June Is A Special Month

Across the Fence #501

The month of June is when spring ends and summer begins. Where better to experience June than in the country, living on the land.

Author Scott Schultz wrote, “To truly know the land, a person must walk through Wisconsin pastures in the wetness of a cool June morning and allow Earth’s life to soak through shoes and jeans.” 

I love that statement. I know many of us have experienced the feeling of our shoes and jeans being wet with the morning dew as we walk through the fields. I remember heading for the pasture in the morning to get the cows. We always let the cows out in the pastures during the summer. They usually came when we called them, but sometimes we had to go and herd them to the barn, especially when they were in a new, lush pasture. As we walked the well-used cow paths, the tall grass would brush against us and leave our jeans soaked, but the warm, June days would quickly dry them out.

June is when the gardens start to come alive and provide us food. It’s also when rhubarb emerges and provides those delicious stalks that become pies, bars, jam, cakes, and sauce, to name a few uses. I love everything rhubarb. This year our rhubarb plants have been as prolific as zucchini and cucumbers. We’re into our second crop and have much more than we can use. We’ve given armloads away to anyone who wanted some. June is that time of year when people, who never lock their cars, keep them locked or they may return to their car and find large bags of rhubarb sitting on the back seat. We love rhubarb, but you can only eat so much. 

June is when the land comes alive again and blossoms into more shades of green than you’d find in any Crayola box of crayons. Thick foliage fills the woods, creating great shelter and hiding places for animals and birds to build their nests and start their new families. If you’re lucky, you may encounter a doe and her young fawns.

I only got one chance for a photo before they headed into the woods.

June is also when the pesky bugs return. When I was young, June bugs were always numerous around our farm. We’d sit outside in the evening and thousands of them would be swarming around the yard light. Sometimes there were so many on the ground, you’d hear them crunching under your feet as you walked to the barn. I’ve seen very few of them lately. They deposit their eggs in the ground. The young larvae bury themselves in the soil in the fall and stay there for two years, when they emerge in late May or early June as adult beetles. This year when we were planting flowers in the cemetery, I dug up two full-grown June bugs. I guess they were ready to emerge after their two-year nap. Those are the only ones I’ve seen this year. They’re good size beetles so it’s hard to miss them.

June is also a great time for small bugs, especially the tiny gnats. This is “gnat” a good time to be outside without my old “bug hat” on. They’re so bad again this year they’d drive a teetotaler to drink! Before I go outside, I grab my bottle of Absorbine Jr. and use the applicator to dab the liquid on the brim of my hat. Then I’m ready to do battle with the pesky gnats. As long as I wear my bug hat I have a chance of winning the battle. I’ve tried sitting on our back deck without my hat and in a matter of minutes I retreat into the house to grab my bug hat. If you’re having gnat problems, it’s worth a try and Absorbine Jr. isn’t harmful to you. Farmers have used it for years to relieve muscle aches and pains. They probably discovered it kept the bugs away when they used it. The irritating bugs are not going to keep me from being outside and enjoying the summer.

June is also the smell of new-mown hay. They cut the field across from our house last week and the sweet smell brought back memories of hot, humid days on the hay wagon, loading bales as they came up the chute of the hay baler. Then lifting those bales again as we piled them in the hot haymow. We emerged after each load, covered with chaff, clinging to our sweat-drenched skin and headed for the windmill to get a drink of cold water direct from the well. There’s nothing that compares to that cold water. Now people drink bottled water that costs up to a dollar and a half or more per bottle. If someone had come to me back then and said, “I’ve got a great investment opportunity for you. We’re going to put water in plastic bottles and sell it for $1.49 per bottle. Do you want in?” I’d have said, “Are you nuts? Nobody would pay that much for bottled water that we can get for free from the well.” Little did I know!

June, the month of rebirth, when the land becomes alive again with new growth, new life, flourishing rhubarb, and wonderful days. We also get to experience pesky gnats, mosquitoes, and June bugs, while we walk through the dew-soaked grass in the early morning hours. 

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Rural Communities Are Still Relevant

Across the Fence #500

This is “Across the Fence” column #500. I guess that’s sort of a milestone. I’m very lucky to have had the opportunity to write this weekly column for almost ten years. Most of my stories deal with rural living, what it was like growing up in a rural community, and how that life we once knew has changed.

