Across the Fence #319
New Years is the time of year when the old meets the new. The curtain falls on another year, and rises on a new one. Sometimes we wish the ball that falls in Times Square at midnight to usher in a new year, was a crystal ball that allowed us to look into the future and see what awaits us. But as we begin each new year, the unknown is always just around the corner where we can’t see it.
Perhaps the beauty of New Year’s Eve, is that it gives us a chance to start over. It’s when we make resolutions that we’re going to change our ways. We’re going to lose weight, start exercising, quit smoking, and the list goes on and on. Most of those resolutions quickly end up on the pile of good intentions gone bad.
I know I’ve made resolutions that are forgotten long before all the New Year’s Day parades and football bowl games are history. I’ll have to try and do better this year.
A lot of my friends have had health problems the past year or two. We’re getting older and it becomes even more important to try and stay in shape. I want to lose at least 25 pounds. That would certainly help take some weight off the arthritic hip I’m now dealing with. As someone once said, old age isn’t for sissies.
I’m not a party animal so I’ll leave the New Year’s celebrating to others. If you do go out and celebrate, make sure you have a designated driver or don’t drive. I want you back here next week so we can visit across the fence again. I plan to kick back in my recliner, do some writing, and try to stay awake long enough to watch the ball drop in Times Square. Since we’re on Central Standard time, I know it’s still an hour until “our” midnight, but I usually manage to make it and see if the new year feels any different.
When we were young, my folks never did much celebrating either. Many times, neighbors or relatives were invited to our place or we went to theirs. The adults played Whist or Dirty Clubs (card games), and us kids played Monopoly and tried to stay awake. It seemed like a much bigger deal back then if we could say we saw the New Year in. My cousin, Wayne, was usually with us, and we each tried to gain control of Park Place and Boardwalk so we could put hotels on them. It seems like I ended up going to jail a lot and going past GO and not collecting $200.
I haven’t played Monopoly for a long time now, but maybe I can find our old board back. It must be packed away in boxes we still haven’t opened in the basement, unless we gave it to one of the kids. By the way, we never did finish those Monopoly games we played on New Year’s Eve. When the New Year came, everyone headed for home because there were cows to be milked and chores to be done in a few hours. We put all the pieces and Monopoly money back in the box; where it often stayed until the next New Year’s Eve.
When I think back on those unfinished games, I realize that’s what New Year’s Eve really boils down to. We’ve lived another year and tried to play the game of life to the best of our ability. When the curtain falls on 2010, there will still be a lot of unfinished business, and a lot of things we meant to do but didn’t get done. In this case, we don’t get to box up the pieces and put the game away. As the curtain rises on 2011, we will continue playing. Just like the game of Monopoly, we don’t know how it will turn out. We can try to do everything right, pick the right cards, buy the right properties, and not take too many stupid chances, but sometimes we still get hit with unexpected problems. It has a lot to do with the roll of the dice.
No matter what happens, it boils down to staying in the game and continuing to play, even when the road ahead looks daunting. In life and in Monopoly, I’ve come to the end of some years, and wondered how I was ever going to make it. The mountains for many people seem very big at times. When that mountain looks too big to climb or overcome, instead of giving up, it’s time to look at it as a challenge and find a way to conquer it.
When I was cross-country ski racing, I never looked at how many miles I still had left to the finish or to the top of a steep climb. I concentrated on where I was, how to attack the next hill, and how many miles I had behind me. It’s easier to say, “10 miles down,” instead of “25 miles to go.”
May your New Year be filled with good health, happiness, and wonderful opportunities in life, just like in the game of Monopoly. May you never land on the Go To Jail square, may you find a Free Parking space, and when you pass GO, collect $200.
The curtain is rising on a new year and the journey continues. Have a great one!
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
The Kingdom of Driftless Beauty
Across the Fence #318 (Christmas Extra)
The following story runs in the Westby Times in their Christmas issue.
Fairy Princess Sonja sat on top of Three Rock Chimney, the highest point of Sunshine Prairie in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty, trying to determine what was wrong. It was almost Christmas, but there was no joy in the kingdom. There was no snow, the Christmas lights kept going out, and no one had heard a word from Santa Claus since last Christmas. Sonja knew there was evil in the world and bad things sometimes happened, but righting those wrongs was her job, and she loved it. She felt very fortunate to be the Fairy Princess in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty.
Sonja pondered the words of Ole, the green-striped frog, who said that someone in the kingdom must be depressed or angry and causing all the problems. It was true that the Wicked Witch of the Southeast had cast a spell over the royal prince and princess and turned them into a Troll and one of the Billy Goats Gruff, but that happened years ago, long before the cow jumped over the moon, made the little boy laugh, and the dish run away with the spoon. Why should they still feel depressed or angry after all these years?
“By the way, I wonder what ever happened to that cow?” Sonja questioned out loud.
“What cow?” asked Ole, “Are you talking about the cow that Jack sold for the beans, that turned into the beanstalk, and where the terrible giant lived?”
“No, not that cow, the one that jumped over the moon.”
“Oh, that one,” said Ole, “I haven’t the froggiest idea, but I’ve wondered what happened to the dish that ran off with the spoon. Talk about your odd couple!”
“Enough of this talk,” said Sonja. “We’re getting off the subject. The problem is to find out who’s depressed and angry at this time of year. It’s causing some real problems. All the Christmas lights keep going out. We can’t have that happening now. This is supposed to be a happy, joyous time of year.”
So... aren’t you gonna’ find out who’s got a problem and get this whole light-dimming thing fixed?”
Just then a white dove appeared, landed on Sonja’s shoulder, and whispered in her ear.
“I have work to do,” said Sonja, as she climbed aboard Sun Dancer, her flying Unicorn, and with the white dove riding on her shoulder they were off.
They soon touched down in Mary’s garden, where Mary was sitting and looking quite forlorn.
“Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” said Sonja, “How does your garden grow?”
Mary looked up with tears in her eyes. “Not worth a darn, since the rain quit falling. My poor garden is drying up and everything is dying.”
“I’m sorry about that Mary, but I’m trying to fix the situation. I understand you may have an idea who’s causing the problems.”
“I was over at Prairie View Mall this morning, shopping for some low-moisture, flowering cactus plants for my garden, when I overheard the Butcher, the Baker, and the Candlestick Maker talking. It seems that Jack-Be-Nimble had tried to jump over a candlestick and didn’t clear the flame. They said he singed his you-know-what and vowed he’d get even with the Candlestick Maker. They said he was really angry and depressed. I think Jack’s your man.”
“Sounds like he may be the cause of all the trouble. I think I better visit Jack-Be-Nimble and see if we can get to the bottom of this.”
With that she was off in a cloud of dust. Normally she would have left in a cloud of daisies and rose petals, but due to the lack of rain and snow, the land was turning into a dust bowl of dying plants and flowers.
When Sonja arrived at Jack-Be-Nimble’s house, she found him lying on his couch still nursing his burns. He was depressed and angry, but not enough to cause the problems plaguing the Kingdom.
Sonja left Jack’s house and started down the street when she encountered a little girl sitting and crying by the side of Cherry Blossom Lane.
“Why the big tears, little girl,” asked Sonja.
“There’s not going to be a Christmas,” cried the little girl. After the rain quit falling this summer, everything started drying up. Now the Christmas trees are dying, the Christmas lights keep going out, it’s not going to snow this year, and Santa won’t be able to come. It must be the Grinch trying to steal Christmas again. Either that, or Scrooge has moved back into the Kingdom. There’s not going to be a Christmas, I just know it!”
“Now, now, little girl, there’s going to be a Christmas. I’m the Fairy Princess Sonja from Sunshine Prairie and I would never lie to you. Just because the leaders of the Kingdom have been known to lie, doesn’t mean that Sonja would lie to you. Now, put on a happy face and I’ll take a trip to the North Pole and see if I can get to the bottom of this problem. I’ll explain the situation to Santa and tell him all the little boys and girls are counting on him, and snow or no snow, he has to make the trip on Christmas Eve. Just keep that Christmas spirit in your heart and it will come.”
The little girl was smiling again as Sonja, the white dove, and Sun Dancer broke out their heavy coats and struck a course due North.
As they approached the North Pole they encountered increasing turbulence the closer they got. Sonja was almost thrown from the back of Sun Dancer as they made their final approach to the Reindeer landing strip. For being only a few days before Christmas, things seemed extremely quiet. There was not an elf in sight, no reindeer practicing takeoffs and landings, no stockpiles of presents, no nothing. As Sun Dancer glided to a stop on the runway, Sonja dismounted and looked around. Not a soul in sight. Something was very wrong here. She grabbed a bouquet of thorn-studded rose stems for protection and headed for the toyshop. Sun Dancer walked cautiously behind her and even the white dove seemed nervous.
She knocked on the door but there was no answer. It was unlocked, so she carefully opened the door and peered inside. The normally noisy and busy workshop was silent. Sonja moved cautiously through the huge workshop, past piles of unfinished toys, and headed for Santa’s desk. The huge rolltop desk, usually piled high with letters this time of year, now stood empty. Across the front was tacked a sign, “Gone Fishing,” signed: Ex-Santa Claus.
“What in the world is going on, Sonja said to the white dove, “It’s almost Christmas and Santa has gone fishing. We are in trouble.”
The white dove whispered in Sonja’s ear.
“Oh, why didn’t I think of that? Of course... we’ll find Mrs. Claus and ask her what’s going on.”
They left the Toy Shop and headed down the snow-covered walk, lined with candy canes, to the little cottage where Santa and Mrs. Claus lived. A ribbon of smoke curled lazily from the chimney.
Sonja grabbed the door-knocker shaped like a Christmas tree, and pounded it against the door several times. The door opened slightly and Mrs. Claus peeked out.
“Oh, thank goodness it’s you Sonja. I was afraid it was those people again.” She had a sad look in her eyes and paused to wipe a tear that was rolling down her rosy cheek. Haven’t you heard Sonja? Christmas has been canceled.”
“I don’t believe it,” said a shocked Fairy Princess Sonja. “Who canceled it and why?”
“Come in, come in,” said Mrs. Claus. She ushered Sonja to a cushioned rocking chair. “Can I get you a cup of hot cider? You’ve had a long trip.”
“I’d like that, but tell me what happened first.”
Mrs. Claus sat down and peered over the top of her granny glasses. “It all started about six months ago. These strangers came from a place called Mad Towne, beyond the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. Said they were with the Down With Santa Claus Foundation and were canceling Christmas. They said it’s all a myth, and was time for Santa to stop this charade of making little boys and girls believe in something that didn’t exist. They said children needed to face reality and they were spreading the word that there was no Santa. They even outlawed Christmas programs in the schools. Claimed it was corrupting the minds of little children and making them live in a fantasy world. They brought their lawyer along to serve papers on poor Santa to cease and desist from further corruption of children’s beliefs or they’d throw him in jail. It’s over. Christmas has been canceled... forever.”
“Oh no,” Sonja said. “I can’t believe this is happening. All the little boys and girls are expecting Santa to arrive as usual in a few days. They’ll be heartbroken.”
“I’m sorry, but there was nothing we could do. They had a court order saying Christmas was canceled. Santa took it real hard. He had to lay off all the elves and send them home. I don’t know what they’ll do now. There’s not much of a job market for toy-making elves without Christmas. He also let the reindeer loose and they headed back to the wild. We’ve been worried sick about them because this has been the hunting season and they aren’t used to being out in the woods.
Santa was so depressed and angry about the whole affair, he put up a sign “Gone Fishing,” so people wouldn’t disturb him. Trouble is, he was too depressed and angry to go fishing. He’s been staying in the haymow of the reindeer barn. Just sits up there and worries about all the children who will be disappointed this year. He knows they’ll blame him. You’ve got to do something Sonja. I’m really worried about his welfare.”
“Now we know the source of all the problems back in the Kingdom,” said Sonja. It was Santa who was depressed and angry. The last person I would have thought of. But don’t worry Mrs. Claus, there will be a Christmas. But first I need to talk to Mr. Claus. We don’t have any time to waste.”
Sonja hurried off toward the reindeer barn with the white dove and Sun Dancer close behind. She didn’t bother to knock, but flung open the door and marched in.
“Santa, come down here. We need to talk.”
“Go away,” came a weak voice from the haymow. “I don’t want to see anyone.”
“Santa, you have to come down. There’s much work to do before Christmas and we have very little time left.”
“Sonja, haven’t you heard? Christmas is cancelled. It is no more. I have the “Stop Christmas” restraining order right here in my hand, personally delivered by a lawyer of the party that’s putting an end to Christmas.” Santa waved the paper in the air so Sonja could see it from where she stood.
Are you going to let a little piece of paper get in the way of you and all those little boys and girls? Do you know how many children are counting on your arrival and how disappointed they’re going to be if you don’t show up? Listen to me Santa. If you don’t show up, then you really are a myth, just like those people claim you are. But we know different, don’t we Santa? You’re very real in the hearts and minds of all those children. What will they think if you don’t show?”
Santa’s head peered over the edge of the haymow as he looked down at Sonja.
“How would you feel if they told everyone there was no such thing as a fairy princess? They say I’m just a myth. I don’t know what to do. Look at me Sonja, I’m as real as you are!”
“We know that Santa, and now it’s time to prove it to all the children who are counting on you being real. Come on down. There’s a lot of work to do before Christmas.”
“But what about the restraining order? It says I can’t deliver presents any more or pretend to be something I’m not.”
“Are you going to let a small minority of the kingdom ruin Christmas for everyone who does believe in you? The only person who can stop Christmas is you. As long as you have the Christmas spirit in your heart, it will never die.”
“You’re right Sonja. I can’t let all the children down. They’re depending on me, but how can we do it? I laid off all the elves and turned the reindeer loose.”
We’ll get everyone back. Leave it to the white dove, Sun Dancer, and me. Now get down here and back to your workshop. There’s work to be done.”
Before Santa could climb down the ladder, Sonja was out the door and on her way to Toymaker Coulee to inform the elves that Christmas wasn’t canceled after all and they all had their jobs back. The white dove flew off to the Enchanted Forest in search of the reindeer.
Before the sun had set behind the snow-covered hills of Wild Kitty Mountain, elves were streaming into the North Pole from every direction. They arrived on skis, snowshoes, by dog sled, and even by horse-drawn sleighs. Everyone was laughing and singing. It was a joyous day. Christmas wasn’t canceled after all.
Soon Santa’s Workshop was buzzing with activity. It was just like the old days, only better. As often happens when someone is in danger of losing something, it becomes even more appreciated.
As the sun of a new day arrived, there was a flurry of noise and activity outside the workshop. Santa ran to a window to look. With great joy in his voice and the twinkle back in his eyes, he exclaimed, “It’s the reindeer. They’re back. All of them, including Rudolph.”
Things were looking better all the time. They were way behind schedule, but they might just be able to pull it off. Santa was smiling again and his depression and anger were gone.
Back in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty, it began to snow, all the lights on Christmas trees began to glow again, and this time they didn’t go out. Children everywhere ran to the windows and pressed their faces to the glass and looked out at the new falling snow. Smiles were seen across the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty and the happy, joyous spirit returned to the people. Christmas wasn’t canceled. No restraining order was strong enough to stop it from coming. Just as Fairy Princess Sonja had told the little girl, “As long as you have the Christmas spirit in your heart, it will come!”
The following story runs in the Westby Times in their Christmas issue.
Fairy Princess Sonja sat on top of Three Rock Chimney, the highest point of Sunshine Prairie in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty, trying to determine what was wrong. It was almost Christmas, but there was no joy in the kingdom. There was no snow, the Christmas lights kept going out, and no one had heard a word from Santa Claus since last Christmas. Sonja knew there was evil in the world and bad things sometimes happened, but righting those wrongs was her job, and she loved it. She felt very fortunate to be the Fairy Princess in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty.
Sonja pondered the words of Ole, the green-striped frog, who said that someone in the kingdom must be depressed or angry and causing all the problems. It was true that the Wicked Witch of the Southeast had cast a spell over the royal prince and princess and turned them into a Troll and one of the Billy Goats Gruff, but that happened years ago, long before the cow jumped over the moon, made the little boy laugh, and the dish run away with the spoon. Why should they still feel depressed or angry after all these years?
“By the way, I wonder what ever happened to that cow?” Sonja questioned out loud.
“What cow?” asked Ole, “Are you talking about the cow that Jack sold for the beans, that turned into the beanstalk, and where the terrible giant lived?”
“No, not that cow, the one that jumped over the moon.”
“Oh, that one,” said Ole, “I haven’t the froggiest idea, but I’ve wondered what happened to the dish that ran off with the spoon. Talk about your odd couple!”
“Enough of this talk,” said Sonja. “We’re getting off the subject. The problem is to find out who’s depressed and angry at this time of year. It’s causing some real problems. All the Christmas lights keep going out. We can’t have that happening now. This is supposed to be a happy, joyous time of year.”
So... aren’t you gonna’ find out who’s got a problem and get this whole light-dimming thing fixed?”
Just then a white dove appeared, landed on Sonja’s shoulder, and whispered in her ear.
“I have work to do,” said Sonja, as she climbed aboard Sun Dancer, her flying Unicorn, and with the white dove riding on her shoulder they were off.
They soon touched down in Mary’s garden, where Mary was sitting and looking quite forlorn.
“Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” said Sonja, “How does your garden grow?”
Mary looked up with tears in her eyes. “Not worth a darn, since the rain quit falling. My poor garden is drying up and everything is dying.”
“I’m sorry about that Mary, but I’m trying to fix the situation. I understand you may have an idea who’s causing the problems.”
“I was over at Prairie View Mall this morning, shopping for some low-moisture, flowering cactus plants for my garden, when I overheard the Butcher, the Baker, and the Candlestick Maker talking. It seems that Jack-Be-Nimble had tried to jump over a candlestick and didn’t clear the flame. They said he singed his you-know-what and vowed he’d get even with the Candlestick Maker. They said he was really angry and depressed. I think Jack’s your man.”
“Sounds like he may be the cause of all the trouble. I think I better visit Jack-Be-Nimble and see if we can get to the bottom of this.”
With that she was off in a cloud of dust. Normally she would have left in a cloud of daisies and rose petals, but due to the lack of rain and snow, the land was turning into a dust bowl of dying plants and flowers.
When Sonja arrived at Jack-Be-Nimble’s house, she found him lying on his couch still nursing his burns. He was depressed and angry, but not enough to cause the problems plaguing the Kingdom.
Sonja left Jack’s house and started down the street when she encountered a little girl sitting and crying by the side of Cherry Blossom Lane.
“Why the big tears, little girl,” asked Sonja.
“There’s not going to be a Christmas,” cried the little girl. After the rain quit falling this summer, everything started drying up. Now the Christmas trees are dying, the Christmas lights keep going out, it’s not going to snow this year, and Santa won’t be able to come. It must be the Grinch trying to steal Christmas again. Either that, or Scrooge has moved back into the Kingdom. There’s not going to be a Christmas, I just know it!”
“Now, now, little girl, there’s going to be a Christmas. I’m the Fairy Princess Sonja from Sunshine Prairie and I would never lie to you. Just because the leaders of the Kingdom have been known to lie, doesn’t mean that Sonja would lie to you. Now, put on a happy face and I’ll take a trip to the North Pole and see if I can get to the bottom of this problem. I’ll explain the situation to Santa and tell him all the little boys and girls are counting on him, and snow or no snow, he has to make the trip on Christmas Eve. Just keep that Christmas spirit in your heart and it will come.”
The little girl was smiling again as Sonja, the white dove, and Sun Dancer broke out their heavy coats and struck a course due North.
