The First Peoples

Across the Fence #558


Recently I watched a PBS program called “First Peoples,” a documentary series, that covers the evolution of man in light of recent discoveries, such as the ability to sequence gnomes and ancient DNA studies. 200,000 years ago we took our first steps on the African savanna. Today there are 7 billion of us living on every corner of planet earth. How did our ancestors beat the odds, spread from continent to continent and survive? 

Researchers now think that early man evolved simultaneously in a number of places across Africa instead of just eastern Africa. The series includes clips with biologists and other researchers who explain their work and the new discoveries that are directly related to their work.

Scientists are beginning to realize that ours is not a pedigree species, but a patchwork quilt. We are all hybrids. I found this out when I took a DNA test and found out I carry 2.6% Neanderthal DNA. It shows that in prehistoric times, about 50,000 to 60,000 years ago, our ancestors met and mated with Neanderthals. As someone who has had a great interest in the technology and findings of Anthropology and Archeology, I find it interesting that for years we thought Neanderthals were wiped out by modern humans, because Neanderthals weren’t as intelligent as we were. Now we know that instead of fighting and killing each other when they met, as we tend to do today, they decided they would try to intermingle and get along together, instead of fight. Isn’t that a novel idea? They decided to make love not war, and that’s why I have 2.6% DNA from those ancient ancestors who were a lot smarter than researchers thought they were. 

In Shakespeare’s Hamlet, during the scene in the churchyard, Hamlet holds a skull and says, “That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once.”

Many times I’ve held a piece of history in my hands and wished it could speak also.

The PBS show got me thinking about objects that often show up in plowed fields. I think I should have gone into the field of archeology or history instead of art. I’ve always had a fascination for old things and their history.   

When I find an arrowhead I wonder about the person who created it. Someone had to sit down and chip the stone into that pointed shape. Next, they fastened it to a wooden shaft they also made. Then feathering was added at the other end to stabilize the arrow’s flight. That took a lot of time and craftsmanship.

Then I wonder how the arrowhead came to rest where it was unearthed hundreds or even thousands of years later. Was it fired at a source of food for the family?  Did it hit the target or miss and end up lost in the brush? There it lay for years, the wood shaft and feathers long ago having returned to the earth. All that survived was the stone arrowhead.

Another possibility is that it was fired at an enemy. Did it hit or miss? Did a battle between opposing tribes take place where the arrowhead was found? Or was it fired at a white man encroaching on the Native’s land?

So many questions, so few answers. As author Ben Logan once told me, “It’s the writer in us that wants to know the rest of the story.”

If only the skull that Hamlet held could talk. If only the arrowhead I hold could tell me the rest of the story.

Artifacts, including tools, artwork, and jewelry have been found. It’s believed that Neanderthals may have created the first jewelry. Necklaces made of bones and animal teeth were strung together and appear to have been bound with leather bands. Carved figures also have been discovered. Bones with holes punched in them were used as musical instruments. Those Neanderthals were not as dumb as people thought. These discoveries show that they were able to think and use their reasoning in ways to create usable items. One of those artifacts found among Neanderthal sites is a hide scraper that looks very much like one I have that was used by the Lakota on the Great Plains of North America 1,000 years ago. The one made by the Neanderthals was used 50,000 years ago. It’s interesting that an item created so long ago can still be used for the same purpose today. 

How many things that we create today will still have a use 50,000 years from now? I don't think very many of them will. That's another thing that I find fascinating about archaeology as they find more and more evidence of what our ancestors were able to do. These same weapons and items can still be used today. They’re still functional. My laptop is over eight years old and is considered a double antique. It certainly won't be working in 100 years, not even 10 years.

Another thing I think about; many of the artifacts that are found in archeological digs have to do with the arts, music, sculptures, and cave art. I find it disheartening that the arts, that were so important to our early ancestors, are being relegated to the non-essential subjects in schools today, as budgets are cut by our politicians. There’s always money for new sport stadiums, but not for the arts. 

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Haying Stories Keep stacking up.

Across the Fence #557


This is haying season and my stories about haying, haymows, and stacking bales, brought some great memories from “Across the Fence “ readers that I thought you would enjoy hearing about. 

Lets start with the empty haymow before the new hay crop was harvested. My friend, David Giffey wrote, “We built a new barn in the early 1950s, long before we had indoor plumbing in the house. Barns were always considered more important on small family farms because barns were our source of income.