Several years ago I attended a talk by author Ben Logan at the Boscobel Hotel, where he discussed rural humor and storytelling. He was worried that we’re losing the rural community. I have that same concern. Each year, more and more farms disappear and suburbs pop up on what was once farmland, just like the dandelions that appear on our lawn each spring. Some people look at them as beautiful yellow flowers, others regard them as weeds that are encroaching and destroying what was there before.

Times have changed in rural America. There was a time when all the neighbors got together to help each other harvest the crops. Threshing became a community event. Now neighbors aren’t needed to help each other during harvest. Huge pieces of machinery have replaced bodies. But as Ben Logan said, “Just because we don’t need each other as much any more, it’s no reason to isolate ourselves and be alone.”

Many of my stories speak of those times when rural life and farming was still an entire family activity and the community was another member of the family. Just like some families, everyone didn’t always get along. But it was a time when farm people and small town rural people worked together. I’ve always resented it when someone makes snide or condescending remarks about farmers and small town people. The old saying that you can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy, is still very true in my case! Who else would admit to having been knee deep in a manure pile and even brag about it!?

When I’ve explained to some newspaper editors what I write about in my stories, they have no interest in even reading them. “No one’s interested in those subjects any more,” they tell me.      

Ben Logan also said, “It’s a funny time. You know, The Land Remembers has sold over a half million copies. A publisher said if I were trying to get it published for the first time today, there would be no audience for it now.” Fortunately, people are still discovering and reading it.

Perhaps the publishers and editors think no one would be interested, but I beg to differ. There are still many people who enjoy taking a trip to the country via the print media. I think the problem is that so many publishers and editors have no rural background these days. They only know cities and urban people and think the rest of the world is a wasteland, devoid of culture, humor, and stories to be told. They’ve never experienced rural life. They don’t understand rural values and rural humor. They’ve never looked at a night sky without city lights blocking the majesty of it. They don’t seem to understand that the world is full of people who DO HAVE rural and small town backgrounds and memories.

Times like this have changed, except in Amish Country.

I sent several stories I’d written to a young editor of a weekly newspaper. He wasn’t interested, but at least I know he read “Night Lights” because he said in an email, “What’s your point? I don’t get it!” 

That editor wanted me to spell everything out and tell him what he was supposed to think and feel. I replied to him that rural people are smart enough to know what the point is. They bring their own life experiences and feelings to the story and the story becomes their own. They don’t need me to tell them what they should think and feel.

I found it interesting that “Night Lights” even touched a woman who was raised in New York City and had no rural background. She wrote, “This is a very soothing and lovely story. I especially love the metaphor of the neighbor farmers’ lights being like the lights of ships out in the sea. Also, without explicitly emphasizing the difficulty and harshness of the work farmers do, you still get that hardship across somehow. This story makes the work sound fulfilling and even heroic. As a ‘city kid,’ I enjoy reading these slices of farm life very much! Makes me feel I missed something by not growing up in the country” –Lisa

Ben Logan tells of a similar experience. A New York City book reviewer wrote that he loved The Land Remembers, and said, “How can I be nostalgic for a life I never lived?”

Is there still an interest in rural stories? I think there is if they’re given a chance to be read. Not just by those who were raised, or still live in rural and small town settings, but also by big city people like Lisa, who can learn about a slice of life they never experienced.

I believe the rural community is still relevant. It may have changed in character from what it once was, but it’s still alive and well. It won’t be lost completely as long as we remember it, celebrate it, and yes, I’ll even keep writing about it.

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Grocery Shopping In the 1950's

Across the Fence #499

Do you remember when there were several grocery stores in every small town in rural America? When I was young back in the 1950’s, Westby, Wisconsin had seven that I remember. There was Storbakken, Ballsrud, Goettle, Hagen, Skundberg, Southside, and Jefson’s Meat Market. 

Now there’s only one grocery store in Westby, Hansen’s IGA. We’re lucky, many small towns don’t have any left. It’s hard to believe that a small rural community could support seven grocery stores. They all seemed to have plenty of customers to keep the doors open. Everyone had their favorite places to shop. Our family went to Storbakken’s and Ballsrud’s most of the time. On Sunday after church we’d often stop at the Southside Grocery to pick up some items and get a treat, like a popsicle or candy bar. It was located just down the street from the Coon Prairie Lutheran Church. 

My mother never learned to drive a car so Dad had to pick up the groceries when she couldn’t ride along. She would give him a list of things to get. When we got to the store, Dad would give the list to the owner of the store, who was usually the clerk too. Ed Storbakken or Mr. Ballsrud would then go around the store collecting the items on the list and setting them on the wooden counter. If things were on a higher shelf, they used a wire hook to snag the item, pull it off the shelf, and then catch it. Needless to say, those weren’t cans or breakable items.

