Don't Let the Bad Guys Win

Across the Fence #288

The sun is shining and the wind is blowing gently through the trees and tall grass along the fence line as I sit on our back deck and write. The warmth of the sun feels good and it’s very peaceful. Birds keep up a constant chirping in the trees and fly back and forth from the trees to the bird feeder and birdbath next to the deck. The sound of the birds doesn’t bother me. It’s a soothing sound. The aroma of new-mown hay, in the field next to our house, fills the air. It’s a far different scene from this winter when I hiked across snow-covered fields to Birch Hill on my snowshoes.

What a different world this is from the one I lived in for many years in Madison. A story in the Sunday edition of the Wisconsin State Journal got me thinking about the difference. I could sit on our back deck there too, but the constant din of traffic on the Beltline was always present. This time of day the rush hour traffic would have been like the Indianapolis 500.

But the thing that disturbed me about the story was how much Madison has changed since I first moved there when I went off to college at the UW. The story was about shots being fired on Madison’s Southwest Side. That’s the area where we lived until three years ago. It said there was gunfire on Prairie Road around midnight on Friday. Five hours earlier, shots were fired on Allied Drive. That’s not unusual any more. That was about a mile from where we lived and it had become one of the most dangerous places in Madison. The story said that Friday morning multiple rounds hit a house on Theresa Terrace. Thursday evening, two vehicles were hit by bullets on Pike Drive in Fitchburg, and Wednesday night shots were fired on Marquette Street. All these shootings took place on the Southwest Side.

None of this surprises me. I suspect it’s all drug and gang related because they’ve had problems in those areas for many years. In 2007, when we moved back to Westby, a policeman friend told me there had been 67 gunfire incidents on Allied Drive alone. Thank goodness most of these guys are very poor shots.

We lived in a very nice, established neighborhood in Madison, between Midvale Blvd. and the Odana Golf Course. People kept their property and homes in good shape. It was a great place to raise our children. Our old neighborhood was filled with good, family people.

A few years ago, an out-of-state owner bought a house that was for sale. A major drug dealer moved into the rental house a block from us. Every night there was a steady stream of cars coming and going. Loud disputes and fights would take place. Nearby neighbors were afraid to leave their houses at night.

I was a block captain in our neighborhood association at the time. We had a meeting and decided we needed to take action. We knew if we didn’t stop this activity as soon as possible, our neighborhood would become the next one to be taken over by gang members. We contacted the police, city inspectors, aldermen, and other agencies, and got them involved. The police set up surveillance in a nearby house and recorded the comings and goings. City inspectors made visits to check on the number of occupants living in a single family home. Police began making visits in the evenings when there was a lot of activity. After two months of this harassment, they moved out in the middle of the night, leaving two Pit Bulls behind.

Our neighborhood association and the people who live there, won that battle, but I expect this to be a long war. Many neighborhoods have been taken over. When good people are afraid and do nothing, the bad people win and take over. We can’t let that happen without a fight.

We drove the thugs out of the neighborhood before, and I know they’ll do it again if the wrong people try to take over. This war isn’t just taking place in Madison, it’s going on all over the country. You’ve got to stand up and fight for your neighborhood if bad elements try to take it over. When good people do nothing, the bad guys win. Don’t let that happen.

A second story in the same State Journal made me wonder if we moved out too soon. The headline said that supporters were gearing up for a naked bike ride. Yes, you read that right. They’re going to have a naked bike ride “parade” on June 19th in Madison.

I’ve ridden a lot of miles over the years, but this is one event you won’t find me participating in. It’s tough enough sitting on a bicycle seat during a 30-mile ride while wearing padded bike shorts, let alone in your birthday suit. I’ve seen a lot of strange sights in Madison, but this one is right up there near the top.

Between gunshots in the air and naked bike riders hitting the streets, it’s going to be an interesting summer in Madison. It makes sitting on my deck, listening to the birds chirping and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees, seem pretty mundane and boring. Just between you and me, I like it this way.

Altered Images From the Past

Across the Fence #288

This past weekend was the Westby Syttende Mai celebration. I was once again demonstrating Norwegian folk art wood carving in the Heritage Tent on Saturday and Sunday.

