Tobacco Worm Mystery

Across the Fence #250

Where have all the tobacco worms gone? We need some answers to this mystery. I guess that question could use a little explanation.

As the end of August nears and a new school year approaches, my thoughts wander back to the days when tobacco was king in this area. As I drove by the cornfield west of the farm buildings, I remembered the days when it was covered with large tobacco plants waiting to be harvested, instead of corn. Those days are now but a memory for all the old tobacco farmers around Vernon County. This used to be one of the largest tobacco producing counties in Wisconsin. Last year saw the end of those days when only a few acres were grown. This year there are no tobacco fields waiting to be harvested.

By late August, if the growing season had been a good one, plants with large green leaves, without any tears or holes, stood waiting to be cut down, piled, speared, and hauled to the tobacco shed where it would be hung for curing.

I mentioned leaves without tears or holes. If there had been windstorms or hail, the leaves could become torn, shredded, or full of holes. Depending on the severity of the storm, it could quickly destroy a tobacco crop and render all that hard work for naught. It would have to be disked down because no tobacco buyer would want it. That could spell financial disaster because tobacco was the cash crop that paid the taxes and many other expenses. It also paid off the mortgages on many farms.

Another enemy of tobacco was the tobacco worm. It was a large, dark green, nasty-looking worm with a horn protruding from the back end. Some places referred to them as tobacco hornworms. They could grow up to four inches in length and be as thick as your thumb, especially if they’d been feasting away on your tobacco leaves. They could cost a farmer hundreds, even thousands, of dollars in lost revenue if they weren’t controlled.

We would watch for worms as we topped tobacco. Topping is where we broke off the smaller, top portion of each plant so the main leaves would get bigger and you’d have a better crop. You could easily tell when a plant had been chewed on by a tobacco worm. When we came across the signs of destruction we checked the leaves and the culprit was usually still there, inflicted with a serious case of the munchies. If there was no worm, you could usually find him on a neighboring plant.

This is the point where things got interesting. If you didn’t like picking up a squishy, squirming, green worm, you could try knocking it off the leaf and then stomping on it. But they could be hard to dislodge as they clung to the leaf with all their little feet. My preferred method of disposing of them was to grab them around the middle of their body and pull them off the leaf. Then as they struggled back and forth between my fingers, I’d throw them down on the ground as hard as I could. They would explode in a sea of green tobacco juice. We usually kept score to see who ended up with the most tobacco worm splats.

If you did a good job of disposing of them while topping, it saved a lot of tobacco. Some years the worms were worse than others and Dad would have us walk through the tobacco looking for them. When you raised ten to twelve acres, that’s a lot of looking. As an incentive he gave us a penny for every worm we found. We carried a glass mason jar to drop the worms into. When the jars were full we’d empty them out so Dad could count them. Then we scooped them back in and filled the jars with water. I know it sounds cruel, but this was all a part of life on the farm. You needed to destroy the insects and worms that could ruin a crop and cause financial disaster for farmers.

Sometimes we’d have a hundred worms or more in our jars. I know a penny doesn’t sound like much now, but back then you could buy a lot of ice cream cones at five cents for a single dip and ten cents for a double dip cone. A dollar was a lot of money to us.

Now, back to the mystery. I think we can all agree that fields filled with tobacco plants have gone the way of Passenger Pigeons, at least in most parts of Wisconsin. Other crops now grow in those fields that were home to thousands of tobacco worms. We tried to kill them all, but it never worked. Every year they were back in force. Now that their main food source has disappeared, have tobacco worms disappeared too? I haven’t seen one in many years. Maybe they all packed their bags and headed south where tobacco is still grown. It’s just like people moving on or starving when all the jobs dry up in an area. Or, maybe tobacco worms have acquired a taste for other plants for dinner. But if that’s the case, we can no longer refer to them as tobacco worms.

Yup, it’s quite a mystery to ponder on a late summer afternoon.