As they approached the North Pole they encountered increasing turbulence the closer they got. Sonja was almost thrown from the back of Sun Dancer as they made their final approach to the Reindeer landing strip. For being only a few days before Christmas, things seemed extremely quiet. There was not an elf in sight, no reindeer practicing takeoffs and landings, no stockpiles of presents, no nothing. As Sun Dancer glided to a stop on the runway, Sonja dismounted and looked around. Not a soul in sight. Something was very wrong here. She grabbed a bouquet of thorn-studded rose stems for protection and headed for the toyshop. Sun Dancer walked cautiously behind her and even the white dove seemed nervous.
She knocked on the door but there was no answer. It was unlocked, so she carefully opened the door and peered inside. The normally noisy and busy workshop was silent. Sonja moved cautiously through the huge workshop, past piles of unfinished toys, and headed for Santa’s desk. The huge rolltop desk, usually piled high with letters this time of year, now stood empty. Across the front was tacked a sign, “Gone Fishing,” signed: Ex-Santa Claus.
“What in the world is going on, Sonja said to the white dove, “It’s almost Christmas and Santa has gone fishing. We are in trouble.”
The white dove whispered in Sonja’s ear.
“Oh, why didn’t I think of that? Of course... we’ll find Mrs. Claus and ask her what’s going on.”
They left the Toy Shop and headed down the snow-covered walk, lined with candy canes, to the little cottage where Santa and Mrs. Claus lived. A ribbon of smoke curled lazily from the chimney.
Sonja grabbed the door-knocker shaped like a Christmas tree, and pounded it against the door several times. The door opened slightly and Mrs. Claus peeked out.
“Oh, thank goodness it’s you Sonja. I was afraid it was those people again.” She had a sad look in her eyes and paused to wipe a tear that was rolling down her rosy cheek. Haven’t you heard Sonja? Christmas has been canceled.”
“I don’t believe it,” said a shocked Fairy Princess Sonja. “Who canceled it and why?”
“Come in, come in,” said Mrs. Claus. She ushered Sonja to a cushioned rocking chair. “Can I get you a cup of hot cider? You’ve had a long trip.”
“I’d like that, but tell me what happened first.”
Mrs. Claus sat down and peered over the top of her granny glasses. “It all started about six months ago. These strangers came from a place called Mad Towne, beyond the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. Said they were with the Down With Santa Claus Foundation and were canceling Christmas. They said it’s all a myth, and was time for Santa to stop this charade of making little boys and girls believe in something that didn’t exist. They said children needed to face reality and they were spreading the word that there was no Santa. They even outlawed Christmas programs in the schools. Claimed it was corrupting the minds of little children and making them live in a fantasy world. They brought their lawyer along to serve papers on poor Santa to cease and desist from further corruption of children’s beliefs or they’d throw him in jail. It’s over. Christmas has been canceled... forever.”
“Oh no,” Sonja said. “I can’t believe this is happening. All the little boys and girls are expecting Santa to arrive as usual in a few days. They’ll be heartbroken.”
“I’m sorry, but there was nothing we could do. They had a court order saying Christmas was canceled. Santa took it real hard. He had to lay off all the elves and send them home. I don’t know what they’ll do now. There’s not much of a job market for toy-making elves without Christmas. He also let the reindeer loose and they headed back to the wild. We’ve been worried sick about them because this has been the hunting season and they aren’t used to being out in the woods.
Santa was so depressed and angry about the whole affair, he put up a sign “Gone Fishing,” so people wouldn’t disturb him. Trouble is, he was too depressed and angry to go fishing. He’s been staying in the haymow of the reindeer barn. Just sits up there and worries about all the children who will be disappointed this year. He knows they’ll blame him. You’ve got to do something Sonja. I’m really worried about his welfare.”
“Now we know the source of all the problems back in the Kingdom,” said Sonja. It was Santa who was depressed and angry. The last person I would have thought of. But don’t worry Mrs. Claus, there will be a Christmas. But first I need to talk to Mr. Claus. We don’t have any time to waste.”
Sonja hurried off toward the reindeer barn with the white dove and Sun Dancer close behind. She didn’t bother to knock, but flung open the door and marched in.
“Santa, come down here. We need to talk.”
“Go away,” came a weak voice from the haymow. “I don’t want to see anyone.”
“Santa, you have to come down. There’s much work to do before Christmas and we have very little time left.”
“Sonja, haven’t you heard? Christmas is cancelled. It is no more. I have the “Stop Christmas” restraining order right here in my hand, personally delivered by a lawyer of the party that’s putting an end to Christmas.” Santa waved the paper in the air so Sonja could see it from where she stood.
Are you going to let a little piece of paper get in the way of you and all those little boys and girls? Do you know how many children are counting on your arrival and how disappointed they’re going to be if you don’t show up? Listen to me Santa. If you don’t show up, then you really are a myth, just like those people claim you are. But we know different, don’t we Santa? You’re very real in the hearts and minds of all those children. What will they think if you don’t show?”
Santa’s head peered over the edge of the haymow as he looked down at Sonja.
“How would you feel if they told everyone there was no such thing as a fairy princess? They say I’m just a myth. I don’t know what to do. Look at me Sonja, I’m as real as you are!”
“We know that Santa, and now it’s time to prove it to all the children who are counting on you being real. Come on down. There’s a lot of work to do before Christmas.”
“But what about the restraining order? It says I can’t deliver presents any more or pretend to be something I’m not.”
“Are you going to let a small minority of the kingdom ruin Christmas for everyone who does believe in you? The only person who can stop Christmas is you. As long as you have the Christmas spirit in your heart, it will never die.”
“You’re right Sonja. I can’t let all the children down. They’re depending on me, but how can we do it? I laid off all the elves and turned the reindeer loose.”
We’ll get everyone back. Leave it to the white dove, Sun Dancer, and me. Now get down here and back to your workshop. There’s work to be done.”
Before Santa could climb down the ladder, Sonja was out the door and on her way to Toymaker Coulee to inform the elves that Christmas wasn’t canceled after all and they all had their jobs back. The white dove flew off to the Enchanted Forest in search of the reindeer.
Before the sun had set behind the snow-covered hills of Wild Kitty Mountain, elves were streaming into the North Pole from every direction. They arrived on skis, snowshoes, by dog sled, and even by horse-drawn sleighs. Everyone was laughing and singing. It was a joyous day. Christmas wasn’t canceled after all.
Soon Santa’s Workshop was buzzing with activity. It was just like the old days, only better. As often happens when someone is in danger of losing something, it becomes even more appreciated.
As the sun of a new day arrived, there was a flurry of noise and activity outside the workshop. Santa ran to a window to look. With great joy in his voice and the twinkle back in his eyes, he exclaimed, “It’s the reindeer. They’re back. All of them, including Rudolph.”
Things were looking better all the time. They were way behind schedule, but they might just be able to pull it off. Santa was smiling again and his depression and anger were gone.
Back in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty, it began to snow, all the lights on Christmas trees began to glow again, and this time they didn’t go out. Children everywhere ran to the windows and pressed their faces to the glass and looked out at the new falling snow. Smiles were seen across the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty and the happy, joyous spirit returned to the people. Christmas wasn’t canceled. No restraining order was strong enough to stop it from coming. Just as Fairy Princess Sonja had told the little girl, “As long as you have the Christmas spirit in your heart, it will come!”
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Blizzards Are Good for the Soul
Across the Fence #318
The weather outside is frightful, but inside it’s so delightful, and since we’ve no place to go, let is snow, let it blow, let it snow.
The snow is falling in Sherpeland today. Well, it’s not exactly falling; it’s blowing sideways. The wind is really howling across the prairie. How windy is it? It’s so windy a bird flew by the window… sideways. The freezing rain that arrived before the snowstorm, created a layer of icy crust on the existing snow. The wind is so powerful, the ground-feeding birds under our bird feeder go sliding across the snow, propelled by wind gusts.
The birds have been in a feeding frenzy today. They seem to know there’s a blizzard coming. I counted twenty mourning doves at one time under the feeder near our window. When I was filling the feeder in the wooded area near the house, a chickadee landed on my hand and ate seeds I was holding. A nuthatch kept working down a branch and came within six inches of my outstretched hand, but couldn’t get up the nerve to hop onto my fingers. Perhaps another day, we’ll connect.
It’s now evening. This will be a cold, wet, windy night for our birds. They’ll need all the food they can get to keep their metabolism up and keep warm. Winter is harsh in Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa for birds and animals. Many will die. We like to give the birds around us a better chance at survival by providing them a source of food. I guess you could say they’re our pets, even though they don’t give any affection and appreciation back, like you receive from dogs and cats.
At the moment our “pets” are in the middle of a raging blizzard. The weather forecast says we could have blizzard conditions tonight and tomorrow. I have news for them, step outside, the blizzard is here! The wind is roaring and no lights can be seen around the countryside. We’re isolated, alone in the midst of a blizzard in the country. Travel isn’t advised on any roads tonight or tomorrow. Even if we wanted to travel we couldn’t get out of our driveway. My only mode of travel at the moment would be on my snowshoes and that would be foolhardy with these high wind chills and whiteout conditions. We’re hunkering down and staying put for the duration.
This reminds me of old-fashioned blizzards we had when I was young. At least now I don’t need to go out to the barn and do chores and milk cows. That was always a challenge on days like this. Our old barn was quite drafty, and cold winds with sub-zero temperatures, sometimes froze the water in the drinking cups. It was even worse when a water pipe would burst. Those had to be tough times for all farmers and those problems never change. Blizzards and sub-zero temperatures still arrive each winter, and pipes still freeze.
When I was young, we never wanted a snowstorm, especially a blizzard, to arrive on Christmas Eve. Even Santa would have a hard time finding his way in a blizzard. Rudolph was good at leading the way through fog, but we weren’t too sure he could find his way in a blizzard. Plus, those strong winds could blow Santa’s sleigh and reindeer off course and he wouldn’t be able to find our house. As far as I know, Santa didn’t have a GPS when I was young. But he must have had a very good sense of direction and detailed maps, because he always found our house.
We never did get to visit with Santa like kids do now. Today there’s a Santa in every shopping mall where kids can tell him what they want. When I was young, Santa only made one visit to Westby prior to Christmas. If I remember right, he arrived on a flatbed truck and they parked it between two buildings on Main Street. Santa stood on the back of the truck and handed out bags of hard candy to all the kids. We never got to talk to him or tell him what we wanted for Christmas. I don’t recall ever writing Santa a letter either. Somehow he knew what we wanted and where we lived. But, I’m still a bit miffed with Santa for never bringing me that Lionel electric train I always wanted. I guess I should have written him a letter.
Those days when I waited for Santa to arrive are now history, just like the blizzard is history. Our road that connects us with the outside world is open again, but I liked being snowed in. The blizzard isolated us for a couple days, and allowed me to kick back and reflect. It was good for the soul. Maybe we all need a good blizzard every once in a while to help us slow down and get back in touch with what’s important. Life gets down to the very basics when Mother Nature unleashes her fury… shelter, warmth, and food. Birds, animals, and people, all need help at times. Providing our fellow travelers on “Spaceship Earth” with food, shelter, and love during trying times; is the best gift we can give any time of year.
Merry Christmas from my side of the fence to yours!
The weather outside is frightful, but inside it’s so delightful, and since we’ve no place to go, let is snow, let it blow, let it snow.
The snow is falling in Sherpeland today. Well, it’s not exactly falling; it’s blowing sideways. The wind is really howling across the prairie. How windy is it? It’s so windy a bird flew by the window… sideways. The freezing rain that arrived before the snowstorm, created a layer of icy crust on the existing snow. The wind is so powerful, the ground-feeding birds under our bird feeder go sliding across the snow, propelled by wind gusts.
The birds have been in a feeding frenzy today. They seem to know there’s a blizzard coming. I counted twenty mourning doves at one time under the feeder near our window. When I was filling the feeder in the wooded area near the house, a chickadee landed on my hand and ate seeds I was holding. A nuthatch kept working down a branch and came within six inches of my outstretched hand, but couldn’t get up the nerve to hop onto my fingers. Perhaps another day, we’ll connect.
It’s now evening. This will be a cold, wet, windy night for our birds. They’ll need all the food they can get to keep their metabolism up and keep warm. Winter is harsh in Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa for birds and animals. Many will die. We like to give the birds around us a better chance at survival by providing them a source of food. I guess you could say they’re our pets, even though they don’t give any affection and appreciation back, like you receive from dogs and cats.
At the moment our “pets” are in the middle of a raging blizzard. The weather forecast says we could have blizzard conditions tonight and tomorrow. I have news for them, step outside, the blizzard is here! The wind is roaring and no lights can be seen around the countryside. We’re isolated, alone in the midst of a blizzard in the country. Travel isn’t advised on any roads tonight or tomorrow. Even if we wanted to travel we couldn’t get out of our driveway. My only mode of travel at the moment would be on my snowshoes and that would be foolhardy with these high wind chills and whiteout conditions. We’re hunkering down and staying put for the duration.
This reminds me of old-fashioned blizzards we had when I was young. At least now I don’t need to go out to the barn and do chores and milk cows. That was always a challenge on days like this. Our old barn was quite drafty, and cold winds with sub-zero temperatures, sometimes froze the water in the drinking cups. It was even worse when a water pipe would burst. Those had to be tough times for all farmers and those problems never change. Blizzards and sub-zero temperatures still arrive each winter, and pipes still freeze.
When I was young, we never wanted a snowstorm, especially a blizzard, to arrive on Christmas Eve. Even Santa would have a hard time finding his way in a blizzard. Rudolph was good at leading the way through fog, but we weren’t too sure he could find his way in a blizzard. Plus, those strong winds could blow Santa’s sleigh and reindeer off course and he wouldn’t be able to find our house. As far as I know, Santa didn’t have a GPS when I was young. But he must have had a very good sense of direction and detailed maps, because he always found our house.
We never did get to visit with Santa like kids do now. Today there’s a Santa in every shopping mall where kids can tell him what they want. When I was young, Santa only made one visit to Westby prior to Christmas. If I remember right, he arrived on a flatbed truck and they parked it between two buildings on Main Street. Santa stood on the back of the truck and handed out bags of hard candy to all the kids. We never got to talk to him or tell him what we wanted for Christmas. I don’t recall ever writing Santa a letter either. Somehow he knew what we wanted and where we lived. But, I’m still a bit miffed with Santa for never bringing me that Lionel electric train I always wanted. I guess I should have written him a letter.
Those days when I waited for Santa to arrive are now history, just like the blizzard is history. Our road that connects us with the outside world is open again, but I liked being snowed in. The blizzard isolated us for a couple days, and allowed me to kick back and reflect. It was good for the soul. Maybe we all need a good blizzard every once in a while to help us slow down and get back in touch with what’s important. Life gets down to the very basics when Mother Nature unleashes her fury… shelter, warmth, and food. Birds, animals, and people, all need help at times. Providing our fellow travelers on “Spaceship Earth” with food, shelter, and love during trying times; is the best gift we can give any time of year.
Merry Christmas from my side of the fence to yours!
Saturday, December 11, 2010
There's A Threat To Rural America
Across the Fence #317
This may be the most important “Across the Fence” column I ever write. I stay away from political issues in this column, but this issue could have a detrimental affect on the rural America that I write about and love. I can’t just sit on my hands and not let all of you, who live and work in rural and small town areas, know what your representatives in Washington will be voting on. There’s a serious threat to the future of a vital rural America. It comes in the form of the National Broadband Plan.
The National Broadband Plan is the FCC’s response to a congressional mandate to assure every American household has access to fast and affordable broadband service. Broadband in telecommunications, refers to data transmission, where multiple pieces of data are sent simultaneously. With wider broadband, more data can be sent faster. This affects your television and Internet service.
This plan should help rural America, but as it’s now written, it could hinder rather than advance broadband service for people in rural areas. This plan discriminates against rural customers by setting a speed standard that is 25 times slower than the speeds in city and urban areas. Support from the Universal Service Fund (USF) will only fund speeds up to 4 MB in rural areas, where it will fund speeds of 100 MB in urban areas. The FCC’s goal is to equip 100 million homes with 100 MB of service. Reaching that goal is much easier in urban areas than in rural areas. Without this support mechanism, many rural telecommunication companies will not be able to maintain service above 4 MB. Prices will be much higher for the same service in rural areas due to the lower customer densities and higher per subscriber cost of building and maintaining rural networks.
Broadband speed is vital to businesses competing nationally and internationally. Where 4 MB is adequate for most people today, tomorrow it will be as slow as a snail’s pace. It’s barely enough to download a Netflix movie or do some serious gaming on the Internet.
Let’s put what all this means to the information super-highway in another way. What if the federal government suddenly informed you that it planned to focus the majority of its transportation funds and resources on large metropolitan areas? Bigger and better roads would be built in those areas, while rural areas and small towns would have to get by with gravel and dirt roads. Urban people would be speeding along on their multi-lane, super-highways, while those of us in rural areas would be traveling slow, often bogged down, and barely moving, on the muddy, dirt roads.
Without access to the information super-highway, many rural businesses would find it hard to operate and compete. They would have to relocate those businesses to large, urban areas in order to have access to the higher speeds they need. Reliable, high-speed broadband is essential in today’s global economy in order to conduct business.
What will happen to small towns if businesses and industries had to move out of the area to stay in business? Employees would either have to move–if given the choice, or become unemployed. Unemployment is already too high in rural America. The loss of businesses and jobs will greatly impact all other businesses in those communities, including your local newspapers. It will have a domino affect. With less people and dollars to buy their products and services, other businesses will be forced out of business. Some small towns around the country could become ghost towns. This National Broadband Plan, as it is now written, is very anti-rural.
It’s time for everyone to exercise their voice and let their congressmen and U.S. Senators know they are against the National Broadband Plan. Let them know your concerns. Tell them you don’t want rural areas to be discriminated against and become second-class citizens when it comes to telecommunications. Urge them to support regulatory action that ensures equal access to broadband for all Americans, not just large urban areas.
Unless they hear from enough of us, this plan could become law and then it will be too late. The dominoes will begin to fall and who knows what will be left standing when the dust settles.
I always try to share positive stories as we visit across the fence each week. This story can still have a happy, positive ending, but it’s up to all of us in small towns and rural America to help write that ending. We can do it by exercising our right as Americans to voice our opinions. Don’t wait for someone else to write the ending for you or you may not like the way the story plays out. It’s time to stand up and be counted and not let our way of life be relegated to second-class status.
This may be the most important “Across the Fence” column I ever write. I stay away from political issues in this column, but this issue could have a detrimental affect on the rural America that I write about and love. I can’t just sit on my hands and not let all of you, who live and work in rural and small town areas, know what your representatives in Washington will be voting on. There’s a serious threat to the future of a vital rural America. It comes in the form of the National Broadband Plan.
The National Broadband Plan is the FCC’s response to a congressional mandate to assure every American household has access to fast and affordable broadband service. Broadband in telecommunications, refers to data transmission, where multiple pieces of data are sent simultaneously. With wider broadband, more data can be sent faster. This affects your television and Internet service.
This plan should help rural America, but as it’s now written, it could hinder rather than advance broadband service for people in rural areas. This plan discriminates against rural customers by setting a speed standard that is 25 times slower than the speeds in city and urban areas. Support from the Universal Service Fund (USF) will only fund speeds up to 4 MB in rural areas, where it will fund speeds of 100 MB in urban areas. The FCC’s goal is to equip 100 million homes with 100 MB of service. Reaching that goal is much easier in urban areas than in rural areas. Without this support mechanism, many rural telecommunication companies will not be able to maintain service above 4 MB. Prices will be much higher for the same service in rural areas due to the lower customer densities and higher per subscriber cost of building and maintaining rural networks.