Can you imagine giving your grocery list to a clerk in a big supermarket or big box store today and expect them to round up the items for you? They’d probably show you where the carpenter made the door and tell you to use it. Life has certainly changed a lot since those days of the friendly, small town grocery stores where everyone knew your name and what kind of food you ate. If you didn’t have enough cash or your checkbook with, they’d even put it on a tab for you, unless you were known to be a real deadbeat.

 Hagen's Grocery Store

My favorite part of the grocery store was the cookie display. I guess I’ve always had a sweet tooth. The various cookies were in large, glass jars for your viewing pleasure. When you finally decided which cookie you wanted, they lifted the lid, selected the cookies, and gave them to you in a paper bag. It was a far cry from the sealed, sanitary packaging we buy cookies in today. One of my favorites was the chocolate pinwheel with marshmallow filling. I still love them today. I know what some of you are thinking — That’s not exactly a healthy food and Howard doesn’t need any extra calories. He should be munching on lettuce and carrots. Sometimes you’ve just got to select something from the “That’s a No-No” shelf of life, sit back, enjoy the cookie, and wash it down with a big glass of cold “whole” milk, not the watered down, no-fat kind, because you only go around once in life. Never allowing yourself that piece of pie you love or enjoying a chocolate chip cookie, is like saving your best china to use at your funeral lunch, what’s the point? 

Another attraction at the grocery store was the pickle barrel. It was just as it sounds, a barrel filled with pickles. You could reach in, select a big juicy pickle and eat it right there if you wanted. You had to pay for it, of course. 

Either I was too young to remember lutefisk in a barrel sitting on the sidewalk outside the store, or my mind has conveniently blocked out the memory as being too gross. This was usually around Christmas time. I’ve been told by a reliable source, that dogs could roam freely around town in those days and didn’t have to be on a leash. Sometimes a dog would mark his territory on a barrel of lutefisk. They probably had poor eyesight and mistook it for a fire hydrant. The wonderful lutefisk wasn’t thrown out after such episodes. Today we’d have to discard the entire barrel as unfit for human consumption. Just remember, lutefisk is a lye-soaked fish and has to be soaked in water for several days to rinse out all the lye, so what’s a little puppy pee to go along with it? Just thought you’d like to be aware of all these pertinent facts before sitting down to your next delicious meal of lutefisk.

As long as we’re talking about food and shopping, Saturday night was the big social night in rural America. That’s when all the farmers came to town. After the chores and milking were done, usually around 7:30, it was time to head for town to shop and visit, but not exactly in that order. You had to arrive early to get a parking place on Main Street in order to observe all the activity. Men visited on the street or in the bars, while the women sat in the cars, visiting and watching all the goings-on. The later the evening got the more interesting the activity on the street became.

Much has changed since the days of seven grocery stores in a small town. Those days are gone and I doubt if they’ll ever come again.

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Nature and Memories Are Soul Food

Across the Fence #498

From where I’m sitting on our back deck as I write this I can look across the fields and see Birch Hill. Just down the road, east of Birch Hill, is where Smith School used to be located. There’s nothing on that corner near Highway 14 anymore. The school house had to go to make way for the four-lane Uffda Bahn. Even the one beautiful tree not destroyed by the DOT, that stood in the school yard, has been destroyed since the road was built to make way for a couple more rows of corn. Across the road from where the school house stood is where Oscar and Julia Hanson, my grandparents lived. The trees and building are still standing, except for the barn that was taken down a few years ago.

Beyond their place I can see the farm where I was born and lived until I was around ten years old. The same house and barn are still there. As I sit here looking out across the rolling prairie I’m thinking that I’ve spent time in other places around the world, but I’ve come full circle. There are a lot of memories out there in the land around our home. 

Birch Hill view from our back deck.

When I look at Birch Hill in the spring, I think of the times we walked there from Smith School and our teacher would conduct classes in a clearing among the rocks, bushes and trees on a large, flat rock that served as our classroom. For those of you who didn’t have the opportunity of attending a one-room school, we had one teacher who taught all eight grades. At Birch Hill, when our grade wasn’t in class, we got to play among the rocks and hills with all the other kids. Birch hill had a lot of heavy undergrowth and trees, and there were many rocks to climb on. I think we played a lot of hide and seek because there were all kinds of great places to hide. Of course, it was even more fun if you could hide with a girl you liked. I remember one year we even spotted a fox while we were playing. Luckily no one ever ran into a skunk. 