Listen To the Voices In the Wind

Across the Fence #249

There’s a therapeutic quality to the wind, a soothing sound that can calm a weary mind. I’m sitting on our deck as evening begins to descend and envelop me. It’s been a hot, humid day that zaps your energy and slows you down.

But now as darkness slowly creeps across the landscape, the wind, a cooling wind, has arrived. It feels good. It feels refreshing. It lifts my spirits.

I’m not one who spends a lot of time sitting and watching television. I’d rather be living life, and watching and listening to the life taking place around me in the natural world. I took a walk along the fence line and listened to the wind in the tall grass swaying in the breeze. As I came to a grove of trees the sounds changed. I closed my eyes and listened to all the sounds around me, trying to distinguish the many subtle differences. The wind rustling the leaves in the poplar tree has a different sound than a maple or an evergreen.

As I stood and listened, I was reminded of a scene in the movie, “Dances With Wolves,” where the wind is blowing through the trees and tall grass as they talk about how many white men will be coming. I thought of how much this land I was standing on had changed since 1848 when the first white man set foot on this area called Coon Prairie. At that time, this land was covered with trees and tall prairie grass waving in the breeze. The Ho Chunk occupied the land. One of their villages was located a mile from where our house is. That area became known as Old Towne.

Even Olson Gullord, the first white man to explore this area, staked a claim to land southeast of our house, near where Smith School would later be located. I can see that spot from where I sit as I write this. So many changes have taken place since those days.

I wonder what the natives who occupied this land thought, as more and more white men arrived and started cutting down trees and building houses on the land they called home and had been home to their ancestors for many centuries?

How would I feel and what would I do today, if people suddenly arrived and began occupying our land, cutting down trees, building houses, and acting like they could do whatever they wanted with the area that’s now my home. This area has been home to my ancestors since the 1850’s. I know I’d try to stop intruders from moving in and pushing me off the land, even if I had to resort to taking up arms against them.

Those thoughts and images blew in with the wind today and rattled around in my mind.

Listening to the wind also made me think of Chief Joseph’s words, “The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of the pond, the smell of the wind itself cleansed by a midday rain, or scented with pinion pines…” I can certainly relate to those words.

As I observed the world around me, four hawks flew lazy circles in the field behind our house. Wings outstretched, they floated and circled effortlessly, like spirits returning from the distant past to a land long gone, but not forgotten. When I see birds gliding around like that, hovering on invisible shafts of air, I wish that I could fly. Such freedom. Such beauty.

I experienced more of the beauty of the land when we were in Woodville over the weekend for Uff da Days and a book signing at Lena and Ole’s Gifts, owned by Julie and Lane Backus. Julie is my cousin. On Sunday morning, Lane and I explored their seventy acres of rolling hills, wild flowers, woods, and pond on a two-mile path he’s made around the property. Wild flowers of all kinds were in full bloom and the trees were filled with colorful berries and fruit. There were some that neither of us could identify. We came to a wild patch of black caps and stopped to pick and eat some. The thorny vines tried to keep us out, but when those delicious berries were ripe for the picking, nothing could stop us.

The fields were filled with birds, and turtles cooled themselves in the pond. I’ve never seen as many Humming Birds as we saw that day at their feeders. We watched as wasps busily built a home in the ground. The sunlight allowed us to peer into the bottom of the foot-deep hole and watch as each wasp dug a mouthful of dirt, crawled back out of the hole, flew away, and deposited it elsewhere. We listened to the many sounds of nature around us, and of course, enjoyed the wind blowing gently through the wild flowers and leaves of the trees. There was such quiet and peacefulness. This was nature’s cathedral, as magnificent as any man-made cathedral you could enter. Stained glass windows can’t hold a candle to it.

This is a wonderful time of year in the Midwest. The trees and fields are alive with fruits, berries, and wildflowers. Don’t miss the sights, sounds, and smells. Go for a drive or walk in the country and be sure you listen for the voices of the wind.

Boscobel Remembers Ben Logan

Across the Fence #248

Saturday, August 8th, 2009, was a special day. It was a day to recognize and honor Ben Logan, one of Wisconsin’s most popular authors.

