opens. I understand they had 40-50 bikers show up for this year’s race/tour in Madison. I can guarantee that you’ll have a great view of the entire race from Westby to Viroqua, because there isn’t a bush or tree to obstruct your view. Maybe even some locals would like to join them, although I will respectfully decline any invitation. It’s tough enough biking with padded bike shorts, let alone, au naturel.
Now before you start getting together a party to tar and feather me, and run me out of town, we’ve got to have a little tongue-in-cheek humor to go along with this new highway and multi-use trail!
As I’ve said so many times in this column, times change and we can’t go back. According to the vast majority of people around here, this un-needed, wasteful spending, destructive, four-lane highway, is another of those changes we could have done without. But it’s here now and we’ll have to learn to live with it. I doubt if I’ll ever see Sherpe Road lined with large trees and brush, and full of wildlife again, in my lifetime. But I hope future generations will find it as beautiful as it was, before it was all destroyed this summer.
One last comment, if you get behind some slow-moving farm machinery near the John Deere dealer, don’t blame the farmers, they’re just trying to do their job.
*
It’s been four months since I wrote a eulogy to the destruction of Sherpe Road and the farmland along Highway 14 between Westby and Viroqua. That column generated more comments than any story I’ve ever written. I had e-mails, phone calls, and I’m stilling getting people commenting about it when I meet someone on the street. I’d say that 99% of those people think the four-lane highway is a waste of money, especially during this time when we hear that the state is practically broke.
Education budgets are stripped to the bare bones and yet we throw money into projects like this road that local residents say isn’t needed. Except for two people who were in favor of the road, over two hundred people told me it was a total waste of money and destruction of land. One woman told me that during one of the listening sessions, where no one was listening, she asked if anyone had considered all the lost tax base from destroyed farms. The state officials admitted they hadn’t considered that problem.
I have to tell you what Trygve Thompson, a long time friend and neighbor, told me. I have his permission to relate his story.
I was born on the farm that was located just north of the Thompson farm. Our farm was located behind what is now Frontier Ag and Turf, the John Deere dealer along Highway 14. I grew up with Trygve and Joel Thompson and we often walked across the fields, and crossed the fences between our farms, to play with each other.
When the new highway was constructed back in the 1950’s, they put a tunnel under Highway 14, so Thompson’s cows could safely cross to the other side of the highway. They have around 180 acres on the west side of the road and all the buildings and 50 more acres on the east side of the road. It was fun for us kids to use the tunnel under the highway and it was a great place to play, catch frogs, and have frog races.
The new highway will eliminate that tunnel. Granted, Trygve no longer milks cows so they don’t need it for the cows to reach the other side. The problem is that the state will not put an access road across the four lanes, so farm machinery can cross to the other side. Now he’ll have to travel north from his driveway, on the two lanes to Frontier, where he can cross the road to his fields. To get back to his farm buildings, he’ll have to enter at the Frontier access and travel down the other two lanes, heading south, until he reaches the Rogers farm where he can cross the road and head back north to reach his driveway. That will be some dangerous travel with large, slow machinery.
Like everything else about this road construction, no one cares about things like this unless you’re the one affected by it. Time will tell how that access problem works out, but don’t blame Trygve if you get behind slow-moving machinery trying to do farm work. Point a finger toward the powers-to-be in Madison, who don’t seem to care about the rural disruptions and problems they create.
Many people, including readers in Iowa and Minnesota, have asked me how the road is coming along. The new lanes on the west side are almost completed. Then traffic will begin traveling on the new road and they’ll tear up the existing two lanes and redo them. Several people have commented about how empty the landscape looks now. I don’t think there’s a bush or tree left along the new highway, and the bike path that runs alongside the road will certainly be exposed.
Speaking of exposed, I’ve been suggesting that we invite the naked bike racers from Madison to come north to God’s Country and initiate the new trail when it opens. I understand they had 40-50 bikers show up for this year’s race/tour in Madison. I can guarantee that you’ll have a great view of the entire race from Westby to Viroqua, because there isn’t a bush or tree to obstruct your view. Maybe even some locals would like to join them, although I will respectfully decline any invitation. It’s tough enough biking with padded bike shorts, let alone, au naturel.
Now before you start getting together a party to tar and feather me, and run me out of town, we’ve got to have a little tongue-in-cheek humor to go along with this new highway and multi-use trail!