Classes held at Birch Hill were like going on a spring break trip for us. I wonder if any schools had spring breaks back in those days. I know our country school didn’t have spring break, but those were fun times for us country kids. We organized our own games and probably made up the rules too. Everyone was included unless they didn’t want to play. 

Yes, there was some bullying back then too, but kids dealt with it as a part of life. When I started school, Smith was a pretty tough place. That year they hired a male teacher to deal with the fighting and students causing problems. It wasn’t just the guys, there were some tough girls too. When we had a Smith School reunion a few years ago, one person told me she wouldn’t be attending because she didn’t have any good memories from those years. She had been bullied by another female student. I guess we weren’t as sensitive to those situations as we should have been. Another student and I sometimes got into arguments and wrestled around and pounded on each other for a while until someone got a bloody nose or the teacher broke up the fight. I guess we looked at those disagreements as part of the school experience. When I look back at my eight years at Smith School, the good times far outweigh the bad. 

When I sit on our back deck and look around me, there’s a lot of personal memories, besides our fun at Birch Hill. We spent many hours in these fields cutting, raking, and baling hay, plowing, disking, cultivating corn, harvesting oats, and chasing heifers that spent the summer in the back forty. We also spent many hours searching for calves that were hidden in the corn fields next to the pasture. David and I got chased by a skunk one time too. We managed to outrun it. I think I’d be in deep trouble if I ran into an angry skunk today on one of my walks. Lots of memories.   

As dusk begins to settle over the landscape, a cool breeze washes over me and birds are singing all around me. A pheasant just called from down near the pond. The trees next to the house are alive with the sound of music. I don’t know what the birds are talking and singing about, but they sure sound happy. 

Two rabbits have arrived under the bird feeder looking for a bedtime snack of spilled bird seed. Lightning just streaked across the darkening sky to the south, followed by rolling thunder. I just realized the trees that only minutes ago had been alive with singing are now silent. I guess the birds all went to bed. It reminded me of the Walton’s TV show. At the end of each show they showed the outside of the house as the lights went out and you heard, “Goodnight John Boy, goodnight Elizabeth, goodnight Erin, goodnight Jim Bob,” and on and on it went. Maybe all that chatter was the birds telling each other goodnight too.  

Sitting here in the country surrounded by nature, watching and listening, is good for the soul.

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A New Adventure Begins

Across the Fence #497

After 46 years in the graphic arts, advertising, marketing, and public relations business, the time has come to close the door on those chapters of my life and open the door to the next chapter. On May 30th, I’ll be retiring. It’s time.

I’m the oldest of four children in our family. I think they were beginning to worry that I was never going to retire. They thought the oldest should retire first. My brother, David, finally retired last fall. I think he got tired of waiting for me to pull the plug. He’s been enjoying retirement and thinks everyone should try it. Now maybe my sister, Janet, can start thinking about retiring too. Brother Arden is still too young to retire. They probably hate when I mention them in stories, but I couldn’t ask for any better sister and brothers.

The "Sherpe Pose" at last summer's reunion.

L-R: Howard, Janet, Arden, and David

People ask me what I’m going to do with my time. Don’t worry, I’ll keep plenty busy. I’ve always been a workaholic. I think that work ethic was instilled in us at an early age, working on the farm. Anyone who grew up on a farm knows what I mean. One thing I’m looking forward to is getting away from the stress of constant deadlines that I’ve dealt with for over 40 years.

In case someone thinks I’m just going to sit around watching TV and vegetate, don’t worry, that’s not me. I plan to keep busy. I’ve never been able to just sit and do nothing. Even though I’m retiring from my day job, I still have all my evening and weekend jobs, only now I’ll be able to do them during daylight hours instead of at night when I’m mentally tired and worn out. Maybe that weariness has a little to do with age too. I hate to admit it but I don’t have the energy I used to have. I guess I’m not 21 anymore, or 31, or 41, or 51, or 61. Now I’m traveling down Highway 70, heading for Highway 71. Uff da, how did that happen so fast? I’m not complaining. At least I’m still traveling down the road and looking forward to new adventures.

Many people have been concerned that I was also going to retire from writing “Across the Fence” each week. Let me assure you that I plan to continue writing this column as long as I can, and as long as you want to read it and the publishers and editors want to run it. I’ve been very lucky being able to visit with you each week for the past ten years. 