Sunday mornings are always quieter and you don’t have the crowds that come through on Saturday. I was standing at my carving bench, working on a carving and was actually getting some carving accomplished for a change. When the crowds come through, there’s always someone to visit with, and carving becomes secondary.

People want to know about the carvings; what kind of wood it is, how long did that take, and you must have a lot of patience to do that. Those are the three standard questions and comments that every carver gets. I’ve threatened to make up a sign with the answers and put it on my table. #1. It’s Basswood. #2. It takes a long time, and #3. Yes, it takes a lot of patience.

The best part of the weekend is seeing old friends and classmates come by and we can catch up on what everyone is doing. But... it can be very embarrassing when someone comes up and says, “Hi Howard, do you remember me?” I look blankly into their face trying to see something that will jog my memory bank. Nothing computes! Then there’s that awkward silence, and what I really want to say is, “I don’t have the foggiest idea who the heck you are! It’s embarrassing for them too, when they realize you’re serious and don’t have any idea who they are! They finally supply the elusive answer, and I say, “Of course, now I remember you, it’s sure been a long time!” Meanwhile I’m thinking, “Boy, have you changed since I last saw you! Age has not been kind to you.”

Age is the great equalizer. Most of us have added a lot of pounds and look much older. The Jock who was all muscle, handsome, and got all the girls, now carries an extra hundred pounds and sports a beer belly that would put a woman in her ninth month, carrying twins, to shame. I shouldn’t be making any comments. They’re probably looking at me and thinking the same thing. “Boy, has he ever gone to seed. Yes, age is the great equalizer for all of us.

To avoid those awkward moments, I always introduce myself and never embarrass the person with a pop quiz and have them try to guess who this guy is, hiding inside a sixty-six year old body!

And so, on Sunday morning I was carving when I became aware of someone standing in front of my carving bench. A man’s voice said, “Howard Sherpe!?” A sort of exclamation mark and question mark all rolled into one. I looked up and saw this “old” man. My mind was racing wildly, as I quickly studied the man’s features, searching for clues. What seemed like a minute, was only a couple of seconds until he thankfully, told me who he was.

We decided that close to 50 years had passed since we’d last seen each other. It was mostly small talk about family. What are you doing? How have you been? He said he had retired at 55 with a good pension. Plus he was getting a big check from the government each month for PTSD from his Vietnam experience. He said he’d been traveling around the country and really been enjoying retirement. He wondered how long I’d been retired? “I’m still working,” I replied. He thought I’d have been retired for many years since I’m older than he is. “No, I’m, just tired,” I said. He laughed. “You should have applied for PTSD payments like I did. You were a medic. I bet you could have gotten a couple thousand bucks a month too. You could afford to retire if you had that check coming in each month.” I just smiled. Then he wandered off to find a good parade spot before heading down the highway again.

“Well, wasn’t that interesting” I thought. Shattered memories. Almost 50 years since I’d seen him. In our mind, everyone is eternally young, just as we knew them back then. The reality is that we’re both in our sixties now and we’ve both aged. Shattered images. “Boy, has he ever changed,” I thought!

Shattered memories. Our memory captures the person just like a camera does on film. It captures the image as it was way back then, and each time we view it, it’s like looking at an old familiar photo. The photo is tucked in the scrapbook of our mind, but the subject has moved on. Now my memory was suddenly confronted with a new memory photo. The second memory photo bore little resemblance to the old memory photo. Shattered images. Images altered by time.

None of us look like we did when we were eighteen and nineteen years of age. Reality doesn’t work that way. Only our memory photos keep us looking as we did when we were young. I’m sure everybody remembers an old girlfriend or boyfriend who they haven’t seen for many years. What are those memory images like after years of living in reality? How would those images be altered if you ran into them again?

Shattered memories, shattered images, can be positive. It helps put our whole life in perspective and adds reality, not just illusions of living in the past.

My Homecoming Was 43 Years Ago

Across the Fence #287

This weekend thousands of Vietnam veterans and their families will be attending LZ Lambeau in Green Bay. It’s a welcome home celebration for Vietnam vets. I won’t be attending.

Following the weekend celebration, Wisconsin Vietnam War Stories will air on Wisconsin Public Television, May 24, 25, and 26 at 8:00 pm. Unfortunately, I’ll be at a business convention all three days and will miss the documentary.