Broadband speed is vital to businesses competing nationally and internationally. Where 4 MB is adequate for most people today, tomorrow it will be as slow as a snail’s pace. It’s barely enough to download a Netflix movie or do some serious gaming on the Internet.
Let’s put what all this means to the information super-highway in another way. What if the federal government suddenly informed you that it planned to focus the majority of its transportation funds and resources on large metropolitan areas? Bigger and better roads would be built in those areas, while rural areas and small towns would have to get by with gravel and dirt roads. Urban people would be speeding along on their multi-lane, super-highways, while those of us in rural areas would be traveling slow, often bogged down, and barely moving, on the muddy, dirt roads.
Without access to the information super-highway, many rural businesses would find it hard to operate and compete. They would have to relocate those businesses to large, urban areas in order to have access to the higher speeds they need. Reliable, high-speed broadband is essential in today’s global economy in order to conduct business.
What will happen to small towns if businesses and industries had to move out of the area to stay in business? Employees would either have to move–if given the choice, or become unemployed. Unemployment is already too high in rural America. The loss of businesses and jobs will greatly impact all other businesses in those communities, including your local newspapers. It will have a domino affect. With less people and dollars to buy their products and services, other businesses will be forced out of business. Some small towns around the country could become ghost towns. This National Broadband Plan, as it is now written, is very anti-rural.
It’s time for everyone to exercise their voice and let their congressmen and U.S. Senators know they are against the National Broadband Plan. Let them know your concerns. Tell them you don’t want rural areas to be discriminated against and become second-class citizens when it comes to telecommunications. Urge them to support regulatory action that ensures equal access to broadband for all Americans, not just large urban areas.
Unless they hear from enough of us, this plan could become law and then it will be too late. The dominoes will begin to fall and who knows what will be left standing when the dust settles.
I always try to share positive stories as we visit across the fence each week. This story can still have a happy, positive ending, but it’s up to all of us in small towns and rural America to help write that ending. We can do it by exercising our right as Americans to voice our opinions. Don’t wait for someone else to write the ending for you or you may not like the way the story plays out. It’s time to stand up and be counted and not let our way of life be relegated to second-class status.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Let There Be Light
Across the Fence #316
Let there be Christmas lights. I can’t believe I’m the only person who has problems with those strings of Christmas lights. Tell me I’m not alone.
It never fails. I get the box out of the basement, where I had neatly packed the lights after using them last year, and as soon as I take them out of the box, they become all tangled up. I don’t understand it. There must be a “Nisse” living in our basement. They love to create all kinds of mischief if you don’t feed them on Christmas Eve. They usually live in barns, but the old barn on the farm was torn down a couple years ago, and I suspect the little bugger decided to hide out in our basement. He’s probably a long ago stowaway on a ship my ancestors came from Norway on. This Nisse is either really old, or a descendent of the original Nisse.
But here I am talking about Nisser (that’s plural) and many of you probably aren’t aware of them. How rude of me. You may not even believe they exist.
There are several types of Nisser in Norway. The best known is the “Fjøsnisse” which is a Nisse who takes care of the animals on the farms. He’s very short and often bearded and lives in a barn or stable. He wears clothes of wool and often has a red knitted hat. You should always give him a large portion of rommegrot on Christmas Eve if you want to keep him friendly toward everyone that lives on the farm. It’s important that you leave a bowl of rommegrot for the Nisse, who – according to superstition – is the protector of the farm. If you don’t leave some rommegrot for the Nisse, he may play tricks on you. Sometimes he scares people by blowing out the lights in the barn or scares the farm dog at night. He might move the animals around in the barn, braid the horses’ mane, or tie their tails together, and other tricks like that.
There’s an interesting story about one of my ancestral farms in Norway. This story is told in the Lund History book about the Ege farm.
In 1750, all the buildings on the farm burned down. There was a Nisse who lived on the Ege farm. He had lived there for a long time. The Nisse became completely impossible, and it was hard to live with him. My ancestors on the farm decided that they had to chase the Nisse away, and he fled from the farm as fast as his little legs could carry him. To properly scare him, they followed him and shot their guns after him. After he was gone from the farm he became nasty and returned to the Ege farm, and burned all the buildings down! Perhaps my ancestors on the farm, neglected to put the rommegrot out in the barn for the Nisse one Christmas and that started all the problems! If that doesn’t prove to you that the mischievous Nisse is real, I don’t know what will convince you. Now, I will admit, my ancestors probably had a bit too much Christmas beer to drink before they saw him and started chasing after the Nisse and shooting at him.
Enough about history, lets get back to the problem at hand. I think he’s also been tangling up and unscrewing my Christmas lights because I’ve never left any rommegrot for him.
I finally got all the lights untangled. There’s no use spending a lot of time putting a bunch of dead lights up, so I tested them first. They lit up. It was very cold outside. I could barely feel my fingers by the time I got the lights strung. Then I plugged them in to admire my lights and nothing happened. I discovered I’d forgotten to flip the switch inside. I flipped the switch and only half the lights lit up, even though they’d all worked a half hour earlier. After trying to find where the problem was, I finally gave up and bought new lights.
Good Lord, those old lights couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. I’d used them when we lived in Madison. Granted, I had spliced some wires back together that became frayed and broken in the wind, and had wound electrical tape over the splices, but they worked. Not that I’m cheap, but doesn’t anything last any more?
You’re probably saying, “That’s dangerous. He should have thrown the old ones away long ago.” You’re right, but how many of you have strung five or six strings of lights together, even though it says do not connect more than three? Also, how many of you use proper ladder safety etiquette while putting up the lights? I used to put an old rickety stepladder on top of an old wobbly picnic table in order to string our lights in Madison. I’m more careful now that I’m older. I don’t bounce as good.
Despite our problems with the Nisse tangling the lights and somehow making half of them not work, we now have new lights outside and they all work. We still need to put up our tree, so that could be another tangled lights adventure. Let’s hope the Nisse hasn’t messed with those lights.
Let there be Christmas lights. I can’t believe I’m the only person who has problems with those strings of Christmas lights. Tell me I’m not alone.
It never fails. I get the box out of the basement, where I had neatly packed the lights after using them last year, and as soon as I take them out of the box, they become all tangled up. I don’t understand it. There must be a “Nisse” living in our basement. They love to create all kinds of mischief if you don’t feed them on Christmas Eve. They usually live in barns, but the old barn on the farm was torn down a couple years ago, and I suspect the little bugger decided to hide out in our basement. He’s probably a long ago stowaway on a ship my ancestors came from Norway on. This Nisse is either really old, or a descendent of the original Nisse.
But here I am talking about Nisser (that’s plural) and many of you probably aren’t aware of them. How rude of me. You may not even believe they exist.
There are several types of Nisser in Norway. The best known is the “Fjøsnisse” which is a Nisse who takes care of the animals on the farms. He’s very short and often bearded and lives in a barn or stable. He wears clothes of wool and often has a red knitted hat. You should always give him a large portion of rommegrot on Christmas Eve if you want to keep him friendly toward everyone that lives on the farm. It’s important that you leave a bowl of rommegrot for the Nisse, who – according to superstition – is the protector of the farm. If you don’t leave some rommegrot for the Nisse, he may play tricks on you. Sometimes he scares people by blowing out the lights in the barn or scares the farm dog at night. He might move the animals around in the barn, braid the horses’ mane, or tie their tails together, and other tricks like that.
There’s an interesting story about one of my ancestral farms in Norway. This story is told in the Lund History book about the Ege farm.
In 1750, all the buildings on the farm burned down. There was a Nisse who lived on the Ege farm. He had lived there for a long time. The Nisse became completely impossible, and it was hard to live with him. My ancestors on the farm decided that they had to chase the Nisse away, and he fled from the farm as fast as his little legs could carry him. To properly scare him, they followed him and shot their guns after him. After he was gone from the farm he became nasty and returned to the Ege farm, and burned all the buildings down! Perhaps my ancestors on the farm, neglected to put the rommegrot out in the barn for the Nisse one Christmas and that started all the problems! If that doesn’t prove to you that the mischievous Nisse is real, I don’t know what will convince you. Now, I will admit, my ancestors probably had a bit too much Christmas beer to drink before they saw him and started chasing after the Nisse and shooting at him.
Enough about history, lets get back to the problem at hand. I think he’s also been tangling up and unscrewing my Christmas lights because I’ve never left any rommegrot for him.
I finally got all the lights untangled. There’s no use spending a lot of time putting a bunch of dead lights up, so I tested them first. They lit up. It was very cold outside. I could barely feel my fingers by the time I got the lights strung. Then I plugged them in to admire my lights and nothing happened. I discovered I’d forgotten to flip the switch inside. I flipped the switch and only half the lights lit up, even though they’d all worked a half hour earlier. After trying to find where the problem was, I finally gave up and bought new lights.
Good Lord, those old lights couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. I’d used them when we lived in Madison. Granted, I had spliced some wires back together that became frayed and broken in the wind, and had wound electrical tape over the splices, but they worked. Not that I’m cheap, but doesn’t anything last any more?
You’re probably saying, “That’s dangerous. He should have thrown the old ones away long ago.” You’re right, but how many of you have strung five or six strings of lights together, even though it says do not connect more than three? Also, how many of you use proper ladder safety etiquette while putting up the lights? I used to put an old rickety stepladder on top of an old wobbly picnic table in order to string our lights in Madison. I’m more careful now that I’m older. I don’t bounce as good.
Despite our problems with the Nisse tangling the lights and somehow making half of them not work, we now have new lights outside and they all work. We still need to put up our tree, so that could be another tangled lights adventure. Let’s hope the Nisse hasn’t messed with those lights.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
November 22: A Very Special Day
Across the Fence #315
It’s November 22, 2010 as I write this. Today would have been my mother’s birthday. She died 18 years ago in 1992 at the age of 73. It’s hard to believe she’s been gone that long.
I never thought about it at the time, but it must have been hard having a birthday so close to Thanksgiving and falling during the Wisconsin deer-hunting season each year. I imagine her birthday was often neglected because large, family gatherings for Thanksgiving were the norm in my younger days. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and our Hanson grandparents always gathered together for a big feast at one of our places. Thanksgiving was always a big deal.
Many years we also had wet, foggy weather like we’ve had the past couple days, called case weather for all the non-tobacco raising people. If case weather arrived on her birthday, taking down the tobacco that had been hanging and curing in the sheds, took precedence over everything except the opening morning of deer hunting. Then even the tobacco had to wait until at least the afternoon.
When I was younger and taking part in all those activities, it never occurred to me that Ma’s birthday often took second place to other events. I think Dad usually bought her a card, but that was about the extent of acknowledging her birthday. We never went out to eat, like people do now. An occasional trip to the root beer stand in the summer for a hot dog and root beer was dining out for us. Boy, how things have changed! Other than that, Ma prepared all the meals, including those on November 22nd, her birthday. It must have been depressing to have your birthday pretty much neglected, but I never heard her complain. Deer hunting and tobacco always trumped any birthday celebration.
Her birthday in 1963 was no different. Deer hunting opened the next day and Dad had left for the Hayward area with a group of friends who always hunted together. I was living at home and hauling milk at the time. I hauled two loads of milk each morning to the Westby Cooperative Creamery. That was back when farmers put the milk in cans that weighed around 80 pounds when full. I hauled about 250 cans a day during the peak milk production periods. It took seven hours a day to complete my routes and I was usually done around noon. That was hard work and I have a lot of respect for the old milk haulers.
That Friday morning, November 22, 1963, Dad had milked the cows before they left for Hayward, but I would have to clean the barn when I completed my milk route. Shortly after 12-noon I was in the barn and started hauling the manure out, while listening to WISV, the Viroqua station on the barn radio. It’s now WVRQ. Sometime between 12:30 p.m. and 1:00 p.m., programming was interrupted for a special announcement – President John F. Kennedy had been shot during a motorcade in Dallas, Texas. No other details were available at the time. I quickly finished the chores and headed for the house to see if there was anything on TV about the shootings. We could only get two stations out of La Crosse at that time, and everything was in black and white. Ma, Grandma Inga, and I were watching a CBS special report from Dallas, when Walter Cronkite came on, took off his glasses, looked up at the clock, and reported that President Kennedy had died at 1:33 p.m. (CST).
I think everyone remembers where they were and what they were doing when they first heard that historic news. I had planned to go deer hunting in our woods that afternoon, but instead watched the continuous coverage of the assassination news for the rest of the day until it was time to do chores and milk the cows that evening. After David and I finished milking we were riveted to the news coverage the rest of the evening. Continuous live coverage of the events, including the shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald, continued until after Kennedy’s funeral.
It never occurred to me at the time, but Ma’s 45th birthday had been preempted by the president’s assassination. First deer hunting, case weather, tobacco, and Thanksgiving had relegated her birthday to the back seat, and then an assassination. I wonder if she even got a card or birthday cake that year—if we did have a cake she would have baked it herself—or were we all too busy with our lives and what was going on in the world to think of her?
She was always there for us, feeding us, taking care of us, and never complaining. It must have bothered her a little that her birthday often became secondary to all those other events. I thought about that today as I remembered her birthday.
When we lived in Madison, we always tried to get to the farm for her birthday and bring a cake with us. Even a great cook and baker like she was, shouldn’t have to bake her own birthday cake.
A year ago today, Tim proposed to our daughter, Amy. They were married in September. I think Ma would have liked that her granddaughter got engaged on her birthday. It makes November 22 even more special for our family.
It’s November 22, 2010 as I write this. Today would have been my mother’s birthday. She died 18 years ago in 1992 at the age of 73. It’s hard to believe she’s been gone that long.
I never thought about it at the time, but it must have been hard having a birthday so close to Thanksgiving and falling during the Wisconsin deer-hunting season each year. I imagine her birthday was often neglected because large, family gatherings for Thanksgiving were the norm in my younger days. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and our Hanson grandparents always gathered together for a big feast at one of our places. Thanksgiving was always a big deal.
Many years we also had wet, foggy weather like we’ve had the past couple days, called case weather for all the non-tobacco raising people. If case weather arrived on her birthday, taking down the tobacco that had been hanging and curing in the sheds, took precedence over everything except the opening morning of deer hunting. Then even the tobacco had to wait until at least the afternoon.
When I was younger and taking part in all those activities, it never occurred to me that Ma’s birthday often took second place to other events. I think Dad usually bought her a card, but that was about the extent of acknowledging her birthday. We never went out to eat, like people do now. An occasional trip to the root beer stand in the summer for a hot dog and root beer was dining out for us. Boy, how things have changed! Other than that, Ma prepared all the meals, including those on November 22nd, her birthday. It must have been depressing to have your birthday pretty much neglected, but I never heard her complain. Deer hunting and tobacco always trumped any birthday celebration.
Her birthday in 1963 was no different. Deer hunting opened the next day and Dad had left for the Hayward area with a group of friends who always hunted together. I was living at home and hauling milk at the time. I hauled two loads of milk each morning to the Westby Cooperative Creamery. That was back when farmers put the milk in cans that weighed around 80 pounds when full. I hauled about 250 cans a day during the peak milk production periods. It took seven hours a day to complete my routes and I was usually done around noon. That was hard work and I have a lot of respect for the old milk haulers.
That Friday morning, November 22, 1963, Dad had milked the cows before they left for Hayward, but I would have to clean the barn when I completed my milk route. Shortly after 12-noon I was in the barn and started hauling the manure out, while listening to WISV, the Viroqua station on the barn radio. It’s now WVRQ. Sometime between 12:30 p.m. and 1:00 p.m., programming was interrupted for a special announcement – President John F. Kennedy had been shot during a motorcade in Dallas, Texas. No other details were available at the time. I quickly finished the chores and headed for the house to see if there was anything on TV about the shootings. We could only get two stations out of La Crosse at that time, and everything was in black and white. Ma, Grandma Inga, and I were watching a CBS special report from Dallas, when Walter Cronkite came on, took off his glasses, looked up at the clock, and reported that President Kennedy had died at 1:33 p.m. (CST).
I think everyone remembers where they were and what they were doing when they first heard that historic news. I had planned to go deer hunting in our woods that afternoon, but instead watched the continuous coverage of the assassination news for the rest of the day until it was time to do chores and milk the cows that evening. After David and I finished milking we were riveted to the news coverage the rest of the evening. Continuous live coverage of the events, including the shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald, continued until after Kennedy’s funeral.
It never occurred to me at the time, but Ma’s 45th birthday had been preempted by the president’s assassination. First deer hunting, case weather, tobacco, and Thanksgiving had relegated her birthday to the back seat, and then an assassination. I wonder if she even got a card or birthday cake that year—if we did have a cake she would have baked it herself—or were we all too busy with our lives and what was going on in the world to think of her?
She was always there for us, feeding us, taking care of us, and never complaining. It must have bothered her a little that her birthday often became secondary to all those other events. I thought about that today as I remembered her birthday.
When we lived in Madison, we always tried to get to the farm for her birthday and bring a cake with us. Even a great cook and baker like she was, shouldn’t have to bake her own birthday cake.
A year ago today, Tim proposed to our daughter, Amy. They were married in September. I think Ma would have liked that her granddaughter got engaged on her birthday. It makes November 22 even more special for our family.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
I'm Thankful You're Still There
Across the Fence #314
I want to wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving! This was, and still is, an exciting time of year with Thanksgiving and deer hunting occurring in the same week. I wish all of you venturing into the woods in search of that elusive whitetail, a successful and safe hunt! I’ll keep the coffee pot full and hot for you in case you get too cold and need to thaw out. I remember how cold it could get sitting in your deer stand for hours, waiting for that buck to show.
We all have a lot to be thankful for as we sit down to a Thanksgiving meal again this year; it’s just that too often we don’t take the time to express our thanks. I’m thankful for being able to visit with you each week, across the fence, via this column. Thank you for being there.
Today was very foggy here on the prairie. How foggy was it? It was so foggy, if we still had an outhouse I’d have gotten lost on my way to do my duty and wandered into an old tobacco shed instead. That lingering smell of curing tobacco would have led me there. To those of you not familiar with heavy fog this time of year, we called it “case weather.” That meant the tobacco hanging in the shed was ready to take down without damaging the leaves. It seems like case weather often came around Thanksgiving or deer hunting time. Tobacco had a way of interfering with everything when we were young.
I know I’ve told this before, but there’s something about this foggy type of weather that kicks in the old memories of taking down tobacco and stripping. I can almost smell the aroma of tobacco hanging in the shed. I’m glad I don’t have to climb up in a shed anymore and go to work! When we were young and agile, David and I could climb up those poles like a couple of monkeys. I can still hear Dad yelling up to us, “Make sure you check the poles so you don’t fall down and kill yourself!” That’s still a family saying for us when we want someone to be careful. I think it’s also become a yearly tradition of including it in my Thanksgiving issue story.
I’m thankful for the memories of those Thanksgivings of the past, when it seemed all the relatives lived within a few miles of each other. This time of year always reminds me of those days. Thanksgiving included our extended family; aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents getting together for the big feast. It was usually held at our grandparent’s farm across the road from Smith School. I can look out the windows of the room where I sit and write this story, and see the farm where they lived. The barn is gone, but the house and other buildings are still there. We used to have some wonderful Thanksgiving meals in that house. We didn’t have to go “over the river and through the woods” to get to grandmother’s house. We could have walked across the fields.
I continue to be thankful for having grown up on a farm, and now for the opportunity to live on a corner of that farm. There’s something to be said for rural, small town living. It’s easy to be swallowed up and lost in large, urban areas. You become a street number instead of a name. This point was brought home to me again this week.
