Across the Fence #302
The wild blackberries called to us from their home among the weeds and thorns, “Come and pick us. We’re ripe and ready. We’ve been waiting for you.” The mosquitoes were waiting for us too. As soon as we entered the blackberry patch, they attacked in waves, like a flight of World War II Mustang fighter planes going after a German bomber. Back off, I’m full of Norwegian blood, but they kept attacking and seemed to enjoy a feast of my Norske blood. There was no turning back or retreating. This was war, and the prize was hundreds of plump, juicy, wild blackberries.
For anyone who’s been barricaded in their house this summer, with the windows and doors shut tight, let me tell you, this warm, humid, very wet summer we’ve had, has produced an army of mosquitoes and they’re all looking for blood. I think I’ve given at least a pint or two so far. Outdoor activities this summer are not for the feint of heart. It’s a battleground, especially along shaded areas and bushes. Once the sun goes down, forget it. You might as well retreat to the safety of your house until the sun returns.
Whatever you do outside this summer requires the proper clothing and a variety of bug sprays. Even nasty smelling “bug shirts” don’t work this year. When our daughter, Amy, and her fiancé, Tim, visited this weekend, we went blackberry and plum picking. Like a good fisherman who won’t disclose where he catches all his fish, I can’t tell you where we picked them. However, I will let you know that next year, all those blackberry bushes and plum trees will be destroyed because of the “multi-million dollar, four and a half mile, four-lane highway that the DOT is spending your hard-earned tax dollars for. It ranks right up there with that $231 million dollar bridge they built to nowhere in Alaska, just because a politician added it as pork barrel to a transportation bill. But I’m sailing up a different fjord here. I won’t talk about how the government wastes our tax dollars.
Let’s get back to mosquitoes and berry picking. If you’re going to pick berries, you need to dress properly. A suit of armor will work, but it gets mighty heavy and extremely hot inside. I should mention that blackberries and raspberries are ready for the pickin’ during the hottest, most humid time of the year, the dog days of summer. Even a dog has the sense to lie in the shade and stay out of a berry patch in August.
However, the thought of enjoying those berries with your cereal in the morning, or topping off a bowl of ice cream with a patriotic combination, is too much temptation for us mere mortals to turn our backs on. What’s a patriotic combo you ask? It’s a dish of vanilla ice cream topped with red raspberries and blueberries. It doesn’t get much better than that. It even rivals a radish, onion, and carrot sandwich. It makes getting torn and bloodied in a raspberry or blackberry bush, and peppered with mosquito bites almost worth the pain and discomfort.
We also picked a bucket of red plums that will make some tasty jelly for this winter.
Elderberries are another wild fruit that’s ripe for picking. They’re one of the most common fruit-bearing shrubs in North America. Even when I was young, I loved to break off a branch, loaded with the small, purple berries and eat them. I’m sure you’ve all heard of elderberry wine. We have many shrubs growing near the house and I’ll do some picking of them too. The berries are a valuable food source for birds, so I guess I’ll have to share the bounty with them.
All these berries I’ve mentioned can be found growing in the wild around us. All you need to do is get out of your air-conditioned house and spend some time in the heat, humidity, and among the mosquitoes and bugs, while you do some picking. The rewards are worth it.
A word of caution to potential berry pickers; not all berries that look good to eat are edible. Some can be poisonous. Be aware of the differences before you pop one in your mouth. Also be aware of brush and weeds around you. Several plants can make you itch or even break out in hives and blisters.
One more wonderful fruit you can look for this fall are wild grapes. When we still had a windmill, grape vines would climb up and cover the lower half. You can still see a few windmills covered with vines. We’d climb on the windmill and pick big clusters of purple grapes. Just like the berries we picked, a good share of them ended up in our stomachs before they reached the house, where Ma made them into jams and jellies. The jars were then stored in the cellar where we retrieved them in the cold, winter months. As we emerged from the cellar with the jars in hand, a cold blast of wind would hit us in the face. It was hard to remember how hot it had been when we picked them. At least there were no mosquitoes around.