Besides writing, I also have a book publishing business, Prairie Viking Press. I’ll continue that business and do more wood carvings like my Norwegian ancestors did. I’ll no longer be taking on commissions to do specific carvings for people. I’ve done hundreds of them over the years, but now it’s time to carve what I want to carve, when I want to carve it. I want to carve for fun and not deal with the deadlines of filling orders.

I don’t plan to let the grass grow under my feet. There are trout streams to explore, wildlife areas to hike and enjoy, and new places to discover. It will be easier to take off and visit our kids and grandson too. If I want to go and sit in our woods on a beautiful day and listen to the wind rustling the leaves of the trees, I’ll do it. The solitude of the woods is a great place to sit and write. Our back deck is also a great place for inspiration. Recently seven deer came up across the field from the pond and went across our back lawn. Last week I found what was left of a rabbit near our birdfeeder–one rabbit’s foot attached to a few bones. That certainly wasn’t a lucky rabbit’s foot for that guy. I suspect a coyote had a meal during the night. There are lots of stories just waiting to be told, all around us, every day. We just need to take time to listen and observe.

It’s been great working for Vernon Telephone Cooperative for the past seven-plus years. It’s a company where we care about the service we provide to our members. Those people are our neighbors “across the fence.” They don’t deal with some faceless person in a foreign country if they have a problem. I liked that personal feeling of knowing and helping our neighbors. For over thirty years my advertising business was built on providing personal service to my clients. Vernon Telephone has the same philosophy. It’s been a great place to work, but now it’s time to head off to the life of no alarm clocks, except the one in my head. 

There are some wonderful quotes regarding retirement. “Retirement is wonderful. You can do nothing without worrying about getting caught at it.” “Don’t simply retire from something; have something to retire to.” “Retire from work, but not from life.” “The trouble with retirement is that you never get a day off.” Another quote I like regarding getting older: “First you forget names; then you forget faces; then you forget to zip your fly; and then you forget to unzip your fly.” 

Retirement may be the closing of one door, but it’s also the opening of another door to a whole new adventure. I’m ready!

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Memorial Day - A Time To Remember

Across the Fence #496

When I think of Memorial Day, I associate it with remembering all the servicemen and women who have died. For the majority of Americans it will be a Monday holiday when they don’t have to work. It’s a time for family outings, cookouts, and relaxing. Some people will spend time in cemeteries planting flowers on family members graves.

This year I won’t be giving any speeches to groups on Memorial Day. For too many years I’ve been a speaker at Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day programs and have declined several invitations this year. This year I will accompany the Westby VFW on Monday morning as we go to cemeteries around the Westby area and do a rifle salute to those veterans who are no longer with us. It’s the least I can do to remember and honor fellow veterans.

Memorial Day has also been a time for us to remember family members by planting flowers. I learned the importance of that by accompanying my parents when I was young. It also helped me know and appreciate my ancestors.

Many years ago my mother wanted to go for a ride on Wang Road and the ridge where she grew up, and then down in the Kickapoo Valley area to Bloomingdale. She wanted to show us where she had gone to church when she was young. I’d never been to the Bloomingdale Church and cemetery before that time. This was before I became interested in genealogy and didn’t realize Bloomingdale’s importance to our family history.

My mother was still in good health at the time and could walk around. She wanted me to know where some of my ancestors were buried. She showed us an old tombstone. It contained names that I’d never heard of before. On one side it said Anne Pederson Korsveien (1802–1892). The other side of the tombstone had Agnethe Andersdatter Korsveien (1827-1912), Anne’s daughter. My mother said they were my great, great great, and great, great grandmothers on her father’s side (Oscar Hanson).

Since that time, we’ve visited the cemetery many times. It had been many years since anyone had left a flower there, so Linda and I bring flowers each year. If it wasn’t for the lives of these two women, I wouldn’t be here. Since that first visit to their graves, I’ve learned their story and they didn’t have an easy life. Annie and her family traveled from Norway to the Coon Prairie area in 1854, only to find out Annie’s husband, who had gone ahead to establish a home for them, had been killed by lightning a month earlier. That was a tough beginning to a new life in this country. I didn’t want them to be forgotten. The least we can do is remember them with a flower. 