I received a letter yesterday addressed to: Howard Sherpe, Westby (Vernon County) WI. There was a hand-written message on the envelope: Please deliver. Someone must know his address. Thanks!
There you have the basics: a name, city, county, and state. I thanked the Westby Postmaster for having it delivered to us. It was a wonderful, handwritten letter from a woman in Spencer, Wisconsin, who reads my stories.
When we lived in Madison, we had a letter returned to the sender as undeliverable because the street numbers were wrong. Our address was 1017 Chieftain Lookout. The sender had transposed the numbers and had 1710. I’ve got to tell you, there were only five houses on Chieftain Lookout and only one with Sherpe’s living in it. I guess we were just a wrong number, not a name. That’s kind of sad. I’m thankful we’re more than a wrong number in Westby.
That reminds me of the time Sandy and Lou’s daughter, Kris, sent my father a letter from Colorado. It was addressed to Uncle Hans, Westby, Wisconsin. The post office delivered the letter to him. Another time, our daughter, Amy, sent a card to my dad and addressed it: Grandpa Sherpe, Westby, Wis. No address. No zip code. And yet it was delivered to him. I guess that proves that in a small town, people not only know who you are, but they also know your relatives and where they live. That can be a scary thought to many people, but it can also be a comforting thought. People know you as more than just a number.
Speaking of numbers, this begins year number seven. I’m thankful that you take time to read this column each week. May your poles always be straight and strong, and never roll. But just to be safe… you better check them first. Don’t want you to fall down and get hurt.
I want to wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving! This was, and still is, an exciting time of year with Thanksgiving and deer hunting occurring in the same week. I wish all of you venturing into the woods in search of that elusive whitetail, a successful and safe hunt! I’ll keep the coffee pot full and hot for you in case you get too cold and need to thaw out. I remember how cold it could get sitting in your deer stand for hours, waiting for that buck to show.
We all have a lot to be thankful for as we sit down to a Thanksgiving meal again this year; it’s just that too often we don’t take the time to express our thanks. I’m thankful for being able to visit with you each week, across the fence, via this column. Thank you for being there.
Today was very foggy here on the prairie. How foggy was it? It was so foggy, if we still had an outhouse I’d have gotten lost on my way to do my duty and wandered into an old tobacco shed instead. That lingering smell of curing tobacco would have led me there. To those of you not familiar with heavy fog this time of year, we called it “case weather.” That meant the tobacco hanging in the shed was ready to take down without damaging the leaves. It seems like case weather often came around Thanksgiving or deer hunting time. Tobacco had a way of interfering with everything when we were young.
I know I’ve told this before, but there’s something about this foggy type of weather that kicks in the old memories of taking down tobacco and stripping. I can almost smell the aroma of tobacco hanging in the shed. I’m glad I don’t have to climb up in a shed anymore and go to work! When we were young and agile, David and I could climb up those poles like a couple of monkeys. I can still hear Dad yelling up to us, “Make sure you check the poles so you don’t fall down and kill yourself!” That’s still a family saying for us when we want someone to be careful. I think it’s also become a yearly tradition of including it in my Thanksgiving issue story.
I’m thankful for the memories of those Thanksgivings of the past, when it seemed all the relatives lived within a few miles of each other. This time of year always reminds me of those days. Thanksgiving included our extended family; aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents getting together for the big feast. It was usually held at our grandparent’s farm across the road from Smith School. I can look out the windows of the room where I sit and write this story, and see the farm where they lived. The barn is gone, but the house and other buildings are still there. We used to have some wonderful Thanksgiving meals in that house. We didn’t have to go “over the river and through the woods” to get to grandmother’s house. We could have walked across the fields.
I continue to be thankful for having grown up on a farm, and now for the opportunity to live on a corner of that farm. There’s something to be said for rural, small town living. It’s easy to be swallowed up and lost in large, urban areas. You become a street number instead of a name. This point was brought home to me again this week.
I received a letter yesterday addressed to: Howard Sherpe, Westby (Vernon County) WI. There was a hand-written message on the envelope: Please deliver. Someone must know his address. Thanks!
There you have the basics: a name, city, county, and state. I thanked the Westby Postmaster for having it delivered to us. It was a wonderful, handwritten letter from a woman in Spencer, Wisconsin, who reads my stories.
When we lived in Madison, we had a letter returned to the sender as undeliverable because the street numbers were wrong. Our address was 1017 Chieftain Lookout. The sender had transposed the numbers and had 1710. I’ve got to tell you, there were only five houses on Chieftain Lookout and only one with Sherpe’s living in it. I guess we were just a wrong number, not a name. That’s kind of sad. I’m thankful we’re more than a wrong number in Westby.
That reminds me of the time Sandy and Lou’s daughter, Kris, sent my father a letter from Colorado. It was addressed to Uncle Hans, Westby, Wisconsin. The post office delivered the letter to him. Another time, our daughter, Amy, sent a card to my dad and addressed it: Grandpa Sherpe, Westby, Wis. No address. No zip code. And yet it was delivered to him. I guess that proves that in a small town, people not only know who you are, but they also know your relatives and where they live. That can be a scary thought to many people, but it can also be a comforting thought. People know you as more than just a number.
Speaking of numbers, this begins year number seven. I’m thankful that you take time to read this column each week. May your poles always be straight and strong, and never roll. But just to be safe… you better check them first. Don’t want you to fall down and get hurt.
Monday, November 15, 2010
The "Nam Brothers" Reunion
Across the Fence 313 (Veteran's Day Extra)
November 12, 1966, somewhere in the Central Highlands of Vietnam, near the Cambodian border. A group of Wisconsin farm boys with the 4th Infantry, settle in to spend the night in sandbagged foxhole bunkers on the perimeter of a remote fire support base. We had no idea what horrors the night would visit upon us, and how the ghosts would haunt us for years to come.
Ray Slaback from Readstown, Harlan Springborn from DeSoto, Larry Skolos from Viroqua, and Howard Sherpe from Westby (that’s me), were drafted together in December, 1965, from Vernon County, Wisconsin. Don Hanson from Osseo, Wisconsin, was also drafted that month. None of us knew each other at the time, but that would quickly change.
We all became part of the 4th Infantry Division’s train and retain program at Ft. Lewis, Washington. We went through basic training together, went to Vietnam on a troop ship together as the advance party of the 4th Infantry, went ashore in the same landing craft, and spent our year together in Vietnam. Today they are my “Nam” brothers.
November 11, 2010 (Veteran’s Day). Forty-four years after we survived the November 12 attack, five of us reunited during the Veteran’s Day program at Westby High School, where I was the guest speaker. It was the first time all five of us had been together at one time since we left Vietnam. It was a wonderful reunion. There were hugs, smiles, some tears, and plenty of laughter, as five old friends, whose friendships had been forged in fire and shared experiences, were grateful to be with our “Nam Brothers” again. You can’t go through what we did together without developing a special bond. Perhaps Don Hanson summed it up best, “It doesn’t get any better than this.”
In my talk during the program, I told a short, sanitized version of the terrifying experience we had shared that night when we were almost overrun by 1,500 NVA. When Don and I finally reunited three years ago, he said, “Do you remember when Puff arrived and saved our butts?” How could I ever forget? “Puff the Magic Dragon” was a converted C47 that laid down 6,000 rounds a minute with their gatling guns. The rain of bullets cut the enemy down, like wheat in a field. If Puff hadn’t arrived, we have no doubt, we’d have all been killed.
The five of us getting together and talking was good for the soul. I had never mentioned that night to anyone, other than my four “Nam Brothers.” They hadn’t discussed it with anyone either. There was nothing heroic about it. Just a lot of frightened young men, who all thought they were going to die, fighting for their lives and their buddies. It was good to get those ghosts from our past out in the open. Perhaps now the nightmares of that experience will go away for all of us.
One thing still bothers us. There’s very little mention of that battle in any accounts about the war; just a short story in the Army Times that didn’t sound anything like what we had experienced. It wasn’t even given a name. We decided to call it “The Battle of Dedman’s Hill,” in honor of our friend, Leslie Dedman, who was killed that night.
I hope our reunion will give us all some closure and peace. All five of us went through some frightening experiences together. It’s good for us to know that we aren’t alone. We’ll always be there for each other. When we get together we’re able to find humor and great camaraderie in our shared experiences. To show you how strong those ties are, Don Hanson’s brother died and the visitation was that evening in Whitehall. He still came to be with us for the program that morning. That’s how important and strong this brotherhood is.
I think we’ve all made our peace with the war. We haven’t let anger, bitterness, or alienation destroy us. We’ve gone on with our lives, and hope they’ve been productive. Vietnam will always be a part of us, and we all accept that. We think it’s made us stronger, better people.
When we left Vietnam, we all went our separate ways, went on with our lives, and never even contacted each other. I think we all went into the Vietnam closet, as I call it. We had served in a very unpopular war. Vietnam vets became the targets for the country’s anger and protests of the war. It would be 32 years before Harlan, Larry, and I finally got back together. Then three years ago, Don and I got back together. This Veteran’s Day, Ray finally joined our Nam brotherhood. Ray summed it up for all of us when he said it was not wanting to revisit the memories of the past that took him so long to get reunited with us.
I like what Jack P. Smith, a survivor of the Battle of the Ia Drang Valley, and later an ABC News Correspondent wrote. “I’ve discovered that wounds heal. That the friendships of old comrades breathes meaning into life. And that even the most disjointed events can begin to make sense with the passage of time.”
Was the Vietnam War right or wrong? Was all the pain and suffering worth it? The five of us will leave that to the historians. I can tell you this, after our reunion, we stand united, five old Wisconsin farm boys, a band of “Nam Brothers,” who are proud to say we’re Vietnam veterans...and still alive.
November 12, 1966, somewhere in the Central Highlands of Vietnam, near the Cambodian border. A group of Wisconsin farm boys with the 4th Infantry, settle in to spend the night in sandbagged foxhole bunkers on the perimeter of a remote fire support base. We had no idea what horrors the night would visit upon us, and how the ghosts would haunt us for years to come.
Ray Slaback from Readstown, Harlan Springborn from DeSoto, Larry Skolos from Viroqua, and Howard Sherpe from Westby (that’s me), were drafted together in December, 1965, from Vernon County, Wisconsin. Don Hanson from Osseo, Wisconsin, was also drafted that month. None of us knew each other at the time, but that would quickly change.
We all became part of the 4th Infantry Division’s train and retain program at Ft. Lewis, Washington. We went through basic training together, went to Vietnam on a troop ship together as the advance party of the 4th Infantry, went ashore in the same landing craft, and spent our year together in Vietnam. Today they are my “Nam” brothers.
November 11, 2010 (Veteran’s Day). Forty-four years after we survived the November 12 attack, five of us reunited during the Veteran’s Day program at Westby High School, where I was the guest speaker. It was the first time all five of us had been together at one time since we left Vietnam. It was a wonderful reunion. There were hugs, smiles, some tears, and plenty of laughter, as five old friends, whose friendships had been forged in fire and shared experiences, were grateful to be with our “Nam Brothers” again. You can’t go through what we did together without developing a special bond. Perhaps Don Hanson summed it up best, “It doesn’t get any better than this.”
In my talk during the program, I told a short, sanitized version of the terrifying experience we had shared that night when we were almost overrun by 1,500 NVA. When Don and I finally reunited three years ago, he said, “Do you remember when Puff arrived and saved our butts?” How could I ever forget? “Puff the Magic Dragon” was a converted C47 that laid down 6,000 rounds a minute with their gatling guns. The rain of bullets cut the enemy down, like wheat in a field. If Puff hadn’t arrived, we have no doubt, we’d have all been killed.
The five of us getting together and talking was good for the soul. I had never mentioned that night to anyone, other than my four “Nam Brothers.” They hadn’t discussed it with anyone either. There was nothing heroic about it. Just a lot of frightened young men, who all thought they were going to die, fighting for their lives and their buddies. It was good to get those ghosts from our past out in the open. Perhaps now the nightmares of that experience will go away for all of us.
One thing still bothers us. There’s very little mention of that battle in any accounts about the war; just a short story in the Army Times that didn’t sound anything like what we had experienced. It wasn’t even given a name. We decided to call it “The Battle of Dedman’s Hill,” in honor of our friend, Leslie Dedman, who was killed that night.
I hope our reunion will give us all some closure and peace. All five of us went through some frightening experiences together. It’s good for us to know that we aren’t alone. We’ll always be there for each other. When we get together we’re able to find humor and great camaraderie in our shared experiences. To show you how strong those ties are, Don Hanson’s brother died and the visitation was that evening in Whitehall. He still came to be with us for the program that morning. That’s how important and strong this brotherhood is.
I think we’ve all made our peace with the war. We haven’t let anger, bitterness, or alienation destroy us. We’ve gone on with our lives, and hope they’ve been productive. Vietnam will always be a part of us, and we all accept that. We think it’s made us stronger, better people.
When we left Vietnam, we all went our separate ways, went on with our lives, and never even contacted each other. I think we all went into the Vietnam closet, as I call it. We had served in a very unpopular war. Vietnam vets became the targets for the country’s anger and protests of the war. It would be 32 years before Harlan, Larry, and I finally got back together. Then three years ago, Don and I got back together. This Veteran’s Day, Ray finally joined our Nam brotherhood. Ray summed it up for all of us when he said it was not wanting to revisit the memories of the past that took him so long to get reunited with us.
I like what Jack P. Smith, a survivor of the Battle of the Ia Drang Valley, and later an ABC News Correspondent wrote. “I’ve discovered that wounds heal. That the friendships of old comrades breathes meaning into life. And that even the most disjointed events can begin to make sense with the passage of time.”
Was the Vietnam War right or wrong? Was all the pain and suffering worth it? The five of us will leave that to the historians. I can tell you this, after our reunion, we stand united, five old Wisconsin farm boys, a band of “Nam Brothers,” who are proud to say we’re Vietnam veterans...and still alive.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Thanks for Visiting Across the Fence
Across the Fence #313
This brings to a close the sixth year of “Across the Fence.” Next week, Thanksgiving week, we begin the seventh year of this weekly column.
It’s time to thank the papers that run the column, and everyone who spends a few minutes each week reading it. I really do appreciate it. I hope the stories have stirred your own memories about subjects I’ve written about.
Each year I’ve heard from and met many of you. It’s been nice meeting those who have visited with me across the book-signing table. It was interesting to hear that many of you have been clipping the stories and saving them. One reader had been clipping and saving every column and had them in a scrapbook, so she didn’t need a book! “But I have all these great photos in the book,” I said. She still didn’t buy a book. Her scrapbooks with my stories mean a lot to me.
Writer Norbert Blei, who lives in Door County and reads Across the Fence, did a story about my newspaper columns. He received such a good response that he did a follow-up story.
He wrote: “Judging by the number of readers who responded in praise of the last installment of Local Journalism/Local Writing” (an introduction to Wisconsin writer Howard Sherpe), people want local columns of interest in their papers.
“Here’s another test of how meaningful your local paper is: When was the last time you clipped something from the paper ‘to keep’? A piece of writing (other than straight news)…a column, an essay, perhaps even a great photograph that affected you enough to want to keep it, come back to another time, put in a file, slip between the pages of some appropriate book, show to someone else, mail to a friend or relative?
“If your local paper isn’t giving you that kind of writing (at least some of the time) it isn’t doing its job…
“Howard Sherpe’s stories have certainly reached the prominence of ‘clip-able’–as many of his readers will attest to. Writings like his keep the home fires burning, the Midwest aglow in the things that matter between people, and the land that shapes them.”
Those are kind words from Mr. Blei, and they point up the importance of having a weekly column in a local newspaper. If that column can stir people’s emotions and memory, we as writers are doing something right.
A few years ago, my story about windmills stirred memories in Sid from Middleton, Wisconsin. I had never met him, but he sent me an old, tin cup that had hung on his windmill for many years. I treasure that old, weathered cup. It now has a place of honor on a shelf with other treasures. Sid and I began corresponding. We finally met and became friends. He died a couple years ago and I miss his e-mails about my stories.
This past year I also lost a classmate, friend, and faithful reader of Across the Fence in the Linn News-Letter in Central City, Iowa. Ardy was an English and Journalism teacher and often commented on my stories. I got many good ideas for columns from her observations about life. I miss her e-mails too.
I also want to mention Kay down in Mississippi. She wrote: “I always make sure to read your column, as it brings me back to the hills and valleys and people that I so miss. When I read your descriptions and stories, I feel like I’m almost there again. You’ve helped me through many bouts of homesickness.” Thank you Kay!
I want to thank Tom in Viola, who reads this column. He read my recent story about corn husking and how I wished I still had one of the old huskers. He showed up at my book reading at Bramble Books in Viroqua and gave me a corn husker. Tom’s corn husker will join Sid’s cup on that shelf of treasures that mean a lot to me. Thank you Tom!
Thanks to Kathy and Tim in Marion, Iowa for sharing their silo adventures with me. Thank you Tom, Lowell, and Anne in the Madison area for your feedback on many stories. Thank you Bob in Bailey’s Harbor for your insightful observations on life. Thanks to Wayne in Minnesota, Vicki in Indiana, Lou in Colorado, and Ken in California for commenting on stories that stirred your memories.
Thanks also to everyone who has told me about experiences they remembered, while reading something I’d written. As I listened, it reinforced what I’ve always said… everyone has a story that needs to be told. Share it with someone. Don’t take your stories with you when you leave this earth.
The last e-mail message I received from Ardy before she died said: “The new school year is underway. Where did the summer go? I’ll think of your lovely description of July and be reminded that ‘to everything there is a season’ and even some of the stupidity with teaching will wane and a new “field” will emerge. Kind of like you wanting to plant your yard full of wildflowers. And time marches on, doesn't it? But why does it have to march so darn fast??????”
Time does march on. It waits for no one. Thanks again for stopping for a few minutes each week and visiting with me across the fence. Next week, year seven begins.
This brings to a close the sixth year of “Across the Fence.” Next week, Thanksgiving week, we begin the seventh year of this weekly column.
It’s time to thank the papers that run the column, and everyone who spends a few minutes each week reading it. I really do appreciate it. I hope the stories have stirred your own memories about subjects I’ve written about.
Each year I’ve heard from and met many of you. It’s been nice meeting those who have visited with me across the book-signing table. It was interesting to hear that many of you have been clipping the stories and saving them. One reader had been clipping and saving every column and had them in a scrapbook, so she didn’t need a book! “But I have all these great photos in the book,” I said. She still didn’t buy a book. Her scrapbooks with my stories mean a lot to me.
Writer Norbert Blei, who lives in Door County and reads Across the Fence, did a story about my newspaper columns. He received such a good response that he did a follow-up story.
He wrote: “Judging by the number of readers who responded in praise of the last installment of Local Journalism/Local Writing” (an introduction to Wisconsin writer Howard Sherpe), people want local columns of interest in their papers.
“Here’s another test of how meaningful your local paper is: When was the last time you clipped something from the paper ‘to keep’? A piece of writing (other than straight news)…a column, an essay, perhaps even a great photograph that affected you enough to want to keep it, come back to another time, put in a file, slip between the pages of some appropriate book, show to someone else, mail to a friend or relative?
“If your local paper isn’t giving you that kind of writing (at least some of the time) it isn’t doing its job…
“Howard Sherpe’s stories have certainly reached the prominence of ‘clip-able’–as many of his readers will attest to. Writings like his keep the home fires burning, the Midwest aglow in the things that matter between people, and the land that shapes them.”
Those are kind words from Mr. Blei, and they point up the importance of having a weekly column in a local newspaper. If that column can stir people’s emotions and memory, we as writers are doing something right.