As I’ve said so many times in this column, times change and we can’t go back. According to the vast majority of people around here, this un-needed, wasteful spending, destructive, four-lane highway, is another of those changes we could have done without. But it’s here now and we’ll have to learn to live with it. I doubt if I’ll ever see Sherpe Road lined with large trees and brush, and full of wildlife again, in my lifetime. But I hope future generations will find it as beautiful as it was, before it was all destroyed this summer.
One last comment, if you get behind some slow-moving farm machinery near the John Deere dealer, don’t blame the farmers, they’re just trying to do their job.
*
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Cruisin' With WLS In the 60's
Across the Fence #353
Let’s take a trip back to the early 60’s… The 1960’s! Slip behind the wheel of your ’57 Chevy, crank the windows down, tune the radio to 890-AM on the dial, turn up the volume, shift into gear, pop the clutch, and we’re off for a night of cruisin’ and listenin’ fun.
It’s Saturday night, the chores are done, the cows have been milked, you took a spit bath to get some of the barn smell off, put on a clean shirt, pants, and shoes, and now it’s time to howl. In my case, that meant heading to Westby and stopping at the pool hall to see who was around. That was our meeting place on Saturday nights. After a couple games of pool, we headed out to see what kind of excitement or trouble we could find. That usually meant heading north to Lloyds’ in Cashton, also referred to by my folks as “the Snake Pit.” It was an 18-year-old beer bar. You could drink beer at 18 in Wisconsin in the 1960’s.
There actually was a lowered area at Lloyds’ where you could dance. I guess you could call that the snake pit. Saturday nights also had live, local bands playing the latest hits. I’ve always wondered why we call it “a live band,” as if a “dead band” would be playing. Although there was The Grateful Dead band, but they never made it to Lloyds’. I guess we could say it was live music as opposed to jukebox music.
I was returning home from Viroqua recently after televising baseball games. It was a beautiful summer night. The sky was filled with stars, and oldies music was playing on the car radio. It transported me back to those early 1960s nights. I didn’t have a car back then. I had to “borrow” the folk’s car if I wanted to go out, meaning any place off the farm. We usually had Chevy’s, except for a Pontiac Bonneville in the early 60’s.
AM radio was the standard in those days. I don’t remember if I knew what FM radio was. Whenever I went out at night, the radio was tuned to 890-AM, WLS in Chicago. That’s where you could listen to the Top 40 hits of the day. My favorite DJ was Dick Biondi, “The Wild Italian.” Another was Larry Lujack.
I spent many Saturday nights, cruisin’ the countryside and listenin’ to Dick Biondi. Does anyone remember him singing “On Top of a Pizza,” to the tune of On Top of Old Smokey? I used to know every word and we’d belt out the song, along with Biondi, as we cruised down the highway with the moonlight casting intriguing shadows on the countryside. There was a special magic to those times that still evokes good memories. “There’s A Moon Out Tonight” by the Capris, blasting on the radio, added to the magic of the moment. Who remembers “Dedicated To the One I Love,” and “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?” by the Shirelles. There’s also that song that eventually drove us crazy, “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor On the Bedpost Overnight?” There was “Crying” by Roy Orbison, and “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” by Ray Charles. We would also sing along with Dion as he sang “The Wanderer,” as we wandered around the back roads of Vernon County.
When I told Linda what I was writing about this week, she recalled how they would “cruise the gut” in Platteville. Main Street was a one-way street and cars would slowly cruise down the street side by side, with all the windows rolled down, as they talked back and forth until they reached the end of the street. Then they drove around and back to the top of Main and did it all over again. I suspect carloads of girls were talking to boys cruising in the other cars. We couldn’t cruise the streets of Westby side by side or we’d have been stopped and ticketed for driving on the wrong side of the highway. We just cruised over to Cashton to see what girls might be looking for a dancing partner at Lloyd’s or at Danceland between Cashton and Ontario.
I won’t go into details of our exploits or who my cruising buddies were on those Saturday night adventures, both to protect myself and my guilty friends! I’ll just say that it made it a bit awkward if one of us connected with a girl we’d like to take home, when there were three or four other guys riding in the same car. I guess we all could have driven separately, but who wants to cruise around alone?