Have a happy berry picking adventure, as you fill your stomach now, and your cellar (or freezer) for the winter.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
It's Time for Some Bibs
Across the Fence #301
It’s that time of year when summer is coming to an end and the stores are filled with back to school shoppers. It wasn’t my favorite time of year when I was young. It meant summer vacation was over, it was time to harvest tobacco, and school would soon be starting. Although, when you lived on a farm, going back to school was a vacation after a summer of working in the fields.
It also meant a new pair of bib overalls for that first day of school. They were our standard dress until I got old enough to want “real” pants like many other kids wore. I wore a lot of hand-me-down bibs and clothes, thanks to the Thompsons, who were our neighbors. Joel was a year older than me, so I got his clothes when he outgrew them. He probably got them from his brother, and if they had any thread left, my brother, David, probably wore them after I outgrew them. That was the way of life back then and we never thought twice about wearing hand-me-down clothes. New clothes, for the first day of school were the exception.
The problem with new, stiff, bib overalls is that they made a rustling noise when you walked. They weren’t like good, old, worn bibs that had the stiffness all worked out of them. At least most of us country boys were in the same boat. We must have made quite a “swish, swish, swish” sound as we walked together.
Bibs were pretty cool too. You had lots of pockets to put things in and they usually had a loop on one leg where you could slip the handle of a hammer through or some other tool. If that La Crosse lady who tried to hold up a store had worn bibs, her hammer wouldn’t have gotten stuck in her pocket. Maybe it’s a good thing she didn’t. That’s one more thing the national news media could have made fun of. It was bad enough that they stuck a cheese head on her photo when they reported the story. The reporter mentioned that he grew up in Wisconsin, then rolled his eyes and shook his head as he reported the story. “Those are my people.”
There was a time when almost every farmer you saw had bib overalls. Now they are few and far between. That’s too bad because they’re very useful. I’ve been thinking of getting a pair to use when I’m working around the yard or garden. Think of all the pockets I’d have to put things in and loops to hang stuff from. They’re also very comfortable.
Whenever I think of bib overalls, I think of my cousin, Sandy. She spent every summer with us until she got into high school and had a summer job. I missed having her around for those three months and always looked forward to her coming to visit. She was like my big sister, instead of a cousin.
One summer, after she was old enough to drive, she and her friend, Lorna, drove up to the farm from Illinois to spend a week with us. On the way they had stopped in Viroqua and bought bib overalls at Felix’s Clothing Store. They arrived at the farm wearing their new bibs and thought they were pretty cool. This was after I had given up wearing bibs and was wearing “real” jeans with a belt, not bibs and suspenders. I guess I thought at the time that bibs were too country for me.
After Sandy and Lorna arrived, they proceeded to cut the legs off their new bibs to make shorts. Then they cut strips in the bottom of the cut-off legs to make a fringe. They thought they were the height of fashion. I thought it was rather humorous… until the evening we were going to a 4-H square dance being held in Westby. It was for all 4-H clubs in Vernon County. Sandy and Lorna thought the perfect outfits to wear to the square dance were their cut-off, fringy, bib overalls. I was semi-horrified.
I was probably in eighth grade and had crushes on several girls who belonged to 4-H clubs around Viroqua, but never had the courage to ask any of them to be my square dance partner. That night I arrived at the dance accompanied by two, pretty “older girls” dressed in cut-off, fringy, bib overalls. Needless to say, I didn’t ask any girls to dance that night either. At least Sandy and Lorna were my partners.
Years later, Sandy and I were talking, when she brought up the night they went square dancing with me. She said, “I’m so sorry. We never realized at the time that you were probably embarrassed to death when we dressed like that.” She wanted me to know they weren’t a couple of big city girls making fun of country folks. As young teenagers they thought it was cute, and a little sexy, like Daisy Mae in the Li’l Abner comic strip.
I told Sandy it was OK. I knew she was a country girl at heart, having grown up on the farm with us. I knew she’d never make fun of us.
I think it’s time for me to buy some bibs in memory of Sandy! I think she’d like that. But, I refuse to cut them off and make fringy bottoms.