A few years ago, my story about windmills stirred memories in Sid from Middleton, Wisconsin. I had never met him, but he sent me an old, tin cup that had hung on his windmill for many years. I treasure that old, weathered cup. It now has a place of honor on a shelf with other treasures. Sid and I began corresponding. We finally met and became friends. He died a couple years ago and I miss his e-mails about my stories.
This past year I also lost a classmate, friend, and faithful reader of Across the Fence in the Linn News-Letter in Central City, Iowa. Ardy was an English and Journalism teacher and often commented on my stories. I got many good ideas for columns from her observations about life. I miss her e-mails too.
I also want to mention Kay down in Mississippi. She wrote: “I always make sure to read your column, as it brings me back to the hills and valleys and people that I so miss. When I read your descriptions and stories, I feel like I’m almost there again. You’ve helped me through many bouts of homesickness.” Thank you Kay!
I want to thank Tom in Viola, who reads this column. He read my recent story about corn husking and how I wished I still had one of the old huskers. He showed up at my book reading at Bramble Books in Viroqua and gave me a corn husker. Tom’s corn husker will join Sid’s cup on that shelf of treasures that mean a lot to me. Thank you Tom!
Thanks to Kathy and Tim in Marion, Iowa for sharing their silo adventures with me. Thank you Tom, Lowell, and Anne in the Madison area for your feedback on many stories. Thank you Bob in Bailey’s Harbor for your insightful observations on life. Thanks to Wayne in Minnesota, Vicki in Indiana, Lou in Colorado, and Ken in California for commenting on stories that stirred your memories.
Thanks also to everyone who has told me about experiences they remembered, while reading something I’d written. As I listened, it reinforced what I’ve always said… everyone has a story that needs to be told. Share it with someone. Don’t take your stories with you when you leave this earth.
The last e-mail message I received from Ardy before she died said: “The new school year is underway. Where did the summer go? I’ll think of your lovely description of July and be reminded that ‘to everything there is a season’ and even some of the stupidity with teaching will wane and a new “field” will emerge. Kind of like you wanting to plant your yard full of wildflowers. And time marches on, doesn't it? But why does it have to march so darn fast??????”
Time does march on. It waits for no one. Thanks again for stopping for a few minutes each week and visiting with me across the fence. Next week, year seven begins.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Veteran's Day Thoughts - 2010
Across the Fence #312
Today is just another day to most people; a federal holiday, a day off work for some, and a pain in the butt for many people and business’ because there’s no mail delivery. A few homes will fly the flag today. I’d bet veterans occupy most of them.
It’s now 43 years since I officially became a veteran. What does being a veteran mean to me?
First of all, I’m a veteran because I served in the army for two years. That alone qualifies me as a veteran. I also spent a year in Vietnam, but that service has no bearing on my having attained “Veteran Status.” That was just a part of the experience of becoming a veteran. I would still be a veteran if I had never served in a war zone.
I believe veterans have some important messages to deliver that people need to hear, but few people want to hear it. Straight talk, no glossing over, no political spin doctors, no stories of heroics, no John Wayne charging the enemy and wiping them out single-handed, no “Let’s go kick some butt” talk. None of that, just the plain sobering truth about what being a veteran is all about. In my case, one who survived a war. It’s about boredom, fear, sorrow, joy, depression, elation, anger, frustration, disillusionment, friends, enemies, thoughts of home, and finally, surviving and returning back home as a veteran.
Yes, veterans have much they can teach young people and anyone else who is willing to listen. Study the history of war. History tends to repeat itself, especially its’ mistakes. Look at political agendas and examine the motives of a government that wants to wage war against another nation and its’ people. Is the cause worth dying for? Are you willing to die for that cause? Are you willing to send your son or daughter to fight and possibly be killed for the cause? Is the cause worth the taking of a life on the other side? Would you take that life if ordered to? Are there peaceful alternatives that haven’t been fully explored before committing troops to fight?
Every veteran should be asking these questions before we let our government put another generation of young people in harm’s way. Veterans can and should educate the next generation on the pros and cons of war. We shouldn’t leave such important issues to non-veteran politicians, who have no idea about what being in a war zone is all about. A look through the resumes of our national leaders reveals a serious lack of people with “veteran status” setting the policies that are sending another generation of our young people to foreign battlefields to become names on a new wall of “Heroes.”
What does it mean to be a veteran? It means we’ve been to the mountain, we’ve seen the other side. Most of us didn’t like what we saw. We have some idea of the cost of sending another generation up that mountain. Not the cost in dollars, but the cost in human lives and suffering, both physical and emotional. Not to mention all the lost potential. Being a veteran means reminding people of the costs of war.
On this particular Veteran’s Day, I’ve been invited to be the speaker at the Westby Area Schools Veteran’s Day program. I’ve asked several friends I served with, to join me for the program. We were drafted together, went through basic training together, and served in the same unit with the 4th Infantry in Vietnam. We went through a lot together. We’re still close friends. I’ll talk about that special bond and how lucky we are to still be alive.
We served during a very difficult and unpopular war, when being in the military, and later a Vietnam veteran, was looked down upon, not just by the general public, but also by many veterans of previous wars who looked at us as a bunch of “losers.” We quickly learned that it was best to shed our uniforms and not draw attention to our Vietnam veteran status. Most of us put Vietnam in the closet and went on with our lives. It would be 17 years before I came out of that closet and sought out other Vietnam vets because it was tough for all of us to feel so isolated.
Being a veteran carries with it a responsibility, whether we want that responsibility or not. That’s why we all need to come out of the closet and let people know we served in that unpopular war. Our responsibility is to educate and inform people so they’re in a better position to make decisions regarding war and peace in the future. No school would allow me to teach in their classrooms unless I had been trained and experienced in the subject I was to teach, and had the proper credentials. And yet we allow leaders who have never been to “school,” send our young people off to join our veteran ranks.
Yes, being a veteran carries with it responsibilities, even though many, if not most veterans, prefer to sit quietly by and not get involved. I’d like to see all veterans, in all the nations, become bridge builders, helping build a strong and lasting bridge for peace among all people and all nations.
That would be a legacy all veterans could be proud of.
Today is just another day to most people; a federal holiday, a day off work for some, and a pain in the butt for many people and business’ because there’s no mail delivery. A few homes will fly the flag today. I’d bet veterans occupy most of them.
It’s now 43 years since I officially became a veteran. What does being a veteran mean to me?
First of all, I’m a veteran because I served in the army for two years. That alone qualifies me as a veteran. I also spent a year in Vietnam, but that service has no bearing on my having attained “Veteran Status.” That was just a part of the experience of becoming a veteran. I would still be a veteran if I had never served in a war zone.
I believe veterans have some important messages to deliver that people need to hear, but few people want to hear it. Straight talk, no glossing over, no political spin doctors, no stories of heroics, no John Wayne charging the enemy and wiping them out single-handed, no “Let’s go kick some butt” talk. None of that, just the plain sobering truth about what being a veteran is all about. In my case, one who survived a war. It’s about boredom, fear, sorrow, joy, depression, elation, anger, frustration, disillusionment, friends, enemies, thoughts of home, and finally, surviving and returning back home as a veteran.
Yes, veterans have much they can teach young people and anyone else who is willing to listen. Study the history of war. History tends to repeat itself, especially its’ mistakes. Look at political agendas and examine the motives of a government that wants to wage war against another nation and its’ people. Is the cause worth dying for? Are you willing to die for that cause? Are you willing to send your son or daughter to fight and possibly be killed for the cause? Is the cause worth the taking of a life on the other side? Would you take that life if ordered to? Are there peaceful alternatives that haven’t been fully explored before committing troops to fight?
Every veteran should be asking these questions before we let our government put another generation of young people in harm’s way. Veterans can and should educate the next generation on the pros and cons of war. We shouldn’t leave such important issues to non-veteran politicians, who have no idea about what being in a war zone is all about. A look through the resumes of our national leaders reveals a serious lack of people with “veteran status” setting the policies that are sending another generation of our young people to foreign battlefields to become names on a new wall of “Heroes.”
What does it mean to be a veteran? It means we’ve been to the mountain, we’ve seen the other side. Most of us didn’t like what we saw. We have some idea of the cost of sending another generation up that mountain. Not the cost in dollars, but the cost in human lives and suffering, both physical and emotional. Not to mention all the lost potential. Being a veteran means reminding people of the costs of war.
On this particular Veteran’s Day, I’ve been invited to be the speaker at the Westby Area Schools Veteran’s Day program. I’ve asked several friends I served with, to join me for the program. We were drafted together, went through basic training together, and served in the same unit with the 4th Infantry in Vietnam. We went through a lot together. We’re still close friends. I’ll talk about that special bond and how lucky we are to still be alive.
We served during a very difficult and unpopular war, when being in the military, and later a Vietnam veteran, was looked down upon, not just by the general public, but also by many veterans of previous wars who looked at us as a bunch of “losers.” We quickly learned that it was best to shed our uniforms and not draw attention to our Vietnam veteran status. Most of us put Vietnam in the closet and went on with our lives. It would be 17 years before I came out of that closet and sought out other Vietnam vets because it was tough for all of us to feel so isolated.
Being a veteran carries with it a responsibility, whether we want that responsibility or not. That’s why we all need to come out of the closet and let people know we served in that unpopular war. Our responsibility is to educate and inform people so they’re in a better position to make decisions regarding war and peace in the future. No school would allow me to teach in their classrooms unless I had been trained and experienced in the subject I was to teach, and had the proper credentials. And yet we allow leaders who have never been to “school,” send our young people off to join our veteran ranks.
Yes, being a veteran carries with it responsibilities, even though many, if not most veterans, prefer to sit quietly by and not get involved. I’d like to see all veterans, in all the nations, become bridge builders, helping build a strong and lasting bridge for peace among all people and all nations.
That would be a legacy all veterans could be proud of.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
A Time Machine Journey
Across the Fence #311
If you could step into a time machine and be transported back or forward in time, where would you go? Is there a special day, year, or period of time you would choose?
I think most of us have wished we could revisit a certain happening or time in our life. We can all go there through our memories, but the idea of time travel has always intrigued me.
Over the weekend, my brother David and I, got into our time machine and traveled back in time. Lest you think I’ve lost all my marbles, we don’t have a real time machine. Our mode of travel was a car. We decided to travel around the areas where we had spent time during our youth.
We began our time travel with a stop at the Coon Prairie cemetery, where our mother and father are buried. It’s a large cemetery and final resting place for many of the first settlers in the Coon Prairie area. As we roamed around the cemetery looking at the names, we were surrounded by our history. Near our parents are two aunts and uncles. Everywhere we looked were names of people we had known; friends, neighbors, schoolmates, teachers, ministers, relatives, and ancestors. Each name held memories for us. Walking around the cemetery was like traveling back in time. These were the people who had been a big part of our lives, and helped shape who we are today. Our grandparents, great grandparents, and several great, great grandparents, are all resting in Coon Prairie. Some day I’ll be joining them, but I’m in no big hurry to take up residence there.
As we talked about the history surrounding us, we commented how much life has changed. Most people no longer stay in the area where they were born and grew up. In the past, extended families lived out their lives in one place. I still have a strong connection to this area, but the majority of our family and cousins live out of the area now. Each succeeding generation will have less and less ties to the area, and little knowledge of the lives represented by the names on the tombstones in Coon Prairie cemetery. They were more than just names to David and me. As we traveled back in time, we remembered the lives of many of those people and commented on things about them. I’d invite each of you to time travel back to a local cemetery where you have ties. Take a walk around, and remember the people who were a part of your life. It’s like examining the books in the history section of a library.
David and I left the library, climbed back in our time machine, and continued our journey. We traveled out past our woods, located on a high ridge between Bloomingdale and Avalanche. It had been many years since David had traveled that road. We remembered the people who had lived in the farms along the way. We remembered deer hunting in those woods with our father. They were good memories.
Our time machine dropped down the steep hill into the valley and we turned right and followed the crooked creek where we used to fish for trout. As we went through Avalanche we remembered stopping at the Avalanche store when we were young, and the many floods that devastated the valley.
We continued our journey, past Smith Road that would have taken us back to the ridge and to the spot where our old one-room school once stood. We remembered the old Seas Branch ski jump where our father used to jump. It’s now overgrown with trees. We turned on Seas Branch Road and drove past the place once occupied by the Seas Branch School that became our 4-H clubhouse. Only the stone outhouse remains. I don’t think anyone ever tipped that one over. The spring water is still gushing out of the hill near the school. We used to stop there and drink the cold water. David reminded me of the time I skidded on the icy road near the spring and took out a mailbox on our way to a 4-H meeting. I didn’t hurt the car, but totaled the mailbox. I paid for a new one. We drove by the quarry where we used to play and past the infamous “Sherpe Curve” where Christianson Road meets Seas Branch. That’s all I’ll say about that.
Our time travel took us by numerous farms, most of their past owners now residing in Coon Prairie cemetery. Their children, who went to school with us, are now scattered all over the country. We crossed the old railroad bed where we used to walk the rails with friends, and past more woods where we spent many hours hunting with our father.
Across Highway 14, past more farms where we once knew everyone. Our time machine paused near the Three Chimneys, as we remembered our grandmother telling how two of her Ostrem brothers had climbed up and pounded the stake into the top of one of the rocks. It’s still there. We drove by the Ostrem homestead of our great grandparents, and past the Bethel cemetery where so many relatives are buried.
We finally headed for home in our time machine and back to the present. It was quite a journey and good to remember our roots and where we came from.
If you could step into a time machine and be transported back or forward in time, where would you go? Is there a special day, year, or period of time you would choose?
I think most of us have wished we could revisit a certain happening or time in our life. We can all go there through our memories, but the idea of time travel has always intrigued me.
Over the weekend, my brother David and I, got into our time machine and traveled back in time. Lest you think I’ve lost all my marbles, we don’t have a real time machine. Our mode of travel was a car. We decided to travel around the areas where we had spent time during our youth.
We began our time travel with a stop at the Coon Prairie cemetery, where our mother and father are buried. It’s a large cemetery and final resting place for many of the first settlers in the Coon Prairie area. As we roamed around the cemetery looking at the names, we were surrounded by our history. Near our parents are two aunts and uncles. Everywhere we looked were names of people we had known; friends, neighbors, schoolmates, teachers, ministers, relatives, and ancestors. Each name held memories for us. Walking around the cemetery was like traveling back in time. These were the people who had been a big part of our lives, and helped shape who we are today. Our grandparents, great grandparents, and several great, great grandparents, are all resting in Coon Prairie. Some day I’ll be joining them, but I’m in no big hurry to take up residence there.
As we talked about the history surrounding us, we commented how much life has changed. Most people no longer stay in the area where they were born and grew up. In the past, extended families lived out their lives in one place. I still have a strong connection to this area, but the majority of our family and cousins live out of the area now. Each succeeding generation will have less and less ties to the area, and little knowledge of the lives represented by the names on the tombstones in Coon Prairie cemetery. They were more than just names to David and me. As we traveled back in time, we remembered the lives of many of those people and commented on things about them. I’d invite each of you to time travel back to a local cemetery where you have ties. Take a walk around, and remember the people who were a part of your life. It’s like examining the books in the history section of a library.
David and I left the library, climbed back in our time machine, and continued our journey. We traveled out past our woods, located on a high ridge between Bloomingdale and Avalanche. It had been many years since David had traveled that road. We remembered the people who had lived in the farms along the way. We remembered deer hunting in those woods with our father. They were good memories.
Our time machine dropped down the steep hill into the valley and we turned right and followed the crooked creek where we used to fish for trout. As we went through Avalanche we remembered stopping at the Avalanche store when we were young, and the many floods that devastated the valley.
We continued our journey, past Smith Road that would have taken us back to the ridge and to the spot where our old one-room school once stood. We remembered the old Seas Branch ski jump where our father used to jump. It’s now overgrown with trees. We turned on Seas Branch Road and drove past the place once occupied by the Seas Branch School that became our 4-H clubhouse. Only the stone outhouse remains. I don’t think anyone ever tipped that one over. The spring water is still gushing out of the hill near the school. We used to stop there and drink the cold water. David reminded me of the time I skidded on the icy road near the spring and took out a mailbox on our way to a 4-H meeting. I didn’t hurt the car, but totaled the mailbox. I paid for a new one. We drove by the quarry where we used to play and past the infamous “Sherpe Curve” where Christianson Road meets Seas Branch. That’s all I’ll say about that.
Our time travel took us by numerous farms, most of their past owners now residing in Coon Prairie cemetery. Their children, who went to school with us, are now scattered all over the country. We crossed the old railroad bed where we used to walk the rails with friends, and past more woods where we spent many hours hunting with our father.
Across Highway 14, past more farms where we once knew everyone. Our time machine paused near the Three Chimneys, as we remembered our grandmother telling how two of her Ostrem brothers had climbed up and pounded the stake into the top of one of the rocks. It’s still there. We drove by the Ostrem homestead of our great grandparents, and past the Bethel cemetery where so many relatives are buried.
We finally headed for home in our time machine and back to the present. It was quite a journey and good to remember our roots and where we came from.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Book Reading, Discussion, and Signing
Join me at Bramble Books in Viroqua, Wiaconsin
117 S. Main Street
Thursday, November 4
7:00 pm
Free and open to the public.
117 S. Main Street
Thursday, November 4
7:00 pm
Free and open to the public.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Prairie Ghosts: Scary Halloween Thoughts
Across the Fence #310
If you’ve been following Across the Fence for a while, you’ve heard me tell about the Prairie Ghosts. We were a group of neighbor kids who formed a club, and because we lived on Coon Prairie, we called ourselves the Prairie Ghosts. We never had any super great adventures, but with a little embellishment, I could probably come up with some semi-great adventures.
As we know, the best time for ghosts is around Halloween, so it was also a favorite time for the Prairie Ghosts.
As many of you know, the history of Halloween traces back to the ancient religion of the Celtics in Ireland. They had a big feast at the end of summer called Samhain (pronounced Sah-ween). They believed Samhain was a time when the division between the two worlds became very thin, and hostile supernatural forces were active. It was when the ghosts and spirits of the departed were free to return and wander the earth. Now you know why Halloween was a good time for both departed ghosts and live Prairie Ghosts.
The Celtics also lit bonfires that represented the sun and was used to aid the Druid in his fight with dark powers. The term bonfire comes from the words “bone fire,” meaning the bones of sacrificed animals, and sometimes humans, were piled on wood timbers and set ablaze.
We never lit any fires or sacrificed any animals or humans. We were a little more civilized back in our Prairie Ghost days.
The origins of present day “trick-or-treat” can be traced to Samhain, which was the big night for demonic jubilation. The spirits of the dead rose out of their graves and wandered the countryside, trying to return to the homes where they formerly lived. Frightened people tried to appease the wandering spirits by offering them gifts of fruit and nuts. People also tried to fool the spirits by wearing masks, and dressing up in hideous costumes to blend in with them and fool the “real” ghosts.
In many parts of Britain and Ireland, Halloween was known as “Mischief Night.” That meant that people could go around the villages and countryside playing pranks and getting into any kind of mischief without fear of being punished. In the nineteenth century, the Irish and Scottish immigrants brought this custom to the United States. It developed into what we now call “trick or treat.” If we had only known that bit of information when the Prairie Ghosts roamed the Coon Prairie, we could have blamed those tipped over outhouses and corn shocks on the Scotts and Irish. I’m not saying that us Norske boys ever tipped anything over, but if we had, at least we’d have had someone to blame.