Sometimes our night ended up like the song by The Angels, “My Boyfriend’s Back, and you’re gonna’ be in trouble!” If you asked the wrong girl to dance, a boyfriend might suddenly show up, and as the lyrics go, “So look out now cause he’s comin’ after you. Hey-la-day-la, my boyfriend’s back.” Then it was time to “Turn Me Loose” and “Hit the Road Jack.” You could always wave and say, “Save the Last Dance for Me,” as you became a “Travelin’ Man,” and cruised back to Westby with WLS radio blasting and Elvis asking, “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Sam Cooke would chime in with, “Another Saturday Night and I Ain’t Got Nobody!” But we kept on hoping and searching for that “One Fine Day,” the Chiffons sang about.
*
Let’s take a trip back to the early 60’s… The 1960’s! Slip behind the wheel of your ’57 Chevy, crank the windows down, tune the radio to 890-AM on the dial, turn up the volume, shift into gear, pop the clutch, and we’re off for a night of cruisin’ and listenin’ fun.
It’s Saturday night, the chores are done, the cows have been milked, you took a spit bath to get some of the barn smell off, put on a clean shirt, pants, and shoes, and now it’s time to howl. In my case, that meant heading to Westby and stopping at the pool hall to see who was around. That was our meeting place on Saturday nights. After a couple games of pool, we headed out to see what kind of excitement or trouble we could find. That usually meant heading north to Lloyds’ in Cashton, also referred to by my folks as “the Snake Pit.” It was an 18-year-old beer bar. You could drink beer at 18 in Wisconsin in the 1960’s.
There actually was a lowered area at Lloyds’ where you could dance. I guess you could call that the snake pit. Saturday nights also had live, local bands playing the latest hits. I’ve always wondered why we call it “a live band,” as if a “dead band” would be playing. Although there was The Grateful Dead band, but they never made it to Lloyds’. I guess we could say it was live music as opposed to jukebox music.
I was returning home from Viroqua recently after televising baseball games. It was a beautiful summer night. The sky was filled with stars, and oldies music was playing on the car radio. It transported me back to those early 1960s nights. I didn’t have a car back then. I had to “borrow” the folk’s car if I wanted to go out, meaning any place off the farm. We usually had Chevy’s, except for a Pontiac Bonneville in the early 60’s.
AM radio was the standard in those days. I don’t remember if I knew what FM radio was. Whenever I went out at night, the radio was tuned to 890-AM, WLS in Chicago. That’s where you could listen to the Top 40 hits of the day. My favorite DJ was Dick Biondi, “The Wild Italian.” Another was Larry Lujack.
I spent many Saturday nights, cruisin’ the countryside and listenin’ to Dick Biondi. Does anyone remember him singing “On Top of a Pizza,” to the tune of On Top of Old Smokey? I used to know every word and we’d belt out the song, along with Biondi, as we cruised down the highway with the moonlight casting intriguing shadows on the countryside. There was a special magic to those times that still evokes good memories. “There’s A Moon Out Tonight” by the Capris, blasting on the radio, added to the magic of the moment. Who remembers “Dedicated To the One I Love,” and “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?” by the Shirelles. There’s also that song that eventually drove us crazy, “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor On the Bedpost Overnight?” There was “Crying” by Roy Orbison, and “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” by Ray Charles. We would also sing along with Dion as he sang “The Wanderer,” as we wandered around the back roads of Vernon County.
When I told Linda what I was writing about this week, she recalled how they would “cruise the gut” in Platteville. Main Street was a one-way street and cars would slowly cruise down the street side by side, with all the windows rolled down, as they talked back and forth until they reached the end of the street. Then they drove around and back to the top of Main and did it all over again. I suspect carloads of girls were talking to boys cruising in the other cars. We couldn’t cruise the streets of Westby side by side or we’d have been stopped and ticketed for driving on the wrong side of the highway. We just cruised over to Cashton to see what girls might be looking for a dancing partner at Lloyd’s or at Danceland between Cashton and Ontario.
I won’t go into details of our exploits or who my cruising buddies were on those Saturday night adventures, both to protect myself and my guilty friends! I’ll just say that it made it a bit awkward if one of us connected with a girl we’d like to take home, when there were three or four other guys riding in the same car. I guess we all could have driven separately, but who wants to cruise around alone?