I was interviewed for this program. After many calls over a six-month period from the producer, Mik Dirks, I finally relented and agreed to be interviewed when they were in La Crosse. I still have reservations about being part of it. I told him I didn’t want to be perceived as an old vet still sitting around telling war stories. On the other hand, I didn’t want the documentary to be a bunch of guys still wearing their jungle fatigues. The majority of us have moved on with our lives. We Vietnam vets have had an image problem in the eyes of the general public. I hope this documentary shows us in a better light than some of the media have portrayed us in the past. In my interview I told Mik I wanted to talk about our medical care of the Montagnards in the Central Highlands. No one ever hears about the good things we did.

When I attended the preview party of the documentary in La Crosse, I asked Mik if I had ended up on the cutting room floor. He said I didn’t. From previews I’ve seen of the program, it looks like a very honest and powerful documentary. I wasn’t in the preview segments, but a couple of my friends were.

I mentioned that I wasn’t going to attend the LZ Lambeau event. This is always a hard time of the year for me. 43 years ago I was on an operation with many of my old medic friends. We had all gone through basic training and medical training together, and had become close friends. We were operating in the border area near Ban Me Thout and the jungle highlands west of Pleiku, near the Cambodian border. We were part of Operation Francis Marion, aimed at stopping the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) from seizing the Ia Drang Valley. It’s ironic that the 1st Cav had fought a major battle there before our 4th Infantry Division arrived in Vietnam. That battle was written about in a best-selling book, “We Were Soldiers Once and Young,” and also made into a movie.

I got to spend several weeks living in total misery with my medic friends and their units as we hunted for the NVA that were infiltrating the area along the border. One of our platoons finally found them, or the NVA let themselves be found. It was a trap. That’s when the Nine Days In May Battles began (May 18-26, 1967). Many of my friends were killed or wounded in some of the bloodiest, hand-to-hand fighting of the war. We lost 79 killed and over 200 wounded. I’ve never been able to find a correct number. The NVA had 573 killed and 400-500 wounded. All those wasted lives, and very few people have ever heard about it. It was as if the world didn't know or care about what happened there.

I guess I have a lot of survivor guilt, as they call it. I think most of us who came back alive have it, but it really gets me down the middle part of May. This year the weight seemed to be heavier. I even get a bit depressed each year, but do a good job of covering it up.

I think a couple reasons its bothering me more this year is because of the Welcome Home celebration, and a guy I was with in Vietnam just got back in touch with me. Ray grew up near Readstown. He said he was finally ready to talk about things again after all this time. Ray didn't want to join Harlan Springborn, Larry Skolos, and me when we finally reunited 12 years ago. We were all drafted together from Vernon County and spent our two years of army life together. We never heard from him again until he called me a few weeks ago. I guess it takes some people a long time to confront the ghosts of their past. He and I spent a few really bad days together. He said he was afraid seeing the three of us, especially me, would have brought back too many bad memories. This time we had a great talk for over an hour and now the four of us plan on getting together this summer.

The four of us have been able to enjoy 43 years that many of our friends didn’t get a chance to. That’s been a gift that I don’t want to waste, for even a moment. For me, it wouldn’t feel right to take part in a welcome home celebration. I’ve been home for 43 years. That’s a long time. My friends, Dedman, Dodd, Goswick, Jackson, Lebitz, Wilkins, and others, never made it home. Other friends who survived the Nine Days In May and other battles, never found their way home emotionally or mentally.

Medics Mason, Nagl, Prince, Pickett, Reagan, Rhodes, Sherman, Sherpe, and Tomczak, all came home alive. That’s a good reason to celebrate our homecoming every day.

Two Churches: 100 Years of History

Across the Fence #286 WT (Westby Times Syttende Mai History Section)

100 years ago the dedication of the two Coon Prairie Lutheran Churches that still stand, was held. On June 26 and 27 of this year, the churches will celebrate the 100th anniversary of the building of those two churches.

It may seem unusual for a congregation to have two churches, but then Coon Prairie is quite unique in the history of the Lutheran Church in Wisconsin. The Coon Prairie church was the first church in Vernon County and the first Lutheran church in western Wisconsin. The area it served ranged from Cashton in the north to Viroqua and beyond to the south, a huge area that eventually spawned 22 other Lutheran congregations.

