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.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)