Sometimes our night ended up like the song by The Angels, “My Boyfriend’s Back, and you’re gonna’ be in trouble!” If you asked the wrong girl to dance, a boyfriend might suddenly show up, and as the lyrics go, “So look out now cause he’s comin’ after you. Hey-la-day-la, my boyfriend’s back.” Then it was time to “Turn Me Loose” and “Hit the Road Jack.” You could always wave and say, “Save the Last Dance for Me,” as you became a “Travelin’ Man,” and cruised back to Westby with WLS radio blasting and Elvis asking, “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Sam Cooke would chime in with, “Another Saturday Night and I Ain’t Got Nobody!” But we kept on hoping and searching for that “One Fine Day,” the Chiffons sang about.
*
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Life Is Full of Surprises
Across the Fence #352
You never know when someone from your past will suddenly enter your life again.
This past week, the National American Legion - Central Plains Region Baseball Tournament was held for four days in Viroqua, Wisconsin. Part of my responsibilities at Vernon Communications is supervising our community channels. We did live telecasts of all 14 games. That included a couple of 16-hour days when it was hot and humid. It seems like we’ve had that same kind of weather for many weeks now.
Our television control booth was located upstairs in the press box at the ball field. The tin roof added to the accumulated heat. To say we were perspiring is a bit of an understatement. I was sweating. Perhaps this is more information than you need, but one day I went through a large coffee in the morning to start the day. I have Norwegian blood, you know, and it’s never too hot for coffee. I also downed two bottles of water, two large Gatorades, and a large bottle of iced tea, and never had to go to the bathroom during the day. That shows how important it is to keep drinking fluids on a hot day to stay hydrated.
The televised games were also streamed over the Internet on Ustream, where people all over the country could watch the games. We even had an e-mail from someone watching in Hawaii. People in Pahrump, Nevada, were watching the games on a large screen at a local store. They were thrilled to be able to watch their sons, grandsons, and friends play in a national tournament. For three days, food arrived at noon for everyone in the press box, compliments of the fans in Nevada who were able to watch the games. It made all the work and long hours seem worth the effort when we heard from appreciative people all over the country.
But the highlight of the games occurred for me on the first day. After the introduction of players before each game, a veteran was introduced and read the Athlete’s Code of Sportsmanship. These are all American Legion sponsored teams. I had been asked to read the code at the third game of the tournament, between Richland Center, Wisconsin and Eden Valley-Watkins, Minnesota. In the introduction, Pete Swanson, the tournament director, announced who you were, when you were in service, where you served, and what unit you served in.
When 4th Infantry and Vietnam were mentioned, I heard someone in the stands, shout, “4th Infantry!” As I came off the field, a man was there to meet me. He smiled at me and said, “Do you remember me?” I looked at him, but had no clue, and had to admit it. “Herb Willner,” he said. “Holy s…” were the first words out of my mouth. It had been 44 years since we had seen each other and that was in Vietnam.
Herb was drafted out of Minnesota the same time that I was drafted. We were sworn in together in Minneapolis, went through the reception station at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri together, and were in the same basic training company in Fort Lewis, Washington. We then went to Vietnam together with the 4th Infantry Division. And now, 44 years later, we met up again in the most unlikely place. If I hadn’t read the code at the game that Eden Valley-Watkins was playing in, we’d never have connected. Herb’s grandson was a pitcher on the team, and Herb’s whole family was at the tournament.
Needless to say, neither of us looks like the lean, mean, fighting machine we were 44 years ago. When we went to Vietnam we both weighed around 175 pounds. I was 135 pounds when I came home a year later. Herb also came home a lot lighter. We both weigh a “bit” more these days! Is it any wonder that he didn’t recognize me either, until my name and unit were announced?
During the four-day tournament, we were able to reconnect as we visited between games. I’ve said it before, the phrase “Band of Brothers,” is so true when describing those of us who shared the experience of war. There’s a special bond that can’t be broken. It’s a shame that most of us never kept in contact after we came home. I guess we just wanted to put the whole experience behind us and try to forget about it.
Now after all these years, as several of us have reconnected, we find that a strong bond of friendship is still there. I called Larry Skolos, who lives near Viroqua, and he came to the ballpark to reconnect with Herb too. We’re just “three old vets” who, once upon a time, spent two “interesting years” together, sharing a common experience.
I have to admit that I was pulling for Eden Valley-Watkins, the Minnesota state champion, to win, after they beat Viroqua, our local host team, in a 3-2 thriller. Herb’s grandson won the game he pitched, and their team went undefeated in the tournament, defeating the Nevada state champion in the national championship game.