Some of us Prairie Ghosts were known to roam the countryside on Halloween, usually looking for the ghost of Gamle Magretta to make an appearance. We traveled on our trusty Harley’s, our only mode of transportation. Well, I have to be honest; they weren’t exactly Harley’s. They were big, clunky, one-speed, balloon tire bicycles, but we pretended they were Harley’s. We even used baseball cards in the spokes to make a motor sound. We held them in place with a clothes pin. They made quite a racket when you had several bikes flying down the gravel road. We took them out at night when we wanted to sneak up on someone or something. We sure didn’t want Gamla Magretta to know we were around. We’d heard the old stories of how she would kidnap kids and they were never seen again. We didn’t really believe she still returned each Halloween, the night she had been killed, but we weren’t taking any unnecessary chances, just in case.
Almost as chilling as the story about Gamle Magretta, is the thought of all those valuable 1950 baseball cards we destroyed in the spokes of our bikes. That’s a scary thought for Halloween. We may not have sacrificed any bones, but we certainly ended the collectable lives of some valuable baseball cards. Remember, those were the days when the Milwaukee Braves had some real superstars on their team, including a young Hank Aaron, and one of my favorites, left-hander Warren Spahn. I can still name the players at most of the positions during that time: Del Crandall, Joe Adcock, Red Schoendienst, Johnny Logan, Eddie Mathews, Hank Aaron, Billy Bruton, Andy Pafko, Wes Covington, Warren Spahn, Bob Buhl, and Lew Burdette to name a few. Now that’s really scary. This from an old Prairie Ghost who has trouble remembering his cell phone number.
In those days, we listened to the games on the radio. Very few games were televised back in the 50’s, when TV was in its infancy in our house. We only had one channel and, for you young people, we didn’t have color TV or HDTV. Everything was black and white and sometimes when reception wasn’t good, it was like watching a program in a snowstorm. I can even remember seeing TV for the first time when I was around ten years old. Now that’s a real scary Halloween thought.
It’s not surprising to me that Prairie Ghosts roamed the countryside when I was young. We didn’t need reality TV. We weren’t sitting around watching TV or playing computer games. We were creating our own reality and living it.
If you’ve been following Across the Fence for a while, you’ve heard me tell about the Prairie Ghosts. We were a group of neighbor kids who formed a club, and because we lived on Coon Prairie, we called ourselves the Prairie Ghosts. We never had any super great adventures, but with a little embellishment, I could probably come up with some semi-great adventures.
As we know, the best time for ghosts is around Halloween, so it was also a favorite time for the Prairie Ghosts.
As many of you know, the history of Halloween traces back to the ancient religion of the Celtics in Ireland. They had a big feast at the end of summer called Samhain (pronounced Sah-ween). They believed Samhain was a time when the division between the two worlds became very thin, and hostile supernatural forces were active. It was when the ghosts and spirits of the departed were free to return and wander the earth. Now you know why Halloween was a good time for both departed ghosts and live Prairie Ghosts.
The Celtics also lit bonfires that represented the sun and was used to aid the Druid in his fight with dark powers. The term bonfire comes from the words “bone fire,” meaning the bones of sacrificed animals, and sometimes humans, were piled on wood timbers and set ablaze.
We never lit any fires or sacrificed any animals or humans. We were a little more civilized back in our Prairie Ghost days.
The origins of present day “trick-or-treat” can be traced to Samhain, which was the big night for demonic jubilation. The spirits of the dead rose out of their graves and wandered the countryside, trying to return to the homes where they formerly lived. Frightened people tried to appease the wandering spirits by offering them gifts of fruit and nuts. People also tried to fool the spirits by wearing masks, and dressing up in hideous costumes to blend in with them and fool the “real” ghosts.
In many parts of Britain and Ireland, Halloween was known as “Mischief Night.” That meant that people could go around the villages and countryside playing pranks and getting into any kind of mischief without fear of being punished. In the nineteenth century, the Irish and Scottish immigrants brought this custom to the United States. It developed into what we now call “trick or treat.” If we had only known that bit of information when the Prairie Ghosts roamed the Coon Prairie, we could have blamed those tipped over outhouses and corn shocks on the Scotts and Irish. I’m not saying that us Norske boys ever tipped anything over, but if we had, at least we’d have had someone to blame.
Some of us Prairie Ghosts were known to roam the countryside on Halloween, usually looking for the ghost of Gamle Magretta to make an appearance. We traveled on our trusty Harley’s, our only mode of transportation. Well, I have to be honest; they weren’t exactly Harley’s. They were big, clunky, one-speed, balloon tire bicycles, but we pretended they were Harley’s. We even used baseball cards in the spokes to make a motor sound. We held them in place with a clothes pin. They made quite a racket when you had several bikes flying down the gravel road. We took them out at night when we wanted to sneak up on someone or something. We sure didn’t want Gamla Magretta to know we were around. We’d heard the old stories of how she would kidnap kids and they were never seen again. We didn’t really believe she still returned each Halloween, the night she had been killed, but we weren’t taking any unnecessary chances, just in case.
Almost as chilling as the story about Gamle Magretta, is the thought of all those valuable 1950 baseball cards we destroyed in the spokes of our bikes. That’s a scary thought for Halloween. We may not have sacrificed any bones, but we certainly ended the collectable lives of some valuable baseball cards. Remember, those were the days when the Milwaukee Braves had some real superstars on their team, including a young Hank Aaron, and one of my favorites, left-hander Warren Spahn. I can still name the players at most of the positions during that time: Del Crandall, Joe Adcock, Red Schoendienst, Johnny Logan, Eddie Mathews, Hank Aaron, Billy Bruton, Andy Pafko, Wes Covington, Warren Spahn, Bob Buhl, and Lew Burdette to name a few. Now that’s really scary. This from an old Prairie Ghost who has trouble remembering his cell phone number.
In those days, we listened to the games on the radio. Very few games were televised back in the 50’s, when TV was in its infancy in our house. We only had one channel and, for you young people, we didn’t have color TV or HDTV. Everything was black and white and sometimes when reception wasn’t good, it was like watching a program in a snowstorm. I can even remember seeing TV for the first time when I was around ten years old. Now that’s a real scary Halloween thought.
It’s not surprising to me that Prairie Ghosts roamed the countryside when I was young. We didn’t need reality TV. We weren’t sitting around watching TV or playing computer games. We were creating our own reality and living it.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Sweeney
Across the Fence #309
It’s very quiet in Sherpeland tonight. Sweeney, that lovable bundle of energy is back home with Amy and Tim. We were dog-sitting Sweeney while they were on their honeymoon in Ireland. Linda, who has Irish heritage, had offered to carry their bags, but they thought they could handle that job by themselves.
After the wedding, Sweeney came home with us. She’s spent time with us in the country before, but never for two weeks. When the kids were young, we had a Sheltie named Toby. He was the best dog and it really spoiled us. Some dogs can be a real challenge. Sweeney falls into the same category as Toby. She was a joy to have around and no trouble.
All you dog lovers should be able to relate to everything in this story. You know you’re loved and missed when you have a dog. The minute you open the door, you’re attacked, jumped on, licked, and kissed. Even if you’ve only been gone for an hour, you’d think they hadn’t seen you in a month. This greeting can go on for several minutes while you try to work your way into the house. When I came home from work, she was into the front seat and wildly greeting me before I could even get out of the car. Then we had to play in the front yard and throw the Frisbee before I could go inside. She also ran in circles as fast as she could, around me, around the car, and sometimes around the outside of the house. What is it about a dog that makes them chase in circles like that? Every dog I remember has done that.
All this chasing around can be interesting for a guy like me who has a few years on this old body. It doesn’t react like a twenty-year-old body, or even a fifty-year-old body. I must have pulled a groin muscle during one of our chasing and playing escapades. My body can no longer stop on a dime and do a quick turn without something snapping, crackling, or popping. I sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies walking down the street! I’m still walking rather gingerly. A friend informed me it’s gonna’ take a long time to heal, especially at my age. Thanks, I needed to hear that.
You can’t let a little pain interfere with your fun, so Sweeney and I spent a lot of time exploring the fields and wooded areas around our place. She loves to explore as much as I do. As you dog lovers know, there’s something about gross and stinky things that attracts a dog and compels them to roll in it. It can be half a mile away and they head for it like a heat-seeking missile. Unfortunately, the honey wagons were busy spraying liquid manure on the fields around us while Sweeney was with us. I don’t have to tell you what that smell can do to a dog’s fur. It’s a toss up between being sprayed by a skunk or rolling in liquid manure, as to which is the more offensive smell. It’s one of the perks of living in the country.
Sweeney also loves to go for rides in the car. Almost every evening we went for a ride around the countryside. Dogs love to have their nose out the window, sniffing the air. I wonder if they ever get a bug up their nose while going fifty miles an hour? That would tend to hurt. She rode in the back seat, with her head always between us as she observed everything we passed: cows, Amish buggies and horses, lamas, squirrels, deer, and of course, cats that commanded her utmost attention.
Every day, she helped Linda get the mail, and had to carry a piece of mail to the house. Junk mail and political flyers were her specialty. She also carried her dish to the dishwasher after finishing eating. She’s a well-trained dog and wants to help do things.
Sleeping was an adventure. She slept in her bed on the floor in our bedroom, at least for the first part of the night. Sometime during the night, she’d hop up on our bed and plop down between us. I guess she found it more cozy having company. I’d wake up with a paw in my face or her tongue cleaning my ears, face, and neck. Sometimes she rested her head on my neck. I preferred that to her butt-end in my face. When the alarm rang, she was ready to greet the day at full speed. The first order of business, after sniffing the morning air, was a trip to the hayfield. She trotted off to do her duties in the privacy of the tall grass. Better there than in the middle of the lawn.
I guess I failed to mention that Sweeney is half German Shepherd and half Collie, so she’s a good sized dog. Those are known as two of the smartest breeds of dogs and it really shows in her. She’s smart, affectionate, rambunctious, curious, helpful, and a joy to have around. But then all people say that about their grandchildren, and in our case our granddog.
As much as she liked being with us, she went wild when she saw Amy and Tim. You just can’t beat a dog for a faithful, loving companion.
It’s very quiet in Sherpeland tonight. Sweeney, that lovable bundle of energy is back home with Amy and Tim. We were dog-sitting Sweeney while they were on their honeymoon in Ireland. Linda, who has Irish heritage, had offered to carry their bags, but they thought they could handle that job by themselves.
After the wedding, Sweeney came home with us. She’s spent time with us in the country before, but never for two weeks. When the kids were young, we had a Sheltie named Toby. He was the best dog and it really spoiled us. Some dogs can be a real challenge. Sweeney falls into the same category as Toby. She was a joy to have around and no trouble.
All you dog lovers should be able to relate to everything in this story. You know you’re loved and missed when you have a dog. The minute you open the door, you’re attacked, jumped on, licked, and kissed. Even if you’ve only been gone for an hour, you’d think they hadn’t seen you in a month. This greeting can go on for several minutes while you try to work your way into the house. When I came home from work, she was into the front seat and wildly greeting me before I could even get out of the car. Then we had to play in the front yard and throw the Frisbee before I could go inside. She also ran in circles as fast as she could, around me, around the car, and sometimes around the outside of the house. What is it about a dog that makes them chase in circles like that? Every dog I remember has done that.
All this chasing around can be interesting for a guy like me who has a few years on this old body. It doesn’t react like a twenty-year-old body, or even a fifty-year-old body. I must have pulled a groin muscle during one of our chasing and playing escapades. My body can no longer stop on a dime and do a quick turn without something snapping, crackling, or popping. I sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies walking down the street! I’m still walking rather gingerly. A friend informed me it’s gonna’ take a long time to heal, especially at my age. Thanks, I needed to hear that.
You can’t let a little pain interfere with your fun, so Sweeney and I spent a lot of time exploring the fields and wooded areas around our place. She loves to explore as much as I do. As you dog lovers know, there’s something about gross and stinky things that attracts a dog and compels them to roll in it. It can be half a mile away and they head for it like a heat-seeking missile. Unfortunately, the honey wagons were busy spraying liquid manure on the fields around us while Sweeney was with us. I don’t have to tell you what that smell can do to a dog’s fur. It’s a toss up between being sprayed by a skunk or rolling in liquid manure, as to which is the more offensive smell. It’s one of the perks of living in the country.
Sweeney also loves to go for rides in the car. Almost every evening we went for a ride around the countryside. Dogs love to have their nose out the window, sniffing the air. I wonder if they ever get a bug up their nose while going fifty miles an hour? That would tend to hurt. She rode in the back seat, with her head always between us as she observed everything we passed: cows, Amish buggies and horses, lamas, squirrels, deer, and of course, cats that commanded her utmost attention.
Every day, she helped Linda get the mail, and had to carry a piece of mail to the house. Junk mail and political flyers were her specialty. She also carried her dish to the dishwasher after finishing eating. She’s a well-trained dog and wants to help do things.
Sleeping was an adventure. She slept in her bed on the floor in our bedroom, at least for the first part of the night. Sometime during the night, she’d hop up on our bed and plop down between us. I guess she found it more cozy having company. I’d wake up with a paw in my face or her tongue cleaning my ears, face, and neck. Sometimes she rested her head on my neck. I preferred that to her butt-end in my face. When the alarm rang, she was ready to greet the day at full speed. The first order of business, after sniffing the morning air, was a trip to the hayfield. She trotted off to do her duties in the privacy of the tall grass. Better there than in the middle of the lawn.
I guess I failed to mention that Sweeney is half German Shepherd and half Collie, so she’s a good sized dog. Those are known as two of the smartest breeds of dogs and it really shows in her. She’s smart, affectionate, rambunctious, curious, helpful, and a joy to have around. But then all people say that about their grandchildren, and in our case our granddog.
As much as she liked being with us, she went wild when she saw Amy and Tim. You just can’t beat a dog for a faithful, loving companion.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Fall Harvest Is Shocking
Across the Fence #308
Corn shocks stand like lonely sentinels, guarding the last memories of a vanishing lifestyle. A backdrop of changing colors in the woods bordering the cornfield signals the arrival of fall. A flock of geese passing overhead completes the picture as they talk among themselves. It’s fall and the harvest has begun.
The sight of corn shocks and pumpkins in a field represents what the fall season is to me, in the pictures in my mind. Today, corn shocks are as scarce as hen’s teeth around the countryside, unless you head for Amish country. We have a large Amish community within a few miles of Westby. As we drove around the area last weekend, we were once again treated to the sight of fields filled with corn shocks. It was a welcome sight and brought back memories of how farming used to be on most farms.
Today I can watch monstrous combines going through the fields around us, day and night, as they clear huge fields of soybeans in a fraction of the time it used to take. Soon they’ll be stripping the cornfields bare, shelling the corn as they go, and filling semi trucks that haul it from the fields. Today, fall harvesting is big, fast, and in many ways impersonal.
Many of you can still remember when small farms of one hundred acres, or less, were the norm. Corn shocks were not a novelty in those days. It wasn’t shocking to suddenly come across a field filled with them. What would us young Prairie Ghosts have done on Halloween if we couldn’t have tipped over a few corn shocks? I’m not saying we ever did, but there’s something about a corn shock that attracts young boys and shouts out, “Tip me over!”
Another thing I remember about fall and corn harvesting was helping dad clean up the field of corn that had escaped the corn picker. We used a curved husking peg or knife that was strapped to the palm of a heavy, leather strap that fit around our hand. We used it to rip open the husks, break off the corncob, and throw it in a wagon. In those days, nothing was wasted. Perhaps some of you can remember when you picked whole fields of corn using the husking peg and threw the ears against a “bang board” on a wagon pulled by horses. I wish I could find one of those husking pegs back. The old ones we used must have been relegated to the dump long ago.
I also remember harvesting as being a neighborly event, with lots of good food involved. It was a time when neighbors got together and helped each other with the harvest. Meals were looked forward to and every farmer knew who the best cooks in the neighborhood were. Sometimes long tables and chairs were set up on the lawn because there wasn’t enough room in the house. The women slaved over the hot cooking stove all day preparing the meals. There were large bowls of mashed potatoes, rich gravy, big platters of meat, home-grown vegetables, pickled beets, cole slaw, home-made bread and lefse, topped off with fresh pie and steaming cups of coffee. My mother was known for her great meals and pies. No one ever went away hungry. The meals, shared by the neighbors, were a big part of the harvest. I suspect the men doing the harvesting today, and running those big combines and semis on corporate farms, are missing out on the best part of the fall harvest… the wonderful meals and neighbors working side by side as they helped each other.
When I feel the brisk winds of fall, as darkness begins to envelope the land, I remember sitting in an empty wagon at the end of the cornfield. It’s dark and cold. The stars shine brightly overhead in the clear, crisp sky. The light from the tractor makes strange, scary shadows dance among the corn stalks. The air is filled with the distinctive “putt-putt-putt” of the idling John Deere B tractor. In the distance I see the lights of the corn picker coming through the corn stalks. I hear the hum of the machine as it severs the stalks, and the continual “clunk, clunk, clunk” of ears of corn landing in the wagon box. The corn picker finally reaches us. Among the sounds and lights from the tractors and corn picker, there’s a flurry of activity as the full wagon is exchanged for the empty one. Throw in some snowflakes dancing in the lights, and it becomes a magical scene.
When a wagon was full, we hauled it from the field to the corncrib, where we shoveled the corncobs into the crib. It was heavy, hard work, especially when I was younger. Now most corncribs are gone, along with one and two row corn pickers. Gravity boxes replaced the old wood wagons, and now large trucks and semis are replacing the gravity box. Those huge combines have replaced the need for neighbors to get together and help each other with the harvest.
All this mechanization has allowed farms to get bigger and the harvest go faster, with fewer people involved. But to me, fall harvest is still represented by those shocks of corn, standing tall and reminding us of another time and place, where neighbors even talked across the fence.
Corn shocks stand like lonely sentinels, guarding the last memories of a vanishing lifestyle. A backdrop of changing colors in the woods bordering the cornfield signals the arrival of fall. A flock of geese passing overhead completes the picture as they talk among themselves. It’s fall and the harvest has begun.
The sight of corn shocks and pumpkins in a field represents what the fall season is to me, in the pictures in my mind. Today, corn shocks are as scarce as hen’s teeth around the countryside, unless you head for Amish country. We have a large Amish community within a few miles of Westby. As we drove around the area last weekend, we were once again treated to the sight of fields filled with corn shocks. It was a welcome sight and brought back memories of how farming used to be on most farms.
Today I can watch monstrous combines going through the fields around us, day and night, as they clear huge fields of soybeans in a fraction of the time it used to take. Soon they’ll be stripping the cornfields bare, shelling the corn as they go, and filling semi trucks that haul it from the fields. Today, fall harvesting is big, fast, and in many ways impersonal.
Many of you can still remember when small farms of one hundred acres, or less, were the norm. Corn shocks were not a novelty in those days. It wasn’t shocking to suddenly come across a field filled with them. What would us young Prairie Ghosts have done on Halloween if we couldn’t have tipped over a few corn shocks? I’m not saying we ever did, but there’s something about a corn shock that attracts young boys and shouts out, “Tip me over!”
Another thing I remember about fall and corn harvesting was helping dad clean up the field of corn that had escaped the corn picker. We used a curved husking peg or knife that was strapped to the palm of a heavy, leather strap that fit around our hand. We used it to rip open the husks, break off the corncob, and throw it in a wagon. In those days, nothing was wasted. Perhaps some of you can remember when you picked whole fields of corn using the husking peg and threw the ears against a “bang board” on a wagon pulled by horses. I wish I could find one of those husking pegs back. The old ones we used must have been relegated to the dump long ago.