During my years growing up in Westby, it never occurred to me to ask why we had two Lutheran churches, one in town, and another one in the country, a mile and a half south of town. Our family had always belonged to Coon Prairie. There’s also another Lutheran church in town, Our Savior’s, one block to the north of the Westby Coon Prairie Church. Some people also referred to Coon Prairie as the “vanilla church” and Our Savior’s as the “chocolate church” because of the color of their respective bricks. Needless to say, Westby was, and still is, a predominantly Lutheran area.

The history of Coon Prairie goes back to 1848 when Even O. Gullord arrived from Norway and was the first person to settle on what would be called Coon Prairie in Vernon County, Wisconsin. The years that followed brought many more settlers to Coon Prairie, almost all of them Norwegian and Lutheran.

During the first years of the settlement there was no religious work of any kind going on because there were over 20,000 Norwegian immigrants in America and only seven pastors to serve them. Many Norwegian settlements were hundreds of miles apart. Things were not like we have today. It could take days, and even weeks, to travel from one settlement to another under very harsh conditions. There were no roads and no bridges to cross over the rivers and streams.

In 1851 the first religious services were conducted on Coon Prairie. A visit to the settlement was made by Rev. C. L. Clausen in June, and Rev. Nils Brandt, a missionary pastor, officiated in the fall. Those first meetings were held at the home of Even Gullord, half a mile north of the present Country Coon Prairie church.

The first congregation on Coon Prairie was founded sometime between November 1, 1851 and July 29, 1853. It’s commonly recognized that the congregation was founded in July 1852. Eighty acres of land, with a small house on the premises, were acquired by the congregation in 1853 for $500. In 1854 the organized congregation was legally incorporated as the Norwegian Evangelical Lutheran Church of Bad Ax (Vernon) County, Wisconsin.

Several of my ancestors were members of that first congregation. My great, great grandparents, Lars and Bertha Tomtengen, Anne Larsdatter Korsveien, Anders Pederson Fremstad, and Hans Olson Rustad were among them. One of the Tomtengen daughters, Lisa, married Hans Hanson Sherpe in 1869, in the original wood Coon Prairie church.

The early pastors had to come from Norway because there were no seminaries in the American wilderness. During those early years of the Coon Prairie settlement, worship services were conducted in homes and were led by one of the pioneers or by a lay preacher. All baptisms, confirmations, marriages, and official blessings of those who had died had to wait until an ordained pastor came to visit the Coon Prairie settlement.

The first pastor of the newly organized congregation was Reverend H.A. Stub, who assumed the duties of the parish on July 1, 1855.

During the first years of his pastorate the church meetings were held in Even Gullord’s barn, which was located just north of the present day country church. The congregation comprised almost the entire western half of Vernon County and part of Monroe County.

In 1855 the decision was made to build a frame church 54 ft. long, 34 ft. wide, and 20 ft. high. The first church was built in 1856-57 where the present Country Coon Prairie Church now stands, next to the cemetery. This was the first church built by Norwegians in western Wisconsin and the first church of any kind built in Vernon County. The church was completed at a cost of $4,200 and dedicated in 1858.

In 1861 Reverend Stub resigned because of ill health and returned to Norway. For the next two years the congregation was served by visiting pastors.

In 1864 the rest of the Skjerpe family left Moi, Norway and also settled at Coon Prairie, where their son, Hans, had settled. They joined Coon Prairie Church in 1865.

In 1862, Reverend A.C. Preus became the temporary pastor, and in 1863 was installed as the permanent pastor. He was a large, powerful man who found his greatest satisfaction traveling among his widely scattered congregation. In 1870 he came down with rheumatic fever, which left him so weak he was barely able to walk. In 1872 Reverend Preus resigned because of his ill health and returned to Norway.

In a letter of call to sent to Norway for a new pastor, Rev. Preus described the situation at Coon Prairie for his successor: “The parsonage is comfortably situated. The land is lightly used. Two horses are needed for work and one horse for the pastor’s use. He can feed ten to twelve cattle and harvest all the produce for the use of the house and still sell about $150 a year. The congregation includes many worthy, enlightened, and Christian men upon whose aid the pastor in his work can depend on for every lawful undertaking. I will also say that there are some quarrelsome people, but they have never in my time been able to harm the church. There are five school teachers, all worthy and reliable folks.”