It’s that time of year when summer is coming to an end and the stores are filled with back to school shoppers. It wasn’t my favorite time of year when I was young. It meant summer vacation was over, it was time to harvest tobacco, and school would soon be starting. Although, when you lived on a farm, going back to school was a vacation after a summer of working in the fields.
It also meant a new pair of bib overalls for that first day of school. They were our standard dress until I got old enough to want “real” pants like many other kids wore. I wore a lot of hand-me-down bibs and clothes, thanks to the Thompsons, who were our neighbors. Joel was a year older than me, so I got his clothes when he outgrew them. He probably got them from his brother, and if they had any thread left, my brother, David, probably wore them after I outgrew them. That was the way of life back then and we never thought twice about wearing hand-me-down clothes. New clothes, for the first day of school were the exception.
The problem with new, stiff, bib overalls is that they made a rustling noise when you walked. They weren’t like good, old, worn bibs that had the stiffness all worked out of them. At least most of us country boys were in the same boat. We must have made quite a “swish, swish, swish” sound as we walked together.
Bibs were pretty cool too. You had lots of pockets to put things in and they usually had a loop on one leg where you could slip the handle of a hammer through or some other tool. If that La Crosse lady who tried to hold up a store had worn bibs, her hammer wouldn’t have gotten stuck in her pocket. Maybe it’s a good thing she didn’t. That’s one more thing the national news media could have made fun of. It was bad enough that they stuck a cheese head on her photo when they reported the story. The reporter mentioned that he grew up in Wisconsin, then rolled his eyes and shook his head as he reported the story. “Those are my people.”
There was a time when almost every farmer you saw had bib overalls. Now they are few and far between. That’s too bad because they’re very useful. I’ve been thinking of getting a pair to use when I’m working around the yard or garden. Think of all the pockets I’d have to put things in and loops to hang stuff from. They’re also very comfortable.
Whenever I think of bib overalls, I think of my cousin, Sandy. She spent every summer with us until she got into high school and had a summer job. I missed having her around for those three months and always looked forward to her coming to visit. She was like my big sister, instead of a cousin.
One summer, after she was old enough to drive, she and her friend, Lorna, drove up to the farm from Illinois to spend a week with us. On the way they had stopped in Viroqua and bought bib overalls at Felix’s Clothing Store. They arrived at the farm wearing their new bibs and thought they were pretty cool. This was after I had given up wearing bibs and was wearing “real” jeans with a belt, not bibs and suspenders. I guess I thought at the time that bibs were too country for me.
After Sandy and Lorna arrived, they proceeded to cut the legs off their new bibs to make shorts. Then they cut strips in the bottom of the cut-off legs to make a fringe. They thought they were the height of fashion. I thought it was rather humorous… until the evening we were going to a 4-H square dance being held in Westby. It was for all 4-H clubs in Vernon County. Sandy and Lorna thought the perfect outfits to wear to the square dance were their cut-off, fringy, bib overalls. I was semi-horrified.
I was probably in eighth grade and had crushes on several girls who belonged to 4-H clubs around Viroqua, but never had the courage to ask any of them to be my square dance partner. That night I arrived at the dance accompanied by two, pretty “older girls” dressed in cut-off, fringy, bib overalls. Needless to say, I didn’t ask any girls to dance that night either. At least Sandy and Lorna were my partners.
Years later, Sandy and I were talking, when she brought up the night they went square dancing with me. She said, “I’m so sorry. We never realized at the time that you were probably embarrassed to death when we dressed like that.” She wanted me to know they weren’t a couple of big city girls making fun of country folks. As young teenagers they thought it was cute, and a little sexy, like Daisy Mae in the Li’l Abner comic strip.
I told Sandy it was OK. I knew she was a country girl at heart, having grown up on the farm with us. I knew she’d never make fun of us.
I think it’s time for me to buy some bibs in memory of Sandy! I think she’d like that. But, I refuse to cut them off and make fringy bottoms.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Smith School Reunion and Memories
Across the Fence #300
I’ve always maintained that rural schools were the hub of a community and the students who attended each of those schools were like one big, extended family. Our recent Smith School reunion reinforced those thoughts in my mind.