The event, held at the historic Boscobel Hotel in Boscobel, Wisconsin, was conceived and organized by James Schneider of Gotham, Wisconsin. He stopped by my office one day last winter and asked if I would take part in the tribute and be one of the Wisconsin writers who would read from his book, The Land Remembers. I’ve mentioned in previous columns that it’s one of my favorite books. I have a copy of all the editions that have been printed; the first edition hard cover, the small paperback, the soft covers, the 25th anniversary edition, and even the collector’s edition with photos book. Needless to say, I was honored to be a part of Ben’s day.

At 89 years of age, Ben now lives in Viroqua instead of in the isolated farmhouse where he grew up on Seldom Seen Ridge between Gays Mills and Mount Sterling, Wisconsin. That’s been a tough transition for an independent individual like Mr. Logan.

On Saturday morning, I picked Ben up and we drove to Boscobel. The storm that had gone through the area earlier in the morning was retreating ahead of us. The colors of the hills around us were brilliant. We remarked about the many shades of green with the dark storm clouds as a background. It was a perfect setting for writers. Ben related how when he was young, his mother would have him look up at the sky above him and then slowly bring his eyes down to the horizon. She wanted him to observe how the colors changed as he looked at the different areas of the sky.

We talked about his mother, who died when he was young. Since he was the youngest child he worked more with her than his older brothers. She had a four-year college degree in teaching, which was unusual in those days. Even though she didn’t teach in a school after she was married and had children, she did a lot of teaching to her children. Mr. Logan is still filled with curiosity about the world around him, something he learned from his mother. It has served him well as a writer.

Ben said that he recently found an old essay he had written about Aldo Leopold. When Ben was a student in Ag Journalism at the University of Wisconsin, Leopold was one of his teachers and mentors. Ben said that he and Leopold often butted heads. He didn’t think that emotion should enter into writing and Ben liked to bring emotions into his work. Another of his teachers, English professor Rachel Salisbury, dared Ben to be even more emotional in his stories. Ben said he was very surprised when Sand County Almanac was published and Leopold had put emotion into his writing. Years later, when Ben was talking with one of Leopold’s daughters, she said she was also surprised to see the emotion in her father’s writing. Ben told her, “Maybe I taught him something too!”

Over the years, since we became friends, Ben and I have had many conversations about writing and life. The more we talk, the more parallels we find in our lives. As we drove along we both remarked about wanting to know the story behind every road name. There are so many interesting ones. He said, “I’m always searching and looking for answers. Curiosity is essential to be a good writer.” Then he quoted Robert Frost’s poem, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, “I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.” I was surprised to hear that line and told him that’s always been one of my favorite lines too.

The trip to Boscobel and back while visiting with Ben, was very enjoyable. The event at Boscobel was also great. I was the first reader, and read a couple of excerpts. The first one was about hearing the corn grow. I even admitted having tried to hear it growing after reading that chapter the first time. However I couldn’t hear anything. I suggested that perhaps a person needed to be much younger to hear it growing. But, who knows, maybe I’ll try it again this evening! The other story was about the changes in fall, bringing in the stove, and putting up the stovepipes. Anyone who’s experienced setting up an old stove and the pipes, knows what an exasperating time that can be.

Ben read the intro and last chapter of his book. It’s always special to hear him read the intro to The Land Remembers. There were many tears in the audience as he read the last chapter about planting the garden the spring after his mother died. In the discussion that followed, he talked about how important his mother had been to the family.

Boscobel Remembers Ben Logan was a fitting tribute for a man who has brought so much enjoyment to so many people. It was a wonderful day for him as he visited with his fans and signed their books. There’s something very special about The Land Remembers and the gentle man who wrote it. His story about farm and family life has touched the hearts of many people. It was very evident on Ben Logan’s special day.

The Second Mouse Gets the Cheese

Across the Fence #247

Dear Mickey,

You don’t know me, but you’re the only mouse I know, so I decided to write and warn you. I’ve known about you for most of my sixty-five years. As a matter of fact we must be about the same age. Since we’ve both managed to survive all these years, perhaps this warning is not for us. However, in this fast-paced world it’s a good idea to remember how we got this far.