At that time there were eleven congregations to be served. The pastor would make the circuit of the churches, preaching at a different one on each successive day. At Christmas the circuit would take a whole week, with two services on some days. Preus was pleased with the hospitality he received on the circuit and sometimes his family would accompany him.

In 1872 Reverend Halvor Halvorsen of Stavanger, a graduate of Christiana University in Norway, accepted the call to serve the Coon Prairie congregation. Pastor Halvorsen was twenty-six years old and would serve the congregation for the next forty-nine years.

By 1873 the sprawling Coon Prairie congregation had outgrown the pioneer church and a new building was needed. In 1875, on the same site as the first church, construction began on a Gothic revival edifice, 110 feet by 60 feet by 30 feet, built of native limestone for $25,000. A towering, 175-foot spire, added in 1891, was especially unusual because of its huge clocks, which faced the four points of the compass. The new church, the largest north of Chicago, could seat 600 people in the pews and the curved balcony could hold 250 people.

The cornerstone for the new church was laid in 1875 and three years later the church was put into use. The building cost $25,600.

On Easter Sunday at 9:00 pm, that stately church that rose high on the prairie, was struck by lightning and burned down. The only item that was saved was the alter painting by Herbjorn Gausta. Rev. Halvorsen and Nordahl Buraas rushed into the burning church and cut it free of its frame using a pocket knife.

The older members of the congregation wanted to rebuild the church on the same site. They considered it a holy area with 60 years of history, the cemetery was also located there and was the final resting place of many pioneers who had begun the church. Rev. Halorsen was among those who thought the church should be rebuilt on the site. But many of the members now lived a mile and a half north of the church in the growing city of Westby. Many people wanted the new church built in the city. Members on both sides, being stubborn Norwegians, dug in their heels and neither side would budge. They finally decided to build two churches, one in the city of Westby and one in the country on the same site as the church that had burned. Each church cost $22,000 to build and both were completed and dedicated in 1910.

Two churches were a financial burden on the congregation, but they persevered and today both churches still stand as testament to the stubbornness and resiliency of our Norwegian immigrant ancestors. The Country Coon Prairie Lutheran Church is now listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Services are held there on Saturday evenings during the summer. Services are held year-round at the Westby Coon Prairie Lutheran Church.

This summer, both churches will celebrate the 100-year anniversary of the dedication of those two churches. A celebration will be held at the country church on Saturday, June 26, and at the Westby church on Sunday, June 27.

Life In A Country School

Across the Fence #286-WT (Westby Times Syttende Mai History Section)

Smith School was located at the intersection of what is today, Hwy. 14 and Smith Road. It appears that it began on the southeast corner where a small house/gift shop is located.

In an early Vernon County Atlas that doesn't have a date, there is no school shown in the Smith School area. The land is owned by Tennis Larson where the first little school would be built. The land across the road, where the present Smith School is located, was owned by Jane McHenry. The date of this atlas has to be after 1868, because that’s the year my great grandfather, Hans Hanson Sherpe bought his farm across from where Old Towne Inn is located, and he’s shown on the plat map.

The next Atlas I have is 1878 and Smith School is now shown, so it must have been built sometime between 1868 and 1878.

In the 1878 Vernon County Atlas, it shows Smith School on the corner where that small house/gift shop is now. It was owned by Tennis Larson at that time. The land across the road is still owned by Jane McHenry.

Later, in the 1896 Atlas, it shows the Tennis Larson land now owned by W.T and C.W. Chase. Smith School is now located across the intersection at the location where we remember it being until it was moved two years ago to make way for a four-lane highway that isn’t needed. So sometime between 1878 and 1896, Smith School was built on that site. Jno. Michelet owned the land surrounding the school at that time.

In 1915 the plat map shows that Bernt Limoseth owned the land where the first school was. Olga Limoseth lived in that little house until she died. I remember when she lived there. R.M. Grimsrud owned the land surrounding the school in 1915.

I don't know much about the early history of the school and have only been able to try and figure out the timeframe from the early plat books.