When the new barn was built, my older brothers put up a basketball backboard at one end. I enjoyed playing basketball, and I assumed the barn was built for basketball. Yes, we'd fill the hayloft every summer with baled hay. But we'd start to feed the hay in the fall from the end underneath the basketball hoop. Some of your readers might recall that there were serious basketball games - even leagues - played in haylofts around Central and Northern Wisconsin in the early and mid 19th Century. 

In our barn, we played basketball wearing mittens and ear flaps because it was cold up there. Sometimes the leather ball was frozen, so dribbling was a challenge. But we played nonetheless.

I'm always happy when I see kids playing basketball on playgrounds in cities or villages. And I hope some of them still get to work on their moves in the hayloft of old barns.”

My brothers, David and Arden remember that they played basketball in the haymow of Danny and Ila Olson’s barn. I don’t remember playing there. I think I had left the farm and headed for school in Madison by the time they and Rod Olson were playing basketball in the haymow. We had a basketball hoop on the side of the old log house, but it was always a challenge dribbling on the uneven lawn with a ball that was usually under-inflated. I guess we should have put the hoop in the haymow.

Rainy days were special in an empty haymow, when you couldn’t work outside. I remember taking a paperback book up in the haymow on a rainy day, laying back in a soft pile of sweet-smelling alfalfa and clover, and listening to the rain beating on the roof and tin cupola while I got lost in the adventures of a good book. There was something special about reading in the solitude of the haymow on a rainy day. I hope other kids had that experience too. Those are some wonderful memories. 

My friend, author Jerry Apps, has some great rainy day haymow stories too. Check out this blog story: http://jerryapps.blogspot.com/2015/06/rainy-day-in-june.html

I also heard from people who remembered stacking hay.  My cousin Eric Olson, remembers when he was 15 they baled for 16 hours straight– a 1000 bales.  His Dad had Uncle Maynard build heavy-duty wagons that could hold 150 bales. “I lifted every bale 3 to 4 times, loading and unloading, so at 40 to 50 pounds each, that was at least 60 tons. No wonder 47 years later, I have back problems.”

My friend, John Cotter wrote, “One of the things I remember about baling hay is the way the wagon would move back and forth as each bale was made. A ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk sound was made by the baler. As the pistons moved back to pack the hay, the wagon would stop a little and then go forward. You were swaying on the wagon all the way down the field. You had to time your steps to walk the bale back to where the stack was so you wouldn’t slip or drop the bale. I also remember as the wagon filled, it got more difficult to stack the last row. You had to reach down standing on wobbly bales and lift the bale to put it in place. We made sure the load was full before the next wagon was attached.

Erik and Amy in the haymow by the elevator.

Another memory I have is after the load was put in the mow, the fastest way to get down to the outside and some relief from the heat of the haymow, was to slide down the elevator. You had to make sure to keep your butt up so you wouldn’t catch it on the elevator cleats. At least that is what we called them, but that is what held the bales in place as they went up to the mow.”

I remember exiting the haymow by sliding down the elevator just like John did. Then we made a direct line to the windmill and a cold drink of water.

John also had memories about how we never thought about germs. “There was a metal cup on the pump that hung outside all the time. Never washed, that I remember. We would start the pump and each take a turn getting a drink. Sure couldn’t do that today. We also would take water to the field in a glass gallon jug that was wrapped in burlap to keep it cooler. Not cold, just cooler.”

John said, “Your stories really invoke some good memories, even if they were hard work. It never killed us, which is another story. 

How do little boys become big boys? Sounds like that’s a story for another day too.

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Searching for Coulees and the Northwoods

Across the Fence #556

We take many things for granted and never give them a second thought… that is, until someone asks us a question.

I have a friend, Elmer Wischmeier, from Sedalia, Missouri, who visited us several summers ago  in Madison before we moved back to Westby. Elmer and I now go back 50 years together, but I hadn’t seen him since we left Vietnam in July, 1967.

 Going adore in Vietnam: Harlan with glasses on left, Elmer in center. I took photo.

 Still alive after spending the night on an ambush patrol! Harlan, seated, Elmer, reclining. I took photo.

During his visit, we drove to Westby one day to visit Harlan Springborn and Larry Skolos. The four of us had been in the army together. We were in the same basic training company, went ashore in Vietnam on the same landing craft, and were in the same unit while in Vietnam and spent nights together on ambush patrols in the middle of enemy territory. The four of us have a lot of history together!