This year I’ll also remember several friends and relatives who died recently. When you live in small town, rural America, you know a lot of people. That means you attend a lot of visitations and funerals. During a short period we lost nine friends and relatives. You not only know the person, but in most cases you know many of the family members. Some of them were from my parent’s generation, who I had known since I was young. But there was also Hjordis Helgestad, a classmate from high school, who was related to me. I was a pallbearer at her funeral. Death gets very personal when someone your age dies. It reminds us that we aren’t going to live forever and we better make good use of the time we have remaining. I’ll miss her this year during Westby’s Syttende Mai. We were always next to each other in the Heritage Tent. She did her Hardanger embroidery and I’d do Norwegian folk art wood carving. Norwegian heritage was important to both of us. Her father grew up on a neighboring farm to my maternal grandmother along Lake Mjøsa in Norway.

Another relative was Merlin Rudie, 90. My great grandfather and his grandfather were brothers. My great grandfather kept the Sherpe farm name from Norway and his grandfather dropped it and went by Hanson. Their father was Hans Hanson Skjerpe. Many from that first generation in America didn’t think they could use their Norwegian farm name here. It gets very confusing when searching for your ancestral line. Merlin’s wife, Lorraine, died three months earlier. 

Randolph (Rand) Constalie, 94, died. He shared many of his writings with me over the years. I had the pleasure of interviewing him a couple years ago for an Across the Fence video program on our local channel. He was a brilliant man, full of life, full of curiosity, and always searching for answers to life’s hard questions, right up to the end. He was a kindred spirit and I will miss him.

There was also Harlan Fremstad, who I have known since I was young. We are related to the Fremstad family. I sometimes think I’m related to half the people in the Westby area. 

Alden Olson, Mary Ann Ghelf, and Sherman Erickson were three more people we knew who died in April. Our long-time family friend, Lincoln Stafslien, died in January.  

This Memorial Day we’ll remember those people and all the other friends and relatives who went before them. They were part of our lives and part of who we are today.

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Our Ancestors Were Tough

Across the Fence #495w (Syttende Mai Extra)

The trip from Norway to America was rough for Anne Larsdatter Korsveien and her family when they left their home near Biri, Norway in 1854. Anne, 51, was accompanied by her son Peder, 25, and daughter, Agnethe, 27, along with Agnethe’s husband, Kristian Goldseth and their two-year old daughter, Anna. After the long trip, Anne was tired, homesick, and wishing they were back on their farm near Lake Mjøsa. Instead they were finally nearing their destination of Coon Prairie in Bad Axe County, Wisconsin, in America.

Anne Larsdatter Korsveien

My maternal great, great, great grandmother

Agnethe Andersdatter and Kristian Goldseth

My maternal great, great, grandparents

They were all looking for a better life and the chance to own their own farm in this wonderful land that earlier immigrants from Biri had written home about.

Anne’s husband, Anders Pederson Fremstad, had left for America two years earlier in 1852, along with other men from Biri. They went to stake out land and start their farms before their families arrived. Anne was looking forward to seeing Anders again.

As the group neared Coon Prairie, they met some people on the trail. Anne asked if they knew where Anders Fremstad lived. They had sad news for Anne and her family. Anders had been struck and killed by lightning a month earlier. They buried him on the land he had begun to clear and farm. The news hit Anne like a kick in the stomach. Here they were in a strange land and her whole world was crumbling around her. Her husband was dead. What was she to do now? 

That same summer of 1854, another family left Fåberg, Norway to seek a new life in America. Hans Olson Rustad, 33, his wife, Martha Knutsdatter Ensrud, 35, and their seven-year old son, Ole Hanson, also headed for Coon Prairie, Wisconsin. Friends who had left earlier had written back to Norway and given glowing reports about the paradise they’d found. There were wide-open prairies where they could own many acres of rich farmland, not the small areas of rocky soil they’d been farming in Norway. In America they could own their own farm, not just be a husmann, a hired hand, with no hope of owning their own land in the future.

During the long voyage to America, cholera broke out on the ship. Martha came down with the disease and died two days after arriving in America. Due to the fear of contracting cholera, she and other victims were hastily buried in unmarked potter’s graves. Hans and Ole were now alone in a strange country where they had no family and couldn’t speak the language. The only thing they could do was keep going and try to find their friends at Coon Prairie. They traveled as far as Koshkonong, a Norwegian settlement in southern Wisconsin, where their money ran out. To earn money so they could get to Coon Prairie, Hans found work on the railroad that was being built near Madison. Ole stayed with a family in Koshkonong. In the fall, Hans took what little money they had and he and Ole continued on to Coon Prairie, where he hoped to find his friends from Norway.

When they finally arrived in the fall of 1854, many men were preparing to leave the area and head north to pineries at Black River Falls, where they would work during the winter months. Hans left Ole in the care of some friends near a place called Bloomingdale. He then joined the other men to work as a lumberjack in order to earn money. 