Many people couldn’t speak English when they started to school at Smith. Most of the students came from Norwegian families. My father, Hans Sherpe said, “When I started to Smith School, around 1920, I couldn’t talk a word of English. I just talked Norwegian. We only spoke Norwegian at home and I didn’t know a word of English.” It must have been hard for those first teachers, although I suspect they all spoke Norwegian too.

Doreen (Roiland) Nienow, a relative of mine, wrote a wonderful story about her memories of Smith School. It gives a lot of history of what went on in a country school.

I started first grade at Smith School (one mile east of our farm) in September, 1932. I was five years old. My sister, Sadie (Roiland) Larkin, was my teacher. Since it wasn’t a state law that you had to be six years old to start first grade, my mother thought it would be nice for me to go to school while my sister was teaching there (I believe it was her last year at Smith). As my teacher, she didn’t give me any special privileges just because she was my sister. In fact, Sadie had to be more strict with me, so no one would think her little sister received special favors!

Howard Ramsland and I would trade lunches sometimes. He liked the old fashioned rolled sugar cookies that my mother made and my sandwiches made with homemade bread. I liked his sandwiches made with store bought bread and the chocolate covered marshmallow cookies he had in his lunch. I remember my mother making velvetta cheese sandwiches. My dad bought two pounds of cheese that came in wooden boxes. Now I see those wooden boxes in antique shops. I carried my lunch in a Karo syrup pail.

There was a front hall (cloak room) at school where we hung our coats and caps and put our boots there in the winter. There was a shelf above the coat racks where we put our lunch pails. I remember the five-gallon Red Wing water cooler in the southeast corner and a tin dipper hanging on the wall next to it. We all drank out of the same dipper! No one worried about spreading germs by drinking out of the same dipper. We were all pretty healthy Norwegians!

Some of the outdoor games we played were “Ante Over.” We divided into two teams and one went on each side of the schoolhouse. One team would throw the ball and yell “Ante Over.” If it didn’t go over, you had to yell, “Pigs tail” and try again. If it went over and lit on the ground, their team had to try throwing it over. If someone caught it, they would come dashing around to the other side. Anyone from the opposite team whom they could touch (tag) with the ball had to join their team. The game ended when one team had all the players or when the bell rang, signaling the end of recess.

We also played Hide and Seek, Tag, Pump, Pump, Pullaway, and Flip-Stick.

The Christmas programs were very special and exciting events. I remember memorizing recitations and worrying that I might forget some words. Our parents attended our programs and we wanted everything to be perfect. The highlight of the evening was when Santa came and handed each of us a beautiful, large, red Delicious apple and a small, colorful, rectangular cardboard box with a wide string handle that contained nuts, peppermints, colorful ribbon candy, and all sorts of delicious hard candies.

I walked to school with my sister, Sadie, while she was teaching there and then later with Alda and Alice Virak and Irma Jean Rude. We would meet down at the crossing just a little ways north of the Virak farm.

In the winter, when the snowdrifts were too high for cars to travel, I could ski to school. Sometimes, my dad would give us kids a ride in the sleigh with our grey Percheron horses (Barney and Frank), hitched up to it. Dad had a strap of sleigh bells for each horse that he attached to their harness and the “bells jingled all the way,” while we rode down the snow-covered country road. What wonderful memories!

Country school teachers had to start the wood fires in the furnace in the morning (No janitor). It was up to them to keep the schoolroom clean and in order. I enjoyed helping our teachers with wiping and cleaning the blackboard and dusting the erasers.

The last day of school was a picnic for the entire family. There would be potato salad, sandwiches, home-baked beans, cake, cookies, and lemonade. I will never forget these great memories of my grade school days.

I’m so happy to have had the opportunity to attend a one-room country school for eight years and I don’t believe that our education was inferior to the city schools. We learned to share and to understand schoolmates of different ages. Honesty, self-discipline, patience, and respect were learned by close contact. We learned the power of concentration, to sit at our desks doing our school work while a class was in session at the front of the room. We learned to read, spell, use good penmanship, math, history, geography, and we didn’t depend on a pocket calculator to do our adding and subtracting! Phonics was always an important part of our beginning education. There was a special togetherness... people caring about people.

Doreen is right. Country schools were a wonderful experience. We were a family. On August 7, 2010, many of our family will get back together again for our first Smith School reunion and we’ll talk about many of those experiences that Doreen mentioned.