This was the first ever Smith School reunion. After operating for 99 years, the school was officially closed after the spring session ended in 1966. That’s 44 years since the door closed on rural education in that one-room schoolhouse. It’s been 52 years since Donna Gilbertson Kjelland, Margaret Lee Hanson, Janice Lee Thompson, and I graduated from eighth grade. It was the last class that went all eight years to Smith School, and all four of us attended the reunion. After our class, the seventh and eighth graders were transferred to Westby Elementary School.
For many years people had talked about having a reunion, but nothing happened. This spring, Alan Berg called four of us Smith School “alumni,” Donna, Margaret, Sharon Midtlien Gilbeck, and me. We met and decided it was time, and the planning began. On August 6th it became a reality when 26 former students, and one former teacher, got together to renew old friendships and reminisce about the good old days of one room schools.
Marilyn Lavold Berge, Blanch Peterson Garrity, Darlene Peterson Kingslien, and Marjorie Steenberg Haugen were from the 1930s. Arden Sherpe was the youngest attendee from 1964, two years before it closed.
Many stories were told, but we could have visited and told stories for many more hours. It’s interesting that not everyone remembered the same events. Several stories were told that I have no recollection of. Some things that I remembered were not among the memories of students I went to school with. I guess we all have selective memory.
At least I can now say I know someone who put his tongue on the pump handle and got stuck. Kay Carlson Holte told the story, but James Fremstad maintained that she dared him to do it. I’ll give him credit for having the guts to try it. We never did find out how he got his tongue free. I’ll have to check into that.
A good memory that Cynthia Hanson Haar brought up was having school on Birch Hill on a beautiful spring day. Classes were held on the “Teacher Rock.” While each class was being held, students in the other grades could play among the rocks and woods. Those are good memories for me too.
We talked about Flip stick, also known as Yippa Penna in Norwegian, and I demonstrated how we used to “pinkle, not “tinkle.” Milo Kilen remembered how we played hockey on our pond without skates. I don’t think any of us owned skates. We used tobacco laths for hockey sticks. We have no idea what we used for a puck–maybe a frozen cow pie. There was also talk about playing Fox and Geese in the winter, and of course building forts and having snowball fights. Some people claimed that Sharon and I got into a fight and she ended up with a black eye. All I remember is a snowball hitting her in the face. I may have thrown it! I wonder if the statute of limitations has expired?
Richard Kilen brought up the game Mumbley-peg, and most of us guys remembered playing it. That was where we stood opposite one another with our feet shoulder-width apart. Each player threw a jackknife and tried to stick it into the ground, as close to his own foot as he could. The player who came closest was the winner. Sticking it into your foot was not recommended. If you tried that on the playground these days you’d be hauled off to jail and expelled from school for assault with a deadly weapon. We decided that most of the games we played would be banned today.
There was also talk about Christmas programs. It was one of the highlights of the year. Marjorie Haugen told of her experience in 1931, She said Sadie Roiland, a relative of ours, was teaching at Smith School. Marjorie was only four years old and would start school the next fall. Sadie sent a note to her parents asking if she would take part in the Christmas program. She had to memorize a “piece.” She and her mother would say that “piece” over and over. She still remembers it to this day. We asked her to recite it for us.
“Of all the Santa Claus pictures that I have seen in my young days – there is one thing about them that I would really like to know! Does he travel with a wagon when there ain’t no snow?”
The other part she remembers about that evening was Santa coming with a bag of candy for them. She wondered why Santa wore a barn jacket instead of a red one?
The only teacher who attended was Corrine Fredrickson Zable, who taught from 1955-59. Many reunion attendees were her students. It must have been quite a shock for her to see her “little” students all grown up. We had changed a bit in 50 years! We remembered how much Miss Fredrickson cared for each student and how passionate she was about education. She wanted every one of us to be ready for the next step. We were her first students after graduating from Viroqua Normal School, where she credits Naomi Flugstad Bekkum with encouraging her and teaching her how to be a good teacher. We all agreed that they both succeeded.