I also remember harvesting as being a neighborly event, with lots of good food involved. It was a time when neighbors got together and helped each other with the harvest. Meals were looked forward to and every farmer knew who the best cooks in the neighborhood were. Sometimes long tables and chairs were set up on the lawn because there wasn’t enough room in the house. The women slaved over the hot cooking stove all day preparing the meals. There were large bowls of mashed potatoes, rich gravy, big platters of meat, home-grown vegetables, pickled beets, cole slaw, home-made bread and lefse, topped off with fresh pie and steaming cups of coffee. My mother was known for her great meals and pies. No one ever went away hungry. The meals, shared by the neighbors, were a big part of the harvest. I suspect the men doing the harvesting today, and running those big combines and semis on corporate farms, are missing out on the best part of the fall harvest… the wonderful meals and neighbors working side by side as they helped each other.
When I feel the brisk winds of fall, as darkness begins to envelope the land, I remember sitting in an empty wagon at the end of the cornfield. It’s dark and cold. The stars shine brightly overhead in the clear, crisp sky. The light from the tractor makes strange, scary shadows dance among the corn stalks. The air is filled with the distinctive “putt-putt-putt” of the idling John Deere B tractor. In the distance I see the lights of the corn picker coming through the corn stalks. I hear the hum of the machine as it severs the stalks, and the continual “clunk, clunk, clunk” of ears of corn landing in the wagon box. The corn picker finally reaches us. Among the sounds and lights from the tractors and corn picker, there’s a flurry of activity as the full wagon is exchanged for the empty one. Throw in some snowflakes dancing in the lights, and it becomes a magical scene.
When a wagon was full, we hauled it from the field to the corncrib, where we shoveled the corncobs into the crib. It was heavy, hard work, especially when I was younger. Now most corncribs are gone, along with one and two row corn pickers. Gravity boxes replaced the old wood wagons, and now large trucks and semis are replacing the gravity box. Those huge combines have replaced the need for neighbors to get together and help each other with the harvest.
All this mechanization has allowed farms to get bigger and the harvest go faster, with fewer people involved. But to me, fall harvest is still represented by those shocks of corn, standing tall and reminding us of another time and place, where neighbors even talked across the fence.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
A Very Special Moment
Across the Fence #307
Where does the time go? Where has the summer gone? What happened to the past year? Time marches on and it seems like the older I get, the faster the hands on the clock seem to go around. I guess I should expect it. I’ve been over the hill for many years now, and we all know an object picks up speed when rolling downhill.
I realized how fast the time has gone when I walked our daughter, Amy, down the aisle this past Saturday. It seems like only yesterday when I was there as she was born and got to carry her from the delivery room to the nursery. That was a memorable experience in fatherhood. Saturday I got to experience another of the great moments of being a parent. All you fathers who have walked your daughter down the aisle know what I mean. It’s a moment I’ll always remember.
Some friends asked if I was nervous or shed a few tears. I said no, I wasn’t nervous, and was very happy for Amy and Tim. Parents want only the best for their children and want them to be happy. This was a happy, wonderful day.
An outdoor ceremony was planned and the rehearsal late Friday afternoon became an unforgettable experience too. It was cold and very windy. It had rained almost every day of the week. Amy’s new in-laws from Mississippi must have thought they were in the middle of a Wisconsin winter. Saturday, it was cool and cloudy, but the wind and rain stayed away. I like to think all those ancestors who have entered the great unknown, were there in spirit and blocked the wind and rain from dampening the ceremony. The Force was definitely with us.
Tim’s best friend, Kevin, was the Best Man. He was also the officiating minister. Amy and Tim wanted him to handle both jobs and he did great. It’s not easy being in two roles. When it came to the ring part of the ceremony, he held the notebook containing the ceremony in one hand, while fishing in his pocket for Amy’s ring. As he pulled it out and handed it to Tim, he realized it was Tim’s ring. He smiled and said, “Not that ring,” put it back in his pocket and pulled out the other one. It was one of those great moments where everyone laughed and it added to the feeling of one big family celebrating the union of these two people.
Another interesting sidelight, Tim and his father are die-hard Arkansas fans. Kevin on the other hand, is an Alabama fan. They just happened to be playing each other in football as the ceremony was going on.
Our son, Erik, and Tim’s friend, Patrick, also had dual roles as Groomsmen and ushers. Amy’s best friend since first grade, Genny, was the Maid of Honor. Her cousin, Erin, and a college friend, Tracy, were Bridesmaids. I should note that all three of them had babies within the last five months. That must have made for an interesting time fitting the dresses.
Tradition has the father of the bride giving a toast at the reception. I’ve carved many Norwegian ale bowls for other weddings around the country, and wanted to give one to Amy and Tim too. I’ve had very little time for wood carving since moving to Westby, but wanted to get one carved in time for their wedding. I completed it three days before the wedding. Nothing like putting a little pressure on myself. I surprised them with the ale bowl at the reception, and drank the wedding toast from it. They also drank a toast from it. Luckily, none of us spilled any on our clothes. Linda was a little worried about that. It’s one thing for an old Viking to slobber all over himself while tipping up an ale bowl, but it wouldn’t do much for a wedding dress or tux.
Now the wedding of our daughter is history. We came away from it with a wonderful weekend of memories with family and friends. Every parent hopes their children will find someone to spend the rest of their life with and share experiences with, someone who will treat them good and love them unconditionally. Linda and I are happy for Amy and Tim. We wish them a long, happy life together. We also welcome his southern family into our northern family, but I don’t think they’ll be making many visits up here to the frozen tundra during the winter months.
Now we’re dog sitting while they’re on their honeymoon in Ireland. Sweeney should give me a lot of good material for future columns. She’s a great dog, but I don’t think I can keep up to her level of energy. Stay tuned.
Yes, time does fly. Life is filled with adventures and special moments. As I look back on life with Erik and Amy, I wonder where the time went. My advice to young parents is to enjoy every moment. It goes so fast. I don’t usually write about our kids because I want to respect their privacy. However, it’s not every day you have a child get married. I’m glad I’ve had the privilege of watching Amy blossom into a beautiful, young woman, and got to walk her down the aisle. It was a very special moment.
Where does the time go? Where has the summer gone? What happened to the past year? Time marches on and it seems like the older I get, the faster the hands on the clock seem to go around. I guess I should expect it. I’ve been over the hill for many years now, and we all know an object picks up speed when rolling downhill.
I realized how fast the time has gone when I walked our daughter, Amy, down the aisle this past Saturday. It seems like only yesterday when I was there as she was born and got to carry her from the delivery room to the nursery. That was a memorable experience in fatherhood. Saturday I got to experience another of the great moments of being a parent. All you fathers who have walked your daughter down the aisle know what I mean. It’s a moment I’ll always remember.
Some friends asked if I was nervous or shed a few tears. I said no, I wasn’t nervous, and was very happy for Amy and Tim. Parents want only the best for their children and want them to be happy. This was a happy, wonderful day.
An outdoor ceremony was planned and the rehearsal late Friday afternoon became an unforgettable experience too. It was cold and very windy. It had rained almost every day of the week. Amy’s new in-laws from Mississippi must have thought they were in the middle of a Wisconsin winter. Saturday, it was cool and cloudy, but the wind and rain stayed away. I like to think all those ancestors who have entered the great unknown, were there in spirit and blocked the wind and rain from dampening the ceremony. The Force was definitely with us.
Tim’s best friend, Kevin, was the Best Man. He was also the officiating minister. Amy and Tim wanted him to handle both jobs and he did great. It’s not easy being in two roles. When it came to the ring part of the ceremony, he held the notebook containing the ceremony in one hand, while fishing in his pocket for Amy’s ring. As he pulled it out and handed it to Tim, he realized it was Tim’s ring. He smiled and said, “Not that ring,” put it back in his pocket and pulled out the other one. It was one of those great moments where everyone laughed and it added to the feeling of one big family celebrating the union of these two people.
Another interesting sidelight, Tim and his father are die-hard Arkansas fans. Kevin on the other hand, is an Alabama fan. They just happened to be playing each other in football as the ceremony was going on.
Our son, Erik, and Tim’s friend, Patrick, also had dual roles as Groomsmen and ushers. Amy’s best friend since first grade, Genny, was the Maid of Honor. Her cousin, Erin, and a college friend, Tracy, were Bridesmaids. I should note that all three of them had babies within the last five months. That must have made for an interesting time fitting the dresses.
Tradition has the father of the bride giving a toast at the reception. I’ve carved many Norwegian ale bowls for other weddings around the country, and wanted to give one to Amy and Tim too. I’ve had very little time for wood carving since moving to Westby, but wanted to get one carved in time for their wedding. I completed it three days before the wedding. Nothing like putting a little pressure on myself. I surprised them with the ale bowl at the reception, and drank the wedding toast from it. They also drank a toast from it. Luckily, none of us spilled any on our clothes. Linda was a little worried about that. It’s one thing for an old Viking to slobber all over himself while tipping up an ale bowl, but it wouldn’t do much for a wedding dress or tux.
Now the wedding of our daughter is history. We came away from it with a wonderful weekend of memories with family and friends. Every parent hopes their children will find someone to spend the rest of their life with and share experiences with, someone who will treat them good and love them unconditionally. Linda and I are happy for Amy and Tim. We wish them a long, happy life together. We also welcome his southern family into our northern family, but I don’t think they’ll be making many visits up here to the frozen tundra during the winter months.
Now we’re dog sitting while they’re on their honeymoon in Ireland. Sweeney should give me a lot of good material for future columns. She’s a great dog, but I don’t think I can keep up to her level of energy. Stay tuned.
Yes, time does fly. Life is filled with adventures and special moments. As I look back on life with Erik and Amy, I wonder where the time went. My advice to young parents is to enjoy every moment. It goes so fast. I don’t usually write about our kids because I want to respect their privacy. However, it’s not every day you have a child get married. I’m glad I’ve had the privilege of watching Amy blossom into a beautiful, young woman, and got to walk her down the aisle. It was a very special moment.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Earth: A Tiny, Pale, Blue Dot
Across the Fence #306
I have a book called Wisconsin Starwatch by Mike Lynch. It helps put some of the scientific and astronomical distances into perspective. For instance:
The Apollo spacecraft that traveled to the moon in the late 1960s and early ‘70s made the lunar voyage in about three days. Keep in mind that the moon is only 222,000 to 252,000 miles from the earth at any given phase in its orbit. At the rate Apollo traveled, it would take around 450 billion years for it to reach the Andromeda Galaxy... our next-door neighbor and closest galaxy! Just since the Hubble Telescope began searching beyond our galaxy, billions of galaxies, over 13 billion light years away, have been found. Just over eighty years ago, astronomers believed the Milky Way was all there was to the universe!
Mike Lynch likes to scale down sizes and distances to better understand them. For example, if you shrink the sun’s diameter from 864,000 miles to about the size of a period on this page, then on that same scale, the next closest star, Proxima Centauri, is more than 5 miles away, the diameter of the Milky Way is more than 120,000 miles, and the distance to the Andromeda Galaxy is 3 million miles.
Those are mind-boggling numbers and facts. No one can tell me there isn't other life out there somewhere. Things have changed drastically within our lifetime and have opened up whole new worlds. I find that very exciting, and it stimulates my thinking. I find it very hard to understand how some people still believe that life as we know it is only 10,000 years old!!
In 1990, after the Voyager 1 spacecraft was at the end of its primary mission, Carl Sagan lobbied NASA to turn the spacecraft around and take a photograph of earth from the distant edge of our solar system, the Milky Way Galaxy, at approximately 3.7 billion miles away.
The result was a picture showing earth as a fraction of a pixel, a tiny, pale blue dot in the vastness of space.
Later, in a commencement address delivered on May 11, 1996, Sagan related his thoughts on the deeper meaning of the photograph:
“Look again at that dot. That’s here, that’s home, that’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every politician, every “superstar,” every “supreme leader,” every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena…
“Its been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.”
Carl Sagan covers a lot of ground with those words. This tiny, blue dot is our home. It’s been home for countless generations before us, and hopefully countless generations after us. When you look at earth from space there are no borders or fences on this tiny, blue dot. You don’t see different colors of people, different religions, different beliefs, and different political parties, that always seem to be arguing and fighting over who is right, and trying to kill each other.
Stargazing in the country on a dark, clear night, puts everything into perspective. In this time of big-city living, I’d be willing to bet that most people have never taken time to star gaze. Not that they could see anything, even if they tried. City lights block out the stars, imprisoning people in their own little world, unable to see the life and wonders beyond that narrow perspective.
Just as a prisoner needs to break free in order to experience life outside the prison walls, we need to break free and head to the countryside in order to see life beyond our earthly boundaries. This has become very evident to me since we moved to the country near Westby.
Here in the countryside, unhindered by city lights and pollution, we can look up and have the experience of seeing the night sky filled with stars, literally billions of them. It’s an awesome and humbling experience as a person contemplates the enormity of it all.
It puts everything back into perspective. When I look out at the billions of stars, I realize I’m a minor blip on this tiny, pale, blue dot. I’m not the center of the universe. But, I also feel special, knowing that I’m part of all this, and I marvel at the complexity of life forces that brought this entire world, and everything in it, into existence. Is all this merely chance, a roll of the evolutionary dice, or is this tiny, pale, blue dot part of some master plan?
Those are just some of my thoughts, as I stargazed on a clear, cool, autumn evening.
I have a book called Wisconsin Starwatch by Mike Lynch. It helps put some of the scientific and astronomical distances into perspective. For instance:
The Apollo spacecraft that traveled to the moon in the late 1960s and early ‘70s made the lunar voyage in about three days. Keep in mind that the moon is only 222,000 to 252,000 miles from the earth at any given phase in its orbit. At the rate Apollo traveled, it would take around 450 billion years for it to reach the Andromeda Galaxy... our next-door neighbor and closest galaxy! Just since the Hubble Telescope began searching beyond our galaxy, billions of galaxies, over 13 billion light years away, have been found. Just over eighty years ago, astronomers believed the Milky Way was all there was to the universe!
Mike Lynch likes to scale down sizes and distances to better understand them. For example, if you shrink the sun’s diameter from 864,000 miles to about the size of a period on this page, then on that same scale, the next closest star, Proxima Centauri, is more than 5 miles away, the diameter of the Milky Way is more than 120,000 miles, and the distance to the Andromeda Galaxy is 3 million miles.
Those are mind-boggling numbers and facts. No one can tell me there isn't other life out there somewhere. Things have changed drastically within our lifetime and have opened up whole new worlds. I find that very exciting, and it stimulates my thinking. I find it very hard to understand how some people still believe that life as we know it is only 10,000 years old!!
In 1990, after the Voyager 1 spacecraft was at the end of its primary mission, Carl Sagan lobbied NASA to turn the spacecraft around and take a photograph of earth from the distant edge of our solar system, the Milky Way Galaxy, at approximately 3.7 billion miles away.
The result was a picture showing earth as a fraction of a pixel, a tiny, pale blue dot in the vastness of space.
Later, in a commencement address delivered on May 11, 1996, Sagan related his thoughts on the deeper meaning of the photograph:
“Look again at that dot. That’s here, that’s home, that’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every politician, every “superstar,” every “supreme leader,” every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena…
“Its been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.”
Carl Sagan covers a lot of ground with those words. This tiny, blue dot is our home. It’s been home for countless generations before us, and hopefully countless generations after us. When you look at earth from space there are no borders or fences on this tiny, blue dot. You don’t see different colors of people, different religions, different beliefs, and different political parties, that always seem to be arguing and fighting over who is right, and trying to kill each other.
Stargazing in the country on a dark, clear night, puts everything into perspective. In this time of big-city living, I’d be willing to bet that most people have never taken time to star gaze. Not that they could see anything, even if they tried. City lights block out the stars, imprisoning people in their own little world, unable to see the life and wonders beyond that narrow perspective.
Just as a prisoner needs to break free in order to experience life outside the prison walls, we need to break free and head to the countryside in order to see life beyond our earthly boundaries. This has become very evident to me since we moved to the country near Westby.
Here in the countryside, unhindered by city lights and pollution, we can look up and have the experience of seeing the night sky filled with stars, literally billions of them. It’s an awesome and humbling experience as a person contemplates the enormity of it all.
It puts everything back into perspective. When I look out at the billions of stars, I realize I’m a minor blip on this tiny, pale, blue dot. I’m not the center of the universe. But, I also feel special, knowing that I’m part of all this, and I marvel at the complexity of life forces that brought this entire world, and everything in it, into existence. Is all this merely chance, a roll of the evolutionary dice, or is this tiny, pale, blue dot part of some master plan?
Those are just some of my thoughts, as I stargazed on a clear, cool, autumn evening.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Silos Are Filled With Stories
Across the Fence #305
This week the corn on the fields of the back forty behind our house, disappeared faster than Rolaids at a hot chili eating contest. Times have sure changed since the days of a one-row picker pulled behind a tractor. We thought things were really changing when we saw the first two-row picker mounted on the front of a tractor. When I think of those days, I can smell the sweet scent of corn silage, freshly chopped in the field.
We were always in school when the silo fillers came to chop the corn and blow it up into the silos. We’d hurry home from school so we could get in on some of the adventure. When we got to haul the wagons from the field to the silo we thought we had been promoted to the major league. It was fun, but scary too. It was tricky pulling the big chopper wagon filled with silage alongside the blower and stopping in the right spot.
After the wagon was in place, we pulled the silage from the back of the wagon, using curved forks, into the auger of the blower that sent the silage rattling up the pipe and into the silo. That was a dangerous job. Many farmers have lost an arm or leg, or been killed, when they got caught in the auger. It’s easy to see why farming is such a dangerous occupation. You’re always working around moving parts that can quickly entangle you and pull you in. Maybe it’s that sense of danger that added to the silo adventure when we were young.
Speaking of danger, this silo story about three of my friends from grade school at Smith, is filled with danger. One day the three girls decided to climb up the “outside” of the silo on one of their farms. They didn’t use a ladder. They climbed up the rungs around the silo. Uff da, I wouldn’t even try that. When they were near the top, the mother of two of the girls came out of the house and almost had a heart attack when she saw them. She didn’t dare to yell for fear they would become startled and fall. She walked to the base of the silo and in a calm voice said, “You girls better come down now.” I’d like to know what she said after they were safely on the ground!
I know another guy who climbed up the chute of an empty silo, and then walked around the top of that silo. That’s quite a balancing act. I think all four of those friends missed their calling in life. They should have joined the circus and performed death-defying feats on a high wire.
Silo stories have always generated comments and letters from readers. I received this note about silo adventures from Kathy in Iowa.
“I read your story in the Linn News-Letter about silos. It brought back several silo incidents, that at the time were not funny, but we can laugh about them now. My husband, Tim, and I milked between 60-100 head of Holsteins and Brown Swiss for 20 years. We have two 60-foot silos, both with roofs and silo unloaders. With that number of dairy cattle, for that length of time, we had many “silo experiences.” One of those days when the silo unloader wasn’t cooperating, Tim had to climb up the dark chute and get inside. My job was to remain below and listen for him to signal me to crank the unloader up or down, or turn it on. As he was pitching out some silage by hand, I stood back to let it fall in the bunk that I was standing in. There was a pause, then he yelled something. Not being sure what he had just said, I went under the chute and yelled up, ‘What did you say?’ Just as he started to speak again, a huge raccoon landed on my head and shoulders. I started screaming hysterically as the poor, frightened raccoon scampered off. Tim soon emerged from the chute laughing and asked me if I was OK. I shakily replied yes, then asked him what he had said when he yelled down the chute to me. He answered, ‘A raccoon is coming down!’ I can still remember the weight of it on my head and shoulders, and feel that fur in my face. I would prefer it in the form of a coonskin hat or collar.