As you and Minnie are well aware, there are many dangers awaiting an unsuspecting mouse. One that comes to mind is the cat. However, a mouse can always be alert to one’s surroundings and head for cover at the first sign of a cat.

The mousetrap is another story. It’s a wicked, deadly trap, and any mouse who ventures near is almost certain to meet one’s maker… in your case, Walt Disney. Walt must have taught you some good lessons for you to be a survivor after all these years.

Now, back to that mousetrap. I was sitting around one day and thinking, which you may find hard to believe. Actually, I was trying to come up with story ideas. I was rummaging through our garage when I came across an old mousetrap I’d used when we had mice in our house in Madison.

No offense Mickey, but our house is not a good place for you to live. I know you need a home too, but I’d prefer you stay in the garage. I’m not saying I took the lives of any of your kin, but I certainly put a good scare into them.

As I said, I got to thinking about the trap and an old saying came to mind, “The second mouse gets the cheese.” How true, I thought. The first curious mouse ventures up to the trap, smells the cheese, and is overcome with the desire to taste that cheese. He disregards the ominous looking contraption that holds it and decides to grab the cheese and run. SNAP! Mouse Heaven has another occupant.

SNAP! In an instant, life can change or end, because of some foolhardy event. Meanwhile, the second mouse, that was more cautious and decided not to rush in and grab the cheese, now approaches the sprung trap. The cheese was knocked free of the trap when it was sprung. The second mouse picks it up and scurries home to enjoy a meal. The second mouse got the cheese.

Now Mickey, I’m glad to see you’re still around. It shows that you’ve exercised some caution and managed to survive in spite of obstacles and dangers along the way.

I was reminded of this scenario one day as I was driving down Midvale Boulevard in Madison. As usual, the traffic was heavy and many people were impatient with the speed we were traveling. A young girl in a red sports car was tailgating me. I could see in the rear-view mirror that she was irritated with my speed. As soon as a small hole opened, she shot around me and headed down the street, zipping back and forth in traffic. I knew from experience, that by the time we got to the stoplights at Hilldale, she’d have gained only a few car lengths on me. How many times have people been in a hurry to pass, taken chances, and endangered their own lives, and the lives of others, only to gain a few feet by the time they reach their destination. In this case, the young woman roared over a small hill, and there sat a sting operation waiting with their radar guns. SNAP! The trap was sprung. A police car whipped out from a side street with its red lights flashing. She was pulling over to the side of the road as I drove by. I’d be at my destination long before she reached hers. Plus, she’d be minus a good chunk of change for speeding in a school zone. She was lucky. She could have hit a child crossing the street and found herself in very serious trouble. She sprung the trap and I continued safely on my appointed rounds. The second mouse got the cheese.

Another time, we drove back from Milwaukee in a snowstorm. Most of the traffic was proceeding slowly because of the hazardous driving conditions. Then a car sped by us in the fast lane. They were in a hurry. SNAP! We watched as they spun out and slid into the ditch. They were lucky, the car didn’t roll or hit anything and the occupants were unhurt. Everyone else continued on, while they got out of their car and pondered their predicament. The second mouse gets the cheese. I’m sure we were home by the time a wrecker pulled them out of the ditch.

Those are just two examples of the risks people take and the lack of judgment they exhibit in this fast-paced society we live in. Grab the cheese and run. SNAP! Eventually a trap may spring that could change your whole world.

So Mickey, this is just a reminder. If you’re tempted to take unnecessary risks, or get in a hurry, stop for a second and examine the possible consequences of your actions. Be careful Mickey. I don’t want that SNAP to come smashing down on you. Always remember, the second mouse gets the cheese.

Best wishes,

Howard

It Could Be Worse

Across the Fence #246

Uff da, if it doesn’t rain pretty soon, my lawn will dry up, but it could be worse. I could be sitting here with a couple hundred acres of corn.