At the end of the day, many of us visited the Seas Branch Schoolhouse. It’s now a museum, showing what a one-room school was like. It was a trip back in time, back to our roots, and a fitting place to conclude a wonderful reunion.
Friday, August 6, 2010
It's Not the Fish I'm After
Across the Fence #299
“Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.” That quote by Henry David Thoreau says it all to me when it comes to fishing. If you’ve ever been fishing or hunting, you know there’s a lot of truth in that statement.
Last night I headed for the trout streams of Timber Coulee to fish for a couple hours before it got dark. It’s my favorite time to be roaming along a creek in search of an elusive trout. Vernon County, Wisconsin has an abundance of great trout streams, and people come from all over the country to try their luck and skill while wading through the many creeks. If you haven’t spent some time exploring the wild areas around the Driftless Area, you’re missing out on one of the simple pleasures of life.
I guess that’s why I enjoy fishing. It gives me a chance to wander around and explore some beautiful scenery, up close and personal. And like Thoreau, I usually go alone. I like the quiet solitude and the sights and sounds that nature provides for those willing to venture into the wild areas. As Thoreau said, it’s not the fish we’re after. Last night I didn’t land any fish, but I watched a large turtle exploring a creek bottom, saw a crane glide gracefully through the evening air, and spotted a bald eagle perched in a nearby tree. I watched swallows as they swooped and glided over the water, like dive bombers going in for the kill. I hoped they were feasting on a few of the mosquitoes that were plentiful around the water as dusk settled in.
The only sounds were those that nature created. I listened to the soothing sound of water rippling over the rocks, crickets beginning their evening symphony in the fields and woods around me, and frogs chiming in with their own music of the night. I felt like it was a successful trip even though I didn’t catch any fish.
I like the solitude of fishing. It gives a person time to be alone with your thoughts. It’s a form of moving meditation, as I quietly walk from one fishing hole to the next, often covering several miles in the process. Everyone should have a time where you can get away by yourself to a quiet place each day, with no distractions around you. What better place could that be than a secluded trout stream, surrounded by trees and nature. “Pretending” to fish is merely the means to an end.
If you’re not able to get away to a secluded stream, find a quiet place to sit, and imagine a peaceful, secluded place in your mind.
One evening as I was working my way along a meandering stream, back to my car, darkness was settling in, and a full moon was emerging over the ridge top behind me. Ahead of me the sun had just settled in for the night behind some distant hills and a brilliant sunset lit up the clouds on the horizon, giving them the appearance of having golden edges. The brush and trees around me were coming alive with the sounds of early evening. The serenity of the moment was like having a spiritual experience, beyond anything that could be experienced in a man-made cathedral. Those types of experiences are burned in my memory, and are the ones I visit in my mind, when I need a few moments to relax and recharge my batteries. That’s what Thoreau was talking about.
Don’t get me wrong; it’s nice to hook onto a fish that puts up a real fight before you land it. I release most of the fish I catch, especially the big ones. I usually carry my camera to record any prize catch before releasing it. We have to have proof. Everyone knows that fishermen tend to stretch the truth and the size of the fish.
Fishermen are also known to venture out in any type of weather. It’s not unusual to see a fisherman in waders in the middle of a cold trout stream, with snow still covering the ground. Rain doesn’t stop a fisherman either. My future son-in-law, Tim, and I went trout fishing together one weekend. As you know, the weather’s been a bit wet this spring and summer. It rained that weekend too. We ventured out in spite of a cold rain. Armed with all our wet weather gear, we looked like we were preparing to backpack into the wilds of Alaska. Wearing water-proof jackets with hoods, waterproof pants, and wading boots, we tackled the wet grass and marshy conditions found in many places along the streams. We even remembered to bring our fishing poles and tackle boxes.
We spread out and hiked for miles along the meandering streams, stopping to cast a few times in spots where trout are likely to hide. I stood with my back to the falling rain and peered out at the world from inside the dry protection of my hood and floppy fishing hat. It was like having a private, secluded inner sanctum from which to view the outside world. I found it very peaceful as the rain beat against my raingear and dripped off my hood. I looked down and spotted a morel mushroom.