“Both silos stand unused now. We no longer milk cows. One silo is empty, but the other has a some old silage left in it. Last fall I saw a raccoon climb up the side, onto the ladder, and duck inside the chute, probably looking for a place to hibernate for the winter.
“Keep up the great stories. Being raised on a farm that raised hogs, sheep, chickens, and dairy, has left me with many wonderful and colorful experiences. Raising our three children on the farm, has undoubtedly left them with many memories also. Your stories help me remember and make me smile. The one about the old barn is another story that really spoke to me.”
Yes Kathy, there are many stories to tell. Most of those old silos that were once filled with silage, now stand empty, but they are all filled with great stories.
This week the corn on the fields of the back forty behind our house, disappeared faster than Rolaids at a hot chili eating contest. Times have sure changed since the days of a one-row picker pulled behind a tractor. We thought things were really changing when we saw the first two-row picker mounted on the front of a tractor. When I think of those days, I can smell the sweet scent of corn silage, freshly chopped in the field.
We were always in school when the silo fillers came to chop the corn and blow it up into the silos. We’d hurry home from school so we could get in on some of the adventure. When we got to haul the wagons from the field to the silo we thought we had been promoted to the major league. It was fun, but scary too. It was tricky pulling the big chopper wagon filled with silage alongside the blower and stopping in the right spot.
After the wagon was in place, we pulled the silage from the back of the wagon, using curved forks, into the auger of the blower that sent the silage rattling up the pipe and into the silo. That was a dangerous job. Many farmers have lost an arm or leg, or been killed, when they got caught in the auger. It’s easy to see why farming is such a dangerous occupation. You’re always working around moving parts that can quickly entangle you and pull you in. Maybe it’s that sense of danger that added to the silo adventure when we were young.
Speaking of danger, this silo story about three of my friends from grade school at Smith, is filled with danger. One day the three girls decided to climb up the “outside” of the silo on one of their farms. They didn’t use a ladder. They climbed up the rungs around the silo. Uff da, I wouldn’t even try that. When they were near the top, the mother of two of the girls came out of the house and almost had a heart attack when she saw them. She didn’t dare to yell for fear they would become startled and fall. She walked to the base of the silo and in a calm voice said, “You girls better come down now.” I’d like to know what she said after they were safely on the ground!
I know another guy who climbed up the chute of an empty silo, and then walked around the top of that silo. That’s quite a balancing act. I think all four of those friends missed their calling in life. They should have joined the circus and performed death-defying feats on a high wire.
Silo stories have always generated comments and letters from readers. I received this note about silo adventures from Kathy in Iowa.
“I read your story in the Linn News-Letter about silos. It brought back several silo incidents, that at the time were not funny, but we can laugh about them now. My husband, Tim, and I milked between 60-100 head of Holsteins and Brown Swiss for 20 years. We have two 60-foot silos, both with roofs and silo unloaders. With that number of dairy cattle, for that length of time, we had many “silo experiences.” One of those days when the silo unloader wasn’t cooperating, Tim had to climb up the dark chute and get inside. My job was to remain below and listen for him to signal me to crank the unloader up or down, or turn it on. As he was pitching out some silage by hand, I stood back to let it fall in the bunk that I was standing in. There was a pause, then he yelled something. Not being sure what he had just said, I went under the chute and yelled up, ‘What did you say?’ Just as he started to speak again, a huge raccoon landed on my head and shoulders. I started screaming hysterically as the poor, frightened raccoon scampered off. Tim soon emerged from the chute laughing and asked me if I was OK. I shakily replied yes, then asked him what he had said when he yelled down the chute to me. He answered, ‘A raccoon is coming down!’ I can still remember the weight of it on my head and shoulders, and feel that fur in my face. I would prefer it in the form of a coonskin hat or collar.
“Both silos stand unused now. We no longer milk cows. One silo is empty, but the other has a some old silage left in it. Last fall I saw a raccoon climb up the side, onto the ladder, and duck inside the chute, probably looking for a place to hibernate for the winter.
“Keep up the great stories. Being raised on a farm that raised hogs, sheep, chickens, and dairy, has left me with many wonderful and colorful experiences. Raising our three children on the farm, has undoubtedly left them with many memories also. Your stories help me remember and make me smile. The one about the old barn is another story that really spoke to me.”
Yes Kathy, there are many stories to tell. Most of those old silos that were once filled with silage, now stand empty, but they are all filled with great stories.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
The Days of Part Summer, Part Fall
Across the Fence #304
We’re now enjoying the days that I refer to as part summer, part fall. One day it’s 90 degrees and short sleeve weather. Two days later a cold wave swoops down upon us, plunging temperatures into the 40’s and 50’s, and giving us thoughts of sweatshirts and long underwear. Cold, gray skies block the sun’s warmth, making it feel even colder. Jackets and sweatshirts replace t-shirts and shorts.
It’s September and the days are getting shorter and cooler. September reminds us that winter is just around the corner. If I had any say in the matter, I’d give us four months of beautiful, fall weather. That would take us into January. A couple months of snow and freezing temperatures would be enough winter for most people. Then March would transition us back into spring.
That sounds like a plan to me. The older I get, the harder it is to stomach six months of winter. At least it seems like six months to me. On a more positive note, temperatures in the 40’s during January or February would bring out the shorts and t-shirts and people would be sunning themselves on blankets laid out on the snow. We Northerners who don’t head south for the winter are an interesting species.
I know most of our feathered friends have packed up and headed south. One day they were all invading our bird feeders, like a swarm of locusts, and the next day there were only a few Mourning Doves and Sparrows to be found. That evening I watched as flock after flock of birds descended on the cornfield behind the house. The top of the corn became black and the noise from all the birds was a constant racket. Eventually they all rose, as if on command, and a black cloud that must have numbered in the thousands, filled the air. I guess they can feel the part summer, part fall days of September too. They have a long journey ahead of them as they seek out warmer, southern climates and need to get started on their journey. There’s safety in numbers and they have plenty of fellow flyers to chatter with during the long flight.
I have lots of questions about their trip. Who’s the leader of the pack? Is there an Alpha bird that all the rest follow, or do they take turns flying point and everyone else drafts on the leading birds? How do they find their way? Next spring, do the same birds come back to the same areas and nesting places? If they do, it’s truly amazing when you consider that us humans have trouble finding a location when armed with maps, written directions, and a GPS device. One more question, do they tell their friends where the best bird feeders were located the previous year?
Those are just a few of my questions as my mind bounces back and forth between summer and fall weather.
Another species that migrates south are butterflies, but they’re still plentiful around our place. The Monarch butterflies left on their long journey south to Mexico at the end of August, but the Clouded Sulphur, Cabbage, and Alfalfa butterflies are still around in great numbers. Butterflies are as fascinating as birds, and their ability to find their way is just as amazing. Did you know that the Monarchs that return in the spring are the third and fourth generation of those that left in August. Their normal lifespan is only two months? Scientists are still researching how they find their way back. Their flight patterns seem to be inherited or they have an internal sun compass. It’s too bad they don’t have a better radar system to avoid smashing into car windshields.
This was Labor Day weekend, and it always brings back memories of how we would spend the “holiday” laboring in the tobacco fields. Heavy dew on September mornings, reminds me of harvesting tobacco. Early in the morning, the tobacco piles would be wet with dew when we began spearing. It was also cold enough to require a jacket. By noon it was usually t-shirt weather and really hot in the peak of the shed. September can’t seem to make up its mind which way to go.
Lets hope the fickle winds of September blow in some nice, warm, sunny weather on September 25th. That’s the day I walk our daughter down the aisle in an outdoor wedding ceremony in Waukesha. September is always a month of change and transformations. It’s quite fitting to have a wedding during this time of year.
I think fall is my favorite season. The weather is usually mild enough to still go around in short sleeves. It doesn’t take half an hour to put on all the clothes needed for a simple trip to the mailbox, like it does in the heart of winter. I love all the sights, sounds, and smells of fall. Take a walk or bike ride in the country and enjoy the brilliant fall colors, listen to the wind as it rattles the leaves of a field of golden corn, hear the crunching of new-fallen leaves under your feet, and drink in the aroma of the many fall smells. It’s a great time of year, even September, when the migration of birds and butterflies has begun, and the cold winds remind us that change is in the air.
We’re now enjoying the days that I refer to as part summer, part fall. One day it’s 90 degrees and short sleeve weather. Two days later a cold wave swoops down upon us, plunging temperatures into the 40’s and 50’s, and giving us thoughts of sweatshirts and long underwear. Cold, gray skies block the sun’s warmth, making it feel even colder. Jackets and sweatshirts replace t-shirts and shorts.
It’s September and the days are getting shorter and cooler. September reminds us that winter is just around the corner. If I had any say in the matter, I’d give us four months of beautiful, fall weather. That would take us into January. A couple months of snow and freezing temperatures would be enough winter for most people. Then March would transition us back into spring.
That sounds like a plan to me. The older I get, the harder it is to stomach six months of winter. At least it seems like six months to me. On a more positive note, temperatures in the 40’s during January or February would bring out the shorts and t-shirts and people would be sunning themselves on blankets laid out on the snow. We Northerners who don’t head south for the winter are an interesting species.
I know most of our feathered friends have packed up and headed south. One day they were all invading our bird feeders, like a swarm of locusts, and the next day there were only a few Mourning Doves and Sparrows to be found. That evening I watched as flock after flock of birds descended on the cornfield behind the house. The top of the corn became black and the noise from all the birds was a constant racket. Eventually they all rose, as if on command, and a black cloud that must have numbered in the thousands, filled the air. I guess they can feel the part summer, part fall days of September too. They have a long journey ahead of them as they seek out warmer, southern climates and need to get started on their journey. There’s safety in numbers and they have plenty of fellow flyers to chatter with during the long flight.
I have lots of questions about their trip. Who’s the leader of the pack? Is there an Alpha bird that all the rest follow, or do they take turns flying point and everyone else drafts on the leading birds? How do they find their way? Next spring, do the same birds come back to the same areas and nesting places? If they do, it’s truly amazing when you consider that us humans have trouble finding a location when armed with maps, written directions, and a GPS device. One more question, do they tell their friends where the best bird feeders were located the previous year?
Those are just a few of my questions as my mind bounces back and forth between summer and fall weather.
Another species that migrates south are butterflies, but they’re still plentiful around our place. The Monarch butterflies left on their long journey south to Mexico at the end of August, but the Clouded Sulphur, Cabbage, and Alfalfa butterflies are still around in great numbers. Butterflies are as fascinating as birds, and their ability to find their way is just as amazing. Did you know that the Monarchs that return in the spring are the third and fourth generation of those that left in August. Their normal lifespan is only two months? Scientists are still researching how they find their way back. Their flight patterns seem to be inherited or they have an internal sun compass. It’s too bad they don’t have a better radar system to avoid smashing into car windshields.
This was Labor Day weekend, and it always brings back memories of how we would spend the “holiday” laboring in the tobacco fields. Heavy dew on September mornings, reminds me of harvesting tobacco. Early in the morning, the tobacco piles would be wet with dew when we began spearing. It was also cold enough to require a jacket. By noon it was usually t-shirt weather and really hot in the peak of the shed. September can’t seem to make up its mind which way to go.
Lets hope the fickle winds of September blow in some nice, warm, sunny weather on September 25th. That’s the day I walk our daughter down the aisle in an outdoor wedding ceremony in Waukesha. September is always a month of change and transformations. It’s quite fitting to have a wedding during this time of year.
I think fall is my favorite season. The weather is usually mild enough to still go around in short sleeves. It doesn’t take half an hour to put on all the clothes needed for a simple trip to the mailbox, like it does in the heart of winter. I love all the sights, sounds, and smells of fall. Take a walk or bike ride in the country and enjoy the brilliant fall colors, listen to the wind as it rattles the leaves of a field of golden corn, hear the crunching of new-fallen leaves under your feet, and drink in the aroma of the many fall smells. It’s a great time of year, even September, when the migration of birds and butterflies has begun, and the cold winds remind us that change is in the air.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Teachers Can Make A Difference
Across the Fence 303
School will be back in session by the time you read this. Teachers will be busy teaching and students will be listening intently to every word they say. I can “hear” all the teachers asking what planet I live on.
We’ve all had some good teachers and some “not so good” teachers along the way. Once in a while we even encounter a great teacher. These are teachers who have inspired us, have opened our minds, and created a fire in us to learn all that we can about life. I’ve had a few of those wonderful teachers. They made a difference in my life.
I’ve also had a couple of teachers who made me feel like I was the dumbest kid in class. It’s been proven time and again, that if you tell someone enough times that they’re dumb or can’t do something, they’ll begin to believe it and it becomes a reality. The same is true if you give someone encouragement and tell them they can do anything they set their mind to. Their confidence will begin to grow and you can sit back and watch them excel and achieve. A good teacher can make a big difference.
At our recent Smith School reunion, one of our teachers, Corrine (Fredrickson) Zable, mentioned that one of her teachers at the Normal School in Viroqua had been an inspiration to her. That teacher had given her confidence that she could be a teacher. We tend to forget that someone has to teach the students who are learning to be teachers.
The teacher, who had inspired and lit the fire in Corrine, was Naomi (Flugstad) Bekkum. It’s a small world, because Naomi has been a good friend of ours for many years. I never knew that she had been such an influence on Corrine, who was one of my teachers. I’ll put her in the “great teacher” category. I’m not alone in that evaluation. After listening to comments about Corrine at the reunion, it was easy to see that she had a positive impact on all of us who were lucky enough to have her as a teacher.
Now I find out that Naomi had been a big influence on her. I can’t help but think how much life is like a pebble that’s dropped in the water. The circles keep expanding outward, getting bigger, touching and impacting more people all the time. Never underestimate the impact your thoughts and actions may have on someone in the future, who doesn’t even know you.
Over the weekend, Naomi and her husband, Owen, were in Westby, and I had a chance to sit down with her and ask about her teaching career and what she remembered about Corinne, who had been one of her students.
Naomi grew up in Westby and I’ve known her family since I was young. After graduating from Westby High School she attended Luther College in Iowa, where she graduated with a bachelor’s degree in education. She taught for several years in Minnesota and Wisconsin, before being asked by the Vernon County Superintendent of Schools to come to Viroqua and teach at the Normal School, also known as the County Teacher’s College. She said it wasn’t an easy decision, because she was teaching elementary vocal music and high school choir in Richland Center, Wisconsin, and really loved it there.
Luckily, she decided to accept the position in Viroqua, where she taught English, Music, Art, Library, and was in charge of the year-end trip. I have a feeling that not what she taught, but how she taught, made a world of difference, not only to Corrine, but to countless other student teachers. This is where that circle keeps expanding. Her inspiring those student teachers had an impact on their students, and I suspect, that circle continues to expand and touch other people today. That’s why teaching is such an important profession. It’s too bad they aren’t paid what a professional athlete or Hollywood star is paid and vice versa. Our priorities are questionable in my mind.
I’ve always had a questioning mind. Maybe that’s why I was never good at mathematics. Instead of two plus two always equaling four, I’m looking for ways to find a different answer. I was lucky enough to have some teachers who allowed me to open my mind and search for answers, instead of just reciting old dogma. Those were great teachers, who allowed me to expand my horizons and thinking.
When Naomi told me about the year-end trip the student teachers took each year, I could relate. She was in charge of a school bus load of students for three weeks. The students raised the money for the trip, stayed in school gymnasiums at night, and brought canned food from home to eat. Each year was a different location. One year they headed west to Colorado, Wyoming, Yellowstone, and the Black Hills. Naomi said this was the first time many of them had been across the Mississippi bridge in La Crosse. It was a great history and geography lesson for them. They saw things they had only seen in books before. That life experience opened their eyes, expanded the circle, and made them better teachers. Those circles keep expanding.
If you have a teacher, who made a difference in your life, pick up the phone or write a letter and let them know.
School will be back in session by the time you read this. Teachers will be busy teaching and students will be listening intently to every word they say. I can “hear” all the teachers asking what planet I live on.
We’ve all had some good teachers and some “not so good” teachers along the way. Once in a while we even encounter a great teacher. These are teachers who have inspired us, have opened our minds, and created a fire in us to learn all that we can about life. I’ve had a few of those wonderful teachers. They made a difference in my life.
I’ve also had a couple of teachers who made me feel like I was the dumbest kid in class. It’s been proven time and again, that if you tell someone enough times that they’re dumb or can’t do something, they’ll begin to believe it and it becomes a reality. The same is true if you give someone encouragement and tell them they can do anything they set their mind to. Their confidence will begin to grow and you can sit back and watch them excel and achieve. A good teacher can make a big difference.
At our recent Smith School reunion, one of our teachers, Corrine (Fredrickson) Zable, mentioned that one of her teachers at the Normal School in Viroqua had been an inspiration to her. That teacher had given her confidence that she could be a teacher. We tend to forget that someone has to teach the students who are learning to be teachers.
The teacher, who had inspired and lit the fire in Corrine, was Naomi (Flugstad) Bekkum. It’s a small world, because Naomi has been a good friend of ours for many years. I never knew that she had been such an influence on Corrine, who was one of my teachers. I’ll put her in the “great teacher” category. I’m not alone in that evaluation. After listening to comments about Corrine at the reunion, it was easy to see that she had a positive impact on all of us who were lucky enough to have her as a teacher.
Now I find out that Naomi had been a big influence on her. I can’t help but think how much life is like a pebble that’s dropped in the water. The circles keep expanding outward, getting bigger, touching and impacting more people all the time. Never underestimate the impact your thoughts and actions may have on someone in the future, who doesn’t even know you.
Over the weekend, Naomi and her husband, Owen, were in Westby, and I had a chance to sit down with her and ask about her teaching career and what she remembered about Corinne, who had been one of her students.
Naomi grew up in Westby and I’ve known her family since I was young. After graduating from Westby High School she attended Luther College in Iowa, where she graduated with a bachelor’s degree in education. She taught for several years in Minnesota and Wisconsin, before being asked by the Vernon County Superintendent of Schools to come to Viroqua and teach at the Normal School, also known as the County Teacher’s College. She said it wasn’t an easy decision, because she was teaching elementary vocal music and high school choir in Richland Center, Wisconsin, and really loved it there.
Luckily, she decided to accept the position in Viroqua, where she taught English, Music, Art, Library, and was in charge of the year-end trip. I have a feeling that not what she taught, but how she taught, made a world of difference, not only to Corrine, but to countless other student teachers. This is where that circle keeps expanding. Her inspiring those student teachers had an impact on their students, and I suspect, that circle continues to expand and touch other people today. That’s why teaching is such an important profession. It’s too bad they aren’t paid what a professional athlete or Hollywood star is paid and vice versa. Our priorities are questionable in my mind.
I’ve always had a questioning mind. Maybe that’s why I was never good at mathematics. Instead of two plus two always equaling four, I’m looking for ways to find a different answer. I was lucky enough to have some teachers who allowed me to open my mind and search for answers, instead of just reciting old dogma. Those were great teachers, who allowed me to expand my horizons and thinking.
When Naomi told me about the year-end trip the student teachers took each year, I could relate. She was in charge of a school bus load of students for three weeks. The students raised the money for the trip, stayed in school gymnasiums at night, and brought canned food from home to eat. Each year was a different location. One year they headed west to Colorado, Wyoming, Yellowstone, and the Black Hills. Naomi said this was the first time many of them had been across the Mississippi bridge in La Crosse. It was a great history and geography lesson for them. They saw things they had only seen in books before. That life experience opened their eyes, expanded the circle, and made them better teachers. Those circles keep expanding.
If you have a teacher, who made a difference in your life, pick up the phone or write a letter and let them know.
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