Tell Your Story This Syttende Mai

Across the Fence #286

Many people, including people of Norwegian descent, aren’t aware of the historical significance of Syttende Mai, and why people of Norwegian blood celebrate it. It’s to Norway what the 4th of July is to the United States. The constitution of Norway was signed at Eidsvoll, Norway on May 17, 1814. The constitution declared Norway to be a free and independent nation. But it wasn’t until 1905 that Norway finally gained its independence from Sweden.

Just like St. Patrick’s Day, when everyone becomes an Irishman, Syttende Mai is when everyone wishes they could be a Norwegian. Even the Swedes become Norwegian wannabes for the day and join in the celebration. I can say that because I have several good Swedish friends. It seems that we Scandinavians are the only people who still have a sense of humor.

My Irish friends don’t like to admit it, but they have a lot of Norwegian blood coursing through their veins too. My Viking ancestors spent a lot of “summer vacations” touring Ireland and plundering and pillaging. Many people aren’t aware that Norwegian Vikings founded the cities of Dublin, Cork, Limerick, and others. They also established settlements in Scotland, Northern England, Iceland, Greenland, Faroe Islands, Shetlands, and Orkney. Linda is Irish on her mother’s side. I tell her that if we could trace our families far enough back into Ireland, we’re probably related.

During this Syttende Mai, we should all take time to reflect on our heritage and roots. I’d also like to challenge everyone to write down or tell your story to someone. There are lots of stories to be told. Our family history and our stories are very important.

Maybe you think your story isn’t important, or that what happened in the past is of no consequence. “Who’d be interested in all that old stuff?”

That was the problem I encountered when I wanted my father, Hans Sherpe, to tell me about his life and things he remembered. He said he couldn’t remember anything, or that he didn’t want to talk about it. Then when he moved to The Friendship House, an assisted living facility in Westby, there was a man living there who had written up his life story and given copies to all his kids. “At least they’ll know what I’ve done,” he told my dad.

The next time we visited Dad, he said to us, “I really should write about my life, but I can’t write good anymore.” That was all the opening I needed. I told him, “You don’t need to write it down, I’ll set up our video camera and you can just talk. Before you know it, you’ll forget the camera is even there.”

The next weekend we were on our way back to Westby. I set the camera on a tripod in his room, turned it on, sat down, and started asking questions to get things going. It went slow at first and was like pulling teeth to get him to talk about things! But soon he was volunteering all kinds of information and stories. He DID remember. He talked about so many things I’d never heard about before. As we went along, I would ask questions about some event or some person and he would tell stories about what he remembered.

I’m so thankful we took the time to do this. He died two years later. He would have taken his music with him to the grave and all that information, and all those stories, would have been lost forever.

Much of what my father told about was what it was like to live in the 1920s through 1940s when he was young; the things they did for fun; Smith School memories; the struggles of the depression years and how it affected our family; what it was like to farm with horses and do most work by hand; what they did for recreation; courting our mother; the struggles of having no money and being forced off farms to make room for buyers instead of renters; the changes he had seen in over eighty years of living; and the list could go on and on.

I’m sorry I didn’t do the same with my mother. By the time I was really into family history, she was having all kinds of health problems. I didn’t want to bother her with asking about her life, thinking she might look at it as being near the end of her life, and now I wanted her to tell things before she died. If I could do it over, I’d ask her, and I suspect she would have been happy that someone wanted to know about her life. Now it’s all gone and we can never find out the details of her life and her thoughts about things.

Don’t take your music with you when you leave! Share it with others. Someday people will want to know what things were like when you lived. A personal family story is really a history lesson for those who come after you.

Regardless of who you are; 100% Norwegian, Norwegian by marriage, a Norwegian wannabe, a German, or even a Swede, your roots and your story are important! This Syttende Mai, start telling someone your story.

This is one Norwegian-American who’s proud of his roots and why I like to say that I stand in the present, with one foot in the past and one in the future.

Across the Fence Books

Across the Fence Book #4 is now available.

"Across the Fence: If Walls Could Talk" is the fourth compilation of Across the Fence columns.

Other books available are:

Across the Fence (2nd Printing - New Cover)

Across the Fence: Down Country Roads

Across the Fence: Back To the Country

If interested in purchasing a copy, let me know and I'll send the details.