Fishing became secondary, as I enjoyed the moment.
“Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.” That quote by Henry David Thoreau says it all to me when it comes to fishing. If you’ve ever been fishing or hunting, you know there’s a lot of truth in that statement.
Last night I headed for the trout streams of Timber Coulee to fish for a couple hours before it got dark. It’s my favorite time to be roaming along a creek in search of an elusive trout. Vernon County, Wisconsin has an abundance of great trout streams, and people come from all over the country to try their luck and skill while wading through the many creeks. If you haven’t spent some time exploring the wild areas around the Driftless Area, you’re missing out on one of the simple pleasures of life.
I guess that’s why I enjoy fishing. It gives me a chance to wander around and explore some beautiful scenery, up close and personal. And like Thoreau, I usually go alone. I like the quiet solitude and the sights and sounds that nature provides for those willing to venture into the wild areas. As Thoreau said, it’s not the fish we’re after. Last night I didn’t land any fish, but I watched a large turtle exploring a creek bottom, saw a crane glide gracefully through the evening air, and spotted a bald eagle perched in a nearby tree. I watched swallows as they swooped and glided over the water, like dive bombers going in for the kill. I hoped they were feasting on a few of the mosquitoes that were plentiful around the water as dusk settled in.
The only sounds were those that nature created. I listened to the soothing sound of water rippling over the rocks, crickets beginning their evening symphony in the fields and woods around me, and frogs chiming in with their own music of the night. I felt like it was a successful trip even though I didn’t catch any fish.
I like the solitude of fishing. It gives a person time to be alone with your thoughts. It’s a form of moving meditation, as I quietly walk from one fishing hole to the next, often covering several miles in the process. Everyone should have a time where you can get away by yourself to a quiet place each day, with no distractions around you. What better place could that be than a secluded trout stream, surrounded by trees and nature. “Pretending” to fish is merely the means to an end.
If you’re not able to get away to a secluded stream, find a quiet place to sit, and imagine a peaceful, secluded place in your mind.
One evening as I was working my way along a meandering stream, back to my car, darkness was settling in, and a full moon was emerging over the ridge top behind me. Ahead of me the sun had just settled in for the night behind some distant hills and a brilliant sunset lit up the clouds on the horizon, giving them the appearance of having golden edges. The brush and trees around me were coming alive with the sounds of early evening. The serenity of the moment was like having a spiritual experience, beyond anything that could be experienced in a man-made cathedral. Those types of experiences are burned in my memory, and are the ones I visit in my mind, when I need a few moments to relax and recharge my batteries. That’s what Thoreau was talking about.
Don’t get me wrong; it’s nice to hook onto a fish that puts up a real fight before you land it. I release most of the fish I catch, especially the big ones. I usually carry my camera to record any prize catch before releasing it. We have to have proof. Everyone knows that fishermen tend to stretch the truth and the size of the fish.
Fishermen are also known to venture out in any type of weather. It’s not unusual to see a fisherman in waders in the middle of a cold trout stream, with snow still covering the ground. Rain doesn’t stop a fisherman either. My future son-in-law, Tim, and I went trout fishing together one weekend. As you know, the weather’s been a bit wet this spring and summer. It rained that weekend too. We ventured out in spite of a cold rain. Armed with all our wet weather gear, we looked like we were preparing to backpack into the wilds of Alaska. Wearing water-proof jackets with hoods, waterproof pants, and wading boots, we tackled the wet grass and marshy conditions found in many places along the streams. We even remembered to bring our fishing poles and tackle boxes.
We spread out and hiked for miles along the meandering streams, stopping to cast a few times in spots where trout are likely to hide. I stood with my back to the falling rain and peered out at the world from inside the dry protection of my hood and floppy fishing hat. It was like having a private, secluded inner sanctum from which to view the outside world. I found it very peaceful as the rain beat against my raingear and dripped off my hood. I looked down and spotted a morel mushroom.
Fishing became secondary, as I enjoyed the moment.
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