L-R: Larry Skolos, Howard Sherpe, Harlan Springborn, and Elmer Wischmeier.

Before we met Harlan and Larry for lunch, I took Elmer for a ride around the Westby and Vernon County countryside to show him how beautiful Wisconsin is. We drove down Timber Coulee and I pointed out other coulees as we drove along. Then we went back up the tree-lined road through Spring Coulee with huge hills all around us. I mentioned that we would swing up on Spring Coulee Ridge Road, so he could get a different view of the coulees.  

That’s when Elmer said he had a couple of questions for me. “Doc, What’s a coulee and is this the Northwoods?” I think all the rugged, forested country we were driving through, and my pointing out every coulee we passed, raised his curiosity! 

This brings me back to my original statement that we take things for granted and never give them a second thought. I grew up around coulees and never thought to question what they were. They were just coulees. There was Timber Coulee, Spring Coulee, Mormon Coulee, and Rulland Coulee, to name a few. They were just names of places. No one had ever asked me what a coulee was before. Maybe they didn’t have coulees in Missouri, or they referred to them as “Hollers.” 

I wasn’t sure what to tell Elmer. I said it probably meant a valley. All the coulees I knew had high bluffs on both sides. “Maybe that kept it cooler in the valleys,” I said. “So they called them ‘coolies,’ meaning it was cooler there. Maybe someone who wasn’t an A student in spelling, wrote it down as coulee!” It sounded like a good, logical, Norwegian explanation to me. Never let it be said that I can’t come up with an answer to every question, even if it seems to be a lot of hot air… or cool air in this case!

I found out later, from Elnor and Marjorie Haugen in Coon Valley, that coulee is a French word. The coulees must have been named by early French fur traders. When all else fails, read the directions, or in this case the definition of coulee. I found the word “coulee” comes from the French Canadian “coulée,” from the French word “couler,” meaning “to flow.” 

In Wisconsin it refers to a gully or ravine; a narrow and steep gorge formed by thousands of years of erosion, found especially in the Driftless Area of Southwestern Wisconsin. Coulees also provide shelter from the wind, and a concentrated water supply to plants that would otherwise have a hard time surviving in areas more exposed to the sun and heat. So, at least I was right about the valley part, and according to that, it is cooler in the coulees!! 

In Vernon and Crawford Counties the coulees are certainly not little gully washers or ravines, like the definition mentions. They are “real” valleys with big hills and steep bluffs. Not only that, but they generally have a stream running through them, or as the French would say, “flowing” through them. Some people might say it’s a “creek” or a “crick,” not a stream, but that’s a whole other story! 

Now for the second part of his question, “Is this the Northwoods?” 

Well, that depends on your perspective. If you live in Missouri, like Elmer, the coulees and hills of Vernon and Crawford County, Wisconsin must seem like the Northwoods. If you live in Vernon County, Black River Falls might be considered the Northwoods. At least it was back in the days when my grandfather and many young Norwegian immigrants became lumberjacks in the winter months and cut timber in the “Northwoods” to make a living. 

If you live in Black River Falls, you might travel to Woodville to be in the Northwoods. As I said, it all depends on your perspective and where you’re at when asked the question!

The Northwoods… it may not be a specific place at all, but more a state of mind. I like to think it is, and we can go there any time we want. At least that was my explanation to Elmer.

I’d never given much thought to coulees or the Northwoods before he asked me about them. I’m glad he did. Too often we don’t appreciate or notice the uniqueness of our own surroundings until someone points them out, or asks us a question about them.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna’ head out in search of a coulee with a nice trout stream running through it.

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The Art of Stacking Hay Bales

Across the Fence #555

 Once upon a time, hay bales were the norm when it came to harvesting hay. Now hay is chopped into wagons and stored in long “white worms.” There are still some bales, but they are huge, round bales that need a forklift to load. There are also some very large rectangular bales that get wrapped in white plastic. All those bales are not the ones I want to talk about. Lets talk about the ones that were held together with baler twine and one person could lift them from the baler chute and stack them on the hay wagon.

That stacking became a real art, in order to keep the load straight so it wouldn’t tip. If that happened, we had a real problem and Dad was not a happy camper.