Each book is $16.00

Sales Tax: $0.88 if a Wisconsin resident

Shipping: $5.00 Priority Mail

Shipping: $4.00 Media Rate - Padded Envelope

Howard Sherpe

E7409 Sherpe Road

Westby, WI 54667

E-mail: skjerpe@mwt.net

Things I've Learned Over 66 Years

Across the Fence #285

I'm having another birthday this week. I’m proud to admit I’ve now survived 66 of them. I used to think that was really old. Most days I don’t feel that old. I said most days. Some days, I feel ancient, both mentally and physically. Life is speeding along and some days it’s hard to hang on and keep up with all the changes a 66-year old has seen; especially all the high-tech changes.

First, the good news. I can now take Social Security, keep on working, and the government can’t penalize me and ask me to pay the Social Security payment back because I make more money than they allow. Of course we’re still saddled with the hundreds of different taxes the government burdens us with. Is it just me, or does it seem unfair that our Social Security is taxed as income, when we already paid that in as a tax. Now they tax it again. That seems like double taxation to me.

This birthday got me thinking about things I’ve learned and opinions I’ve formed in my 66 years.

I’ve learned that two subjects you shouldn’t discuss or write about are politics and religion. When it comes to those subjects, I’ve learned that most people have minds like a steel trap that’s been left out in the elements too long… they’re rusted shut.

I’ve learned that the older I get, I find it easier to accept that this is who I am… warts, pimples, extra pounds, aching joints, balding head, and all. I’ve put on a lot of miles to make it through 66 years. Not all of them were on paved roads. I’ve hit a lot of potholes over the years.

I’ve learned that when things look the darkest, a light appears and shows us the way. I’ve learned that I’m capable of doing a lot of things I never thought I could do. All we need is some confidence and the willingness to try and swim against the current. Even a dead fish can float downstream.

I’ve learned that I don’t have all the answers. I’ve learned that I can get much farther if I keep an open mind and am willing to listen to other points of view and opinions. The mind is like a parachute… it only functions when it’s open.

Another thing I’ve seen in my 66 years is an increasing amount of government regulations to protect us from ourselves. What happened to individual responsibility for our own actions?

There have been a lot of stories in the news lately about raw milk and the government wanting to protect us from drinking it. We grew up drinking raw (fresh) milk, direct from the cow. Everyone I knew also drank raw milk. I don’t remember anyone getting sick from drinking it and no one died that I’m aware of. We milked the cows, put the milk in cans, and set them in a cooler filled with cold water in the milkhouse. We’d fill a glass quart jar with milk and take it to the house. Ma put it in the refrigerator and in the morning it had a couple inches of cream on the top. We had Jersey’s who had higher butterfat content. Ma skimmed off most of the cream, saved it to use later, and we drank that raw, cream-filled, high-fat milk. We thought it was great and we survived. For us, drinking store-bought milk was like drinking watered down milk. We Jersey farmers referred to it as Holstein milk! My apologies to all you Holstein people, but I couldn’t resist.

Remember that woman who got burned when she spilled McDonald’s coffee on herself. She sued them and got a monetary settlement. Now most companies have a warning on their coffee cups that the contents are hot. If you read the warnings on any product these days, they seem to be protecting us from our own stupidity.

I’ve learned that many of the games we played as kids, would be outlawed now as too dangerous and someone could get hurt. They are probably right, but somehow we all survived.

I’ve learned that war produces only two things, victims and survivors. Too often, wars are started and waged by people who have never been in one, have never been shot at, or held the mangled body of a dying friend. It changes your outlook on life and death.

I’ve learned that every season has its good and bad points. You just have to find the good parts and concentrate on that. Back to that old Norwegian saying, “There’s no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes.”

I’ve learned that some days you’re the bug; some days you’re the windshield. That’s a fact of life and we all better get used to it.

I’ve learned that you can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy. Not everyone likes small towns or country living and that’s just fine. But for some of us, we need the peacefulness of country life and being able to see the stars at night without light pollution.

And one last thing; I’ve learned that you can go home again. Things have changed over the years, but it’s still home. It’s where my roots are buried deep. That’s a good place to be when you’re 66 years old.