This was not the life Hans had expected when he left Norway. Instead of a paradise he found himself in his worst nightmare. He wished they’d never left Norway. Martha would still be alive if he hadn’t insisted on seeking a better life for them in America.

  

What was to become of these two families who had begun their journey that summer with great hopes and dreams of a better life in America? Now their dreams were shattered. They had each lost a family member, were starting over with little money, and had no idea what to do next. It wouldn’t be easy, but they had nothing to go back to in Norway either. In order to afford the trip to America, they had sold everything they owned, except what they could pack into steamer trunks and carry on the voyage. Their new life would have to begin in this foreign environment they found themselves in. 

Anne was now the head of her family in this strange land, and felt responsible for their survival. Anne’s husband, Anders, had been one of the early immigrant settlers on Coon Prairie, and had chosen a nice piece of land high on the prairie, where the land was open and easy to work. At least they would have a place to stay. Anders had built a small log cabin on their property, but it would be very crowded for five people to live there. Anders hadn’t planned on Agnethe and her family living with them. A simple outhouse was nearby.  

He had acquired a few animals that were kept in a simple log barn he’d built. Chickens were in a small enclosure attached to the barn. After Anders was killed, neighbors had taken the animals because there was no one to care for them. They returned the animals to Anne. There was a wooded area nearby, where deer and other wild animals could be hunted for food, and timber could be cut for heating and cooking. 

Unfortunately, the farm was far from a water source, and too high on the prairie to dig a well and hit a water table. At first Anders and his neighbors had built a dam across a small ravine where water ran during heavy rains and during the spring thaw. That stagnant water was all right for the cattle, but wasn’t fit for people to drink. It also tended to dry up during the summer if there wasn’t enough rain. 

Drinking water and water to cook with was collected in rain barrels or carried from the nearest creek. To reach the creek they made their way down a steep, wooded hill into the coulee where a creek ran that emptied into the meandering Kickapoo River. That journey to get water was a tough round trip. 

Anne quickly realized that lack of a convenient water supply was going to be a problem. Anne and Agnethe even had to wash their clothes in the creek. Clean clothes became a luxury, not a necessity. 

At least there was food available. The cow produced enough milk to drink and make butter. The chickens provided them with eggs and an occasional meal when they butchered one. The sheep provided wool that Anne could weave on her spinning wheel to make yarn for clothes. Anders had planted wheat, corn, and a vegetable garden. Agnethe’s husband, Kristian, would have to learn to use Ander’s gun and hunt for deer and other wild animals for food. He had a lot to learn. He’d been a cobbler in Norway. He could make shoes, but knew nothing about farming and hunting. 

Another problem was getting supplies that couldn’t be grown on the farm. The closest general store was in Prairie du Chien, 50-60 miles south of Coon Prairie, situated along the Mississippi River. It was a long trip over rough country, with big hills and valleys, and numerous streams and waterways to cross. Roads were converted Indian trails and there were no bridges. The journey took several days for the early settlers. Many didn’t have access to a horse and buggy, or wagon. They walked to Prairie du Chien and back, carrying their supplies, like coffee, sugar, salt, syrup, flour, and other items on their backs. It would be several years before a store opened in La Crosse, cutting the trip in half.

That first winter was a tough one for Anne and her family. Her son, Peder, left in the fall with men from the area to walk to Black River Falls, where they worked as lumberjacks in the pineries during the winter months. Many men headed north in the winter to make money working in the woods. The women and children were left at home to take care of the farm and animals.

Life in the lumber camps was hard work with long hours, working in the freezing cold. They headed into the woods before sunrise and didn’t return until dark. Those were depressing days for immigrant families.

Lumber Camp: My grandfather, Oscar Hanson, 

Ole and Anna Hanson's son, seated front center

Back on Coon Prairie, the freezing weather arrived, along with snow and howling winds. Deep snowdrifts hindered their trips for water. They resorted to melting snow in a large kettle in the fireplace. They provided water for the cattle the same way. When the wind blew, snow came right through cracks between the logs where Anders hadn’t done a very good job of filling in the gaps. They were cold, miserable, and felt trapped and isolated, far from other humanity. It was a horrible, long winter. 

To add to their problems, the wolves were having problems finding food too. They resorted to raiding their chickenhouse and killed many chickens. They also lost sheep to the wolves. It seemed like things were going from bad to worse. They were even running out of firewood and Kristian had to cut up downed trees in the woods to get through the winter. Everyone was happy when spring finally arrived and they had survived their first winter in Wisconsin.