I'm old enough to remember when we used horses that pulled the wagon and hay loader. The loader had twines that raked the windrowed hay onto the loader where other twines raked it up and onto the wagon. Then the big load of loose hay was hauled to the barn where we used a harpoon-like fork with two “spears” that went into the hay, and a series of pulleys and ropes. Dad set the fork into the hay and the horses would pull the rope that went through those series of pulleys. The hay went up into the haymow. When the load reached the point in the mow where Dad wanted it dumped, the person in the mow would yell, “Dump” and Dad would pull the rope and trip the load. The person in the haymow had the hot, dirty, dusty job. Using a pitchfork, he spread the loose hay around the haymow.

The introduction of the hay baler certainly revolutionized the harvesting of hay. Around 1950, a John Deere B tractor replaced King and Queen, our draft horses. The John Deere B took over the heavy work the horses had been doing for all those years.  

The introduction of the hay baler is when we became “experts” at loading a wagon so it wouldn’t tip before reaching the barn. There was an art to the stacking of the bales so they intertwined and held the load together.

Dad drove the tractor and pulled the baler and wagon. David and I were on the wagon. We worked with no gloves or shirts. Our hands became as tough as leather. We took turns pulling the bales from the hay chute of the baler and carrying them back to the end of the wagon, where we piled them in rows. Then we piled another layer perpendicular to them on top of that row. If everything was squared up, we had a very secure load. We piled those loads seven or eight layers high. If we got in a hurry, our load wasn’t as secure. We did have a few times when we lost half a load when Dad made a tight turn on a sloping piece of ground. Then the fun began, as we had to unscramble the mess and restack all the bales that had fallen off. The ones that had busted had to be fed through the baler again.

The introduction of bales certainly changed how we got hay from the wagon into the haymow. We no longer used the hayfork and rope and pulley system. Instead we used an elevator. Dad was on the wagon and loaded the bales onto the elevator. David and I were in the hot, dusty haymow and piled the bales as they fell off the elevator. It was hard keeping up at times because Dad tended to get in a hurry and sent the bales up one right after another. Then we began the art of stacking the bales in the haymow. 

To gain access to the haymow, we went up a homemade wooden ladder and through a small door in the side of the haymow, located above the main door entrance to the barn. When we stacked the bales, we had to make sure we left an opening to that door and we ended up with a shaft with steps made from the way we stacked the bales. It was an art. The higher up the bales went the longer and steeper the shaft became. When the haymow was full, we had bales stacked to the roof of the barn and right up to the track that ran the length of the barn. That was a lot of weight on the floor and old beams of that barn. It must have been built much stronger than we thought. 

It became very interesting in the winter when it was dark and we had to go up and throw down bales to feed the cows. There wasn’t any light in the haymow and it was really dark. We only had a flashlight to find our way around, and the light made a lot of strange, scary shadows dance among the bales. You never knew what “monsters” might be lurking among the dark shadows, waiting to pounce on you.

We didn’t spend a lot of time in the dark haymow. We threw the bales down the chute as fast as we could and then shimmied down our entrance shaft and escaped out the door and headed down the ladder as fast as we could, before some monster could grab us and pull us back into the dark haymow. 

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Lightning Bugs and the Beauty of July

Across the Fence #554


Sometimes life boils down to simple pleasures, like watching lightning bugs (Fireflies to some people) as they light up our backyard. Observing them is like a simple, childlike experience, filled with curiosity. How can all those little bugs light up? As children we’d run after them, catch them, and put them into a Mason jar with air holes punched into the lid. After we had captured several and watched in wonder as they lit up the jar like a lantern, we released them so they could be free to fly again. Off they would go into the dark, but always letting us know where they were headed as they continued to light up and glow.

The warm, humid evenings of July are when lightning bugs love to become active. Many people don’t like the heat. I like it. I think we tend to over air-condition our lives. As a result, it feels so much hotter when we do venture outside. I’ve been some places where I have to go outside to warm up. 

Along with that, if you don’t go outside in July, you’re missing so much. You need to sit in the cool shade and listen to the wind in the trees. Watch and listen to the wind moving through tall grass along fence lines. Listen to the joyous sounds of all the birds. Watch butterflies darting among the flowers. Enjoy the evenings when the night comes alive with wonderful sights and sounds. Watch the fireflies put on their light show, lie back and gaze up at the star-filled sky, and let the crickets, frogs, and tree toad chorus serenade you. July evenings are something special.

Sometimes I think we all need to get back to the innocence and curiosity about the world around us that we had as children. We lose much of our wide-eyed wonder about the world as we grow older and more skeptical and cynical.