Life is full of surprises. 46 years ago we entered each other’s lives, and now 44 years after last seeing each other, we’ve reconnected. Now we’re even Facebook friends. Life never ceases to amaze me.
*
You never know when someone from your past will suddenly enter your life again.
This past week, the National American Legion - Central Plains Region Baseball Tournament was held for four days in Viroqua, Wisconsin. Part of my responsibilities at Vernon Communications is supervising our community channels. We did live telecasts of all 14 games. That included a couple of 16-hour days when it was hot and humid. It seems like we’ve had that same kind of weather for many weeks now.
Our television control booth was located upstairs in the press box at the ball field. The tin roof added to the accumulated heat. To say we were perspiring is a bit of an understatement. I was sweating. Perhaps this is more information than you need, but one day I went through a large coffee in the morning to start the day. I have Norwegian blood, you know, and it’s never too hot for coffee. I also downed two bottles of water, two large Gatorades, and a large bottle of iced tea, and never had to go to the bathroom during the day. That shows how important it is to keep drinking fluids on a hot day to stay hydrated.
The televised games were also streamed over the Internet on Ustream, where people all over the country could watch the games. We even had an e-mail from someone watching in Hawaii. People in Pahrump, Nevada, were watching the games on a large screen at a local store. They were thrilled to be able to watch their sons, grandsons, and friends play in a national tournament. For three days, food arrived at noon for everyone in the press box, compliments of the fans in Nevada who were able to watch the games. It made all the work and long hours seem worth the effort when we heard from appreciative people all over the country.
But the highlight of the games occurred for me on the first day. After the introduction of players before each game, a veteran was introduced and read the Athlete’s Code of Sportsmanship. These are all American Legion sponsored teams. I had been asked to read the code at the third game of the tournament, between Richland Center, Wisconsin and Eden Valley-Watkins, Minnesota. In the introduction, Pete Swanson, the tournament director, announced who you were, when you were in service, where you served, and what unit you served in.
When 4th Infantry and Vietnam were mentioned, I heard someone in the stands, shout, “4th Infantry!” As I came off the field, a man was there to meet me. He smiled at me and said, “Do you remember me?” I looked at him, but had no clue, and had to admit it. “Herb Willner,” he said. “Holy s…” were the first words out of my mouth. It had been 44 years since we had seen each other and that was in Vietnam.
Herb was drafted out of Minnesota the same time that I was drafted. We were sworn in together in Minneapolis, went through the reception station at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri together, and were in the same basic training company in Fort Lewis, Washington. We then went to Vietnam together with the 4th Infantry Division. And now, 44 years later, we met up again in the most unlikely place. If I hadn’t read the code at the game that Eden Valley-Watkins was playing in, we’d never have connected. Herb’s grandson was a pitcher on the team, and Herb’s whole family was at the tournament.
Needless to say, neither of us looks like the lean, mean, fighting machine we were 44 years ago. When we went to Vietnam we both weighed around 175 pounds. I was 135 pounds when I came home a year later. Herb also came home a lot lighter. We both weigh a “bit” more these days! Is it any wonder that he didn’t recognize me either, until my name and unit were announced?
During the four-day tournament, we were able to reconnect as we visited between games. I’ve said it before, the phrase “Band of Brothers,” is so true when describing those of us who shared the experience of war. There’s a special bond that can’t be broken. It’s a shame that most of us never kept in contact after we came home. I guess we just wanted to put the whole experience behind us and try to forget about it.
Now after all these years, as several of us have reconnected, we find that a strong bond of friendship is still there. I called Larry Skolos, who lives near Viroqua, and he came to the ballpark to reconnect with Herb too. We’re just “three old vets” who, once upon a time, spent two “interesting years” together, sharing a common experience.
I have to admit that I was pulling for Eden Valley-Watkins, the Minnesota state champion, to win, after they beat Viroqua, our local host team, in a 3-2 thriller. Herb’s grandson won the game he pitched, and their team went undefeated in the tournament, defeating the Nevada state champion in the national championship game.
Life is full of surprises. 46 years ago we entered each other’s lives, and now 44 years after last seeing each other, we’ve reconnected. Now we’re even Facebook friends. Life never ceases to amaze me.
*
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