When Peder arrived home from the lumber camp, he and Kristian planted crops. They were able to replace the chickens and sheep that had been killed with money Peder had earned that winter.

Farming in the 1890's. This is Jonas Ostrem, my great grandfather. 

One day while Pedar and Kristian were working in the fields, a group of dark strangers approached the house. Anne had heard about the Indians who lived in the area, but had never seen one before. Anne told Agnethe to overturn the large cooking pot and hide Anna under it. People said that Indians and gypsies would try to steal their chickens and children. 

Agnethe kept the gun handy while Anne went outside to see what they wanted. She couldn’t understand their language and they couldn’t understand her Norwegian. Anne kept an eye on them as they left and headed in the direction of Bloomingdale. When she was sure they were safe, they lifted the pot off a bewildered and frightened Anna, who was now four years old. It was the first of many friendly encounters with Indians passing through the area. They learned over time not to fear them. 

Life that summer was hard as they struggled with the crops and animals. The water supply was a constant problem. Anne decided she needed to sell the farm and buy one closer to water. They would need more money to do that. Peder would need to work in the lumber camps each winter to make extra money.

Hans Olson also spent that winter back in the camp. While talking to Peder he learned that his father had been killed just before their family arrived at Coon Prairie. Peder learned that Hans had lost his wife on the voyage and still had no permanent place to go back to in the spring when the other men returned to their farms. He’d been working as a hired man for a family the past summer. Hans told Peder his young son was living with friends until he could get established and provide a home for him. 

Peder said his mother wanted to buy a farm near Bloomingdale. She’d been a weaver in Norway and felt she’d have a better chance to earn a living doing weaving closer to a thriving community. She didn’t know how to run a farm and Peder wanted to head west in the spring with other young, single men and seek his fortune. Her cobbler son-in-law didn’t know anything about farming, but he and his family would have to live with Anne until they could afford their own place. Plus, Anne was sick and tired of carrying water up those steep hills.  

Peder asked Hans if he would like to be his mother’s hired man when they returned in the spring. Hans had no other options at the moment, and no place to live, so he accepted the offer. Thus began an alliance between the two families to try and salvage something out of the horrible journey they found themselves on.

Anne found a piece of land near Bloomingdale. A creek ran through the property and would be a convenient water supply for them and the cattle. There was even a house and barn on the property. The owner was selling the property and heading west with Peder and the others to a place called Dakota, where there was an abundance of land for farming and no steep hills and valleys to deal with. 

Hans began working as a hired man for Anne and did all the farming. He built a small shack on the property to live in and ate his meals with Anne and her family. Ole, Hans’ son, continued to live with friends and helped them on their farm until he was confirmed at age 16. 

Hans worked hard, clearing the land to make more room for crops. Much of the land had steep hills, but he was able to grub out the flater areas. It was similar to what he was used to doing in Norway. He still headed north to the pineries in the winter months, while Anne and Agnethe took care of the cattle. 

The years passed, Ole was confirmed and came to live with his father. He was able to put in more crops with Ole helping him. Anne taught Agnethe how to weave and they were able to keep busy and make a living. Kristian left for La Crosse one day to get supplies and never returned. They knew he had been unhappy living in the wilderness and helping with the farming, but didn’t know if he had been killed or just kept going. 

Ole and Anna grew up together on the Korsveien farm. Their friendship blossomed into romance. In 1871 when Ole Hanson was 24 and Anna Goldseth was 19, they were married in the Coon Prairie Church. 

 Ole Hanson and Anna (Goldseth) Hanson,
my maternal great grandparents

By that time Hans and Ole had purchased a small farm in nearby Knapp Valley. They continued to farm together and buy more land until their farm extended up onto the ridge above the valley. The log house and an old log barn that Ole and Hans built in the valley still stands today. The land Ole and his father cleared and farmed during those early years from 1870 through the early 1900s was owned and farmed by descendants of Hans Olson Rustad and Anne Larsdatter Korsveien for many years.

Barn that Ole Hanson built in Knapp Valley. It still stands.

Hans Olson Rustad was my great-great-grandfather. Anne Larsdatter Korsveien was my great-great-great-grandmother. Ole Hanson and Anna Goldseth had a son, Oscar Hanson, who was my maternal grandfather. This is their story. Two pioneer immigrant families from Norway who had a rough beginning in America, but thanks to their perseverance and never giving up, they paved the way for their descendants and provided us a great path to follow. 

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