“You’re from the Midwest, aren’t you?” she said.

“How did you know?” I said.

“Your accent for one thing, and, you just said, ‘It could be worse.’ No matter how tough things are, you Midwesterners take whatever comes, smile, shrug your shoulders, and say, ‘It could be worse!”

“Ya, you betcha, I guess we do tend to say that when the going gets tough, like not getting any rain. No matter how bad things look, it could always be worse.”

Last year I spent many hours trying to get our lawn started. It went from a sea of mud to green grass that needed mowing toward the end of the summer. It was nice to have grass, even if it had lots of weeds too.

I never gave grass much thought when I was young. For those of you who came of age during the 60’s and 70’s, I’m not talking about that grass or weed. I’m talking about good old-fashioned lawn grass. The kind you’ve got to cut each week.

When I was growing up on this farm, we cut our whole lawn with a push mower, the kind without a motor. It took a little longer and needed some muscle power, but we managed to do it with no expenditures of money for gas to run it.

Eventually Dad bought a power mower and our life was a little easier after that. We still had to push it, but the powered blades cut the grass.

When we lived in Madison, I had a power mower for our little lawn. I bought it used and it lasted for many years. When it finally gave up the ghost, I bought a non-powered push mower and went back to cutting grass the old-fashioned way. I was happy using my cheap, old mower, but my neighbors thought I’d lost a few screws.

Now we have a very large lawn. If I was going to mow it with that push mower, I’d spend the better part of a day. Granted, it would be good exercise, but I have lots of other things I’d rather be doing. Even a powered push mower would take several hours. So now I have a riding lawn mower, a John Deere of course. Is there any other kind of tractor, large or small? Sorry John, I know you’re partial to Fords, but since I’m the one mowing the lawn, a John Deere it is!

As I was bouncing along, cutting the grass last Saturday, I got to thinking about grass and mowing it. I came to the conclusion that this is a really dumb activity. Think about it. First we slave away trying to get a lawn started and the grass to grow. We water it, spend good money fertilizing it so it will grow better and faster, and then when we finally get a lawn full of grass… we mow it down! Now if we were going to bale it up and feed it to cattle, it would make some sense. But no! We just mow it down and let it lie there and rot. Some people bag up the cut grass and dump it in a compost pile, but you can only compost so much dead grass before you run out of room.

It wouldn’t be so bad if we only had to do this once a year, or even once a month, but no, we do it every week during the grass-growing season. But it could be worse. Grass growing season in the Midwest is only three months and seems to be getting shorter every year. The other nine months are snow shovel weather, not lawn mower weather. It could be worse.

Think about our obsession with grass for a moment. Not only do we spend great amounts of money to make it grow faster, thicker, and greener, but we also buy chemicals to kill all the weeds that interfere with its growth. Now everyone knows from experience, that if we just let the weeds grow, we wouldn’t have to spend a dollar on our lawns. They would continue to grow and prosper even if the rain refused to fall. Plus, most weeds are much prettier and more colorful than grass. Think of the dandelion. Have you ever seen a blade of grass look as colorful? And another thing, you can make wine out of dandelions. All you can do with grass is cut it.

And that’s another thing that bugs me. We spend all that money to get the grass to grow, and then we have to buy a mower to cut that grass. Have you priced a new riding lawn mower lately? We spend all that money to cut grass that we don’t even use for anything. That’s about as useful as teats on a boar hog! We are an interesting species, aren’t we?

I’ve decided that wild flowers are the answer to our grass obsession. I’m transplanting them in our backyard. Eventually they’ll take over the whole yard. Then I’ll sell my mower, sit on our deck with my coffee, and enjoy the view of all the colorful wildflowers and butterflies they attract. Yah, it could be worse, but that sounds pretty darn good to me.

I’ll be at Lena and Ole’s in Woodville for Uff da Days on Saturday, August 15th. Weather permitting, I’ll be at a table on the sidewalk in front of the store. I’ll have my books available, including the third one, Across the Fence: Back To the Country. Stop by and say hello.