It's curiosity and wonder at the world around us that keeps the creative juices flowing. Without creativity we’re just a bunch of robots following the lead of those embedded in old thinking and ideas, and afraid to venture outside the safety of the box and try new things and embrace new ideas.

Watching lightning bugs is a good place to start. They remind me that I don't need to know how something works to enjoy the beauty and mystery of it. Again, it’s still the simple things in life that are the big things that make life magical. Those are the moments we don't want to miss. For me they become spiritual experiences.

If I could begin the calendar year, I’d never begin the year on January 1st. It’s often bitterly cold, the world is covered in a layer of white, and very few people or animals are active. Animals and birds with any sense, are either hibernating or have flown south for the winter. I’d start at the halfway point… I’d start with July. It’s a beautiful time of year. The world is alive with color and life. Trees and bushes are filled with leaves of every shade of green. I like to say 101 shades of green. Crops in the fields are growing. Corn is usually knee-high or more by the 4th of July. This is when the earth is alive, and it rubs off on all who inhabit the land. Who could venture along a tree-lined country road, where the ditches are filled with colorful wildflowers, and feel depressed?

But I’m also a realist and know that not everything about July is positive to everyone. I don’t care much for all the mosquitoes and pesky bugs either, especially the gnats. After the rain we’ve had lately, there should be no shortage of mosquitoes. On the positive side, the birds love them. The barn swallows have a field day as they swoop and dart about snatching the bugs out of the air as I walk through the grass stirring them up.

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Living In Rural America Is Special

Across theFence #553


I like to think back to the way it was when people were still visiting across the fence and their neighbors were like family. If someone became ill or got hurt and couldn’t do their chores or harvest their crops, neighbors quickly pitched in and helped harvest the crops for them.

Howard and Pete Erikson visit across the fence.

You often hear people say that when you live in a small town, everybody knows your business. They know what you’re doing and if they don’t know what you’re doing, they make something up. That’s OK too. As long as you’re not doing something illegal, or causing harm to people, why should we care what people are saying about us. Who knows, maybe they’re saying positive things.

When I was young most of us cousins lived close together. Everybody was like one big extended family. Now we’re scattered to the four winds of the country. It’s a global world and sometimes in the global world the small contact between people gets lost as we all get caught up in our lives. Nobody knows what we’re doing or what’s going on in our lives. We tend to drift apart. Those close family ties get harder to maintain.

This new adventure I find myself on has given me a chance to sit back and re-evaluate a lot of things. One thing I’ve learned these past couple weeks is that the spirit of helping and support from family, friends, and neighbors is still very much alive and well in small town, rural America. I’m proud to be a small part of that culture. It’s something we should all wear with great pride. I’ve always been proud of being a country boy, a farm boy at heart.

We hear and see so much on the news about the cruelty and intolerance of people to each other. It’s all about me and what I want. There’s a divisive, non-cooperative attitude that seems to have invaded politics and has spread like a cancer into society. People need to visit rural America. I have seen a positive side in people that gives me much hope again.

I once heard a saying by the Dali Lama that pretty much sums up how I feel about things; “The purpose of life is to help people, if you can’t help them, at least don’t hurt them.” I’ve tried to make that a goal in my life since the first time I heard it. That would make a pretty good epitaph on anyone’s tombstone too.

We need to become better, more caring, supportive, and tolerant neighbors. Not just across the fence, but to people around the world. I was lucky when I was in the army, because they decided I would be a medic. That put me in a position where I was able to help people, instead of just hurt them. I think I’m still in medic mode a lot of the time. I may not be able to help them medically anymore, but I can be there to listen and offer support when needed. I’m still Doc and always will be to my Vietnam Brothers. I can’t tell you how supportive they’ve been since they found out about my health problems. We need to look for the positives in every situation–even a very negative experience like Vietnam. In a way it was a blessing. I would never have made those close friendships that are just as strong today as they were almost 50 years go.

I received a phone call from a friend of our son, Erik, who battled cancer for many years. He’s now cancer free. He said he’s come to view his cancer as a blessing because it changed his life and what is now important to him. I’m starting to look at this cancer in the same way. Instead of it being a curse, I hope to emerge as a better person who looks at the world in a very positive light. We can’t let negative people and their thinking bring us down. 

I feel that living here in small town, rural America where neighbors still care and we can visit across the fence with each other, gives me an advantage. Life is good and I don’t want to waste a moment. There is so much to do and experience in all the small moments in life, that really add up to the moments that mean something, the ones that touch our soul and lift our spirit; the beauty of a sunset, rain gently falling on the leaves, the wind blowing through the trees, watching rabbits in our yard chasing each other–after all it is spring, watching a newborn fawn totter along behind it’s mother on wobbly legs, appreciating the beauty of wild flowers along the roads and lanes, hearing the frog chorus down by the pond, watching as darkness begins to envelop the land and solitude arrives. There is a peacefulness that comes over me as the stars come out and I gaze around and observe the majesty and mystery of it all. It’s all those small details in our lives that we need to appreciate. Those of us who live in rural America have the advantage because nature is a big part of who we are.

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The Empty Haymow

Across the Fence #552

Haymows around the country will soon be filling up with hay again. Most people look at the haymow of an old barn as a place where hay was stored, and then fed to the cows during the long, winter months when cows were kept in the barn.

But, the haymow was also a playground for farm kids, especially on rainy spring days, when it was empty before haying began.

We had an old barn with a timber frame structure, just like most barns were constructed in those days. Now barns are built different and don’t lend themselves to the activities we engaged in.

I know we weren’t the only kids who played in an empty haymow and I bet many of you could tell me stories about the things you did. Of course you always hear stories about farm boys and neighbor girls playing in the haymow and perhaps that’s where they experienced a first kiss. In order to protect the guilty, I won’t ask any of you to divulge your secrets and I’ll plead the 5th amendment also!

Our barn had heavy timber beams that ran the width of the barn. They were probably about ten feet above the floor of the haymow. We’d climb up the wood timber braces to reach that horizontal beam. Then the fun began and it was just high enough to be a little scary too. You could pretend you were a circus high-wire aerialist and walk the beam from one side of the barn to the other.

I should point out that there was just enough loose hay left on the floor of the haymow to cushion your fall if you lost your balance. I guess we never considered the possibility of falling headfirst and breaking our neck!

Those cross beams were also the perfect place to pretend you were a paratrooper, jumping boldly out of an airplane. Of course we were tough Norwegian kids. We jumped without a chute. Or maybe that shows a lack of brains instead of courage! When you’re young, standing on a narrow beam ten feet above the landing area, it seemed like a long way down. Add another five feet or so above that, up to where our eyes were looking down from, and it was downright scary. We yelled, “Geronimo!” when we jumped. That must have been something we picked up from war movies of real paratroopers jumping out of airplanes. Even with all that practice I never had the desire to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. More power to all of you who did go airborne, but for me, I’ll stick to ground-pounding.

Another source of fun and adventure in an empty haymow was the hay rope. It ran the length of the barn up in the peak, but the end hung down and we could climb on it or swing from it. We played Tarzan with that rope. Standing on that cross beam again, we’d grab the rope, and swing out over the empty haymow. If we were lucky, we’d swing back far enough to grab the beam again, although sometimes we crashed into it.  I’m really surprised we never hurt ourselves seriously.

Other times we’d make a mound of hay on the floor. As we swung out and reached the highest point of the arc, we’d let go and try to land in the middle of the pile below. It worked best if you gave the Tarzan yell as you launched out into the air, but it turned into a scream as you plummeted to the floor of the haymow! I don’t know how to spell the Tarzan yell, so you’ll just have to yell it out as you read this to get the full affect. Then add a very long, blood-curdling “Aaaaahhhhhh!” as you let go of the rope. Next, imagine a loud thud and the air being suddenly forced out of a body as it smacks into the floor, just short of the pile of hay. We’d stagger to our feet, fighting for breath and say, “Uff da, that was really a dumb thing to do,” and then climb back up and do it again!

But, that wasn’t the most dangerous or dumb thing we did. Sometimes, we shimmied up the rope to the peak of the barn and grabbed hold of the wooden track that ran the length of the barn. That’s what the pulley that carried the hayfork ran on. From that point we could boost ourselves up into the tin cupola on the top of the barn, where the pigeons lived. Did I mention this was very high up in the air in an empty haymow.  If we’d fallen from that height it would probably have killed us… not the fall, but that sudden stop at the bottom. We must have thought about that possibility, but when you’re young, you know it could never happen to you.

If Dad had known some of the stupid things we did in that empty haymow, we’d have had bigger things to worry about than falling!

Now, the kind of adventures and fun we had in those old haymows, where our imaginations created our world, seems to be another thing of the past. As I drive by an old, abandoned barn, I like to imagine kids playing in the empty haymow and I wonder, “What kind of wonderful adventures did they have?”

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