Across the Fence #371
It’s time to open the door to a new year and see what awaits us on the other side. We never know what adventures, opportunities, and challenges we’ll encounter. Only time will tell.
I imagine many of you are looking forward to New Year’s Eve parties where you’ll welcome the New Year in with toasts, cheers, funny hats, noisemakers, and the singing of Auld Lang Syne. Did you know the words of that song mean “the times gone past; the good old days.”
I’m not much of a party animal anymore, so I’ll just try to stay awake long enough to say that I saw the New Year arrive. Once I kick back in my Lazy Boy I don’t always make it. I’m like one of those dolls whose eyes close when you put them in a horizontal position. Even three-quarter horizontal will do it for me. The dropping of the ball in Times Square often takes place as I’m wandering around in dreamland, with a distant voice somewhere in the fog that sounds a lot like Dick Clark, counting down the remaining seconds in the old year.
As we look back on the old year that we’re leaving behind, the words of Charles Dickens from A Tale of Two Cities, comes to mind, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” That probably applies to most people. We all have good times and bad times. Hopefully, the good times far outweighed the bad for all of you. Just remember, when you sing Auld Lang Syne, you’re waxing nostalgic for the good old days.
I have some friends who would just as soon leave the old year far behind. It hasn’t been the best of times for them. Heart attacks, cancer diagnosis, injuries in an auto accident, arthritic problems, knee replacements, hip replacements, jobs being eliminated, and the list goes on and on. Needless to say, most of my friends are card carrying AARP members. Senior citizen status is not for sissies! Many of my best friends are fellow Vietnam vets. We may no longer be lean, mean fighting machines, but there’s still plenty of fight left in us.
That reminds me of the story about a C-130 that was lumbering along when a cocky F-16 flashed by. The jet jockey decided to show off. The fighter jock told the C-130 pilot, “watch this!” and promptly went into a barrel roll, followed by a steep climb. He then finished with a sonic boom as he broke the sound barrier. The F-16 pilot asked the C-130 pilot what he thought about that.
The C-130 pilot radioed back, “That was pretty impressive, but watch this!” The C-130 droned along for about five minutes and then the C-130 pilot came back on and said, “What did you think of that?”
Puzzled, the F-16 pilot asked, “What the heck did you do?”
The C-130 pilot chuckled. “I stood up, stretched my legs, walked to the back of the plane, went to the bathroom, got a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll, and then came back to the cockpit and sat down.”
When you are young and foolish, speed and flash may seem like a good thing! When you get older and smarter, comfort and unexciting is not such a bad thing! We older folks understand this one. It’s called S.O.S.... Slower, Older and Smarter.
On the flip side of Dicken’s saying, it’s also the best of times. Those friends who’ve encountered problems during the past year, are still alive and above ground. They have positive attitudes and have enough life experiences to know that the road we travel is not always paved, and sometimes filled with potholes. When we hit those roads, we adjust our speed and continue on our journey, slower, older, and smarter, just like the old C-130 pilot.
As we open that door to the New Year, we know it’s filled with new adventures and possibilities. It holds excitement for our family, but that’s another story. It also holds more of those moments that money can’t buy; the sun rising out of a morning fog; golden sunsets that change every day–each more breathtaking than the next; towering storm clouds rolling across the prairie; deer grazing in the back yard–always on alert; water rippling over the rocks in a peaceful trout stream; the soothing sound of the wind ruffling the leaves of the trees and making the oats move like waves on an ocean; the smell of new-mown hay; corn shocks standing like sentries in a field, lined up in perfect formation as they disappear over the hill; the sound of a windmill cranking in the wind on a hot summer day; following animal tracks in a blanket of new-fallen snow; snowshoeing through a woods as large flakes of snow fall around you; sitting quietly in a fall woods and watching the leaves drift lazily to the ground; hearing the sound of turkeys calling nearby; and the sound of a Loon echoing across a lake as the water gently laps against a canoe.
Being aware of nature all around us, and taking in all the sights, sounds, and smells; these are the intangible things that add to our lives and often become the best of times, even if you’re going through the worst of times. Enjoy them all. Happy New Year everyone!
*
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
The "Blue Spruce" of Sunshine Prairie
Across the Fence #370w (Christmas Extra)
It was a beautiful fall day in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. Sunshine Prairie was awash in beauty and splendor from all the trees decked out in their finest fall colors. Butterflies were flitting from flower to flower, drinking in the finest nectar the kingdom had to offer before the flowers began to fade as colder weather arrived.
Princess Sonja sat among the flowers at the base of Three Rock Chimney. It was a great day to soak up some sun and find a little solitude from her job as the fairy princess in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. She was always being called upon to help someone with their problems. Sometimes, even a fairy princess needed to get away and enjoy some peace and quiet.
But things were not as peaceful as she had hoped. She sensed some tension and sadness in the air and it seemed to be coming from Christmas Tree Lane. The White Dove who had been resting atop Three Rock Chimney, flew down and landed on Princess Sonja’s shoulder. He whispered in Sonja’s ear. “I feel the sadness too,” she said. “Lets take a stroll over to Christmas Tree Lane and see what we can find.”
Sonja and the White Dove walked through the field of fading wild flowers, stopping occasionally to talk with a flower that greeted them as they passed. The beautiful day had all the flowers in a good mood, but even the flowers sensed that their days were numbered and that sadness was coming from the grove of Christmas trees.
As they entered Christmas Tree Lane, Sonja felt the sadness growing stronger. They followed the lane between the trees in the direction it was coming from. All the trees greeted them as they passed. Sonja had a feeling she already knew the problem. They finally came to the tallest tree in the grove. It was Bruce the Blue Spruce. Sonja greeted Bruce with a smile. “What’s wrong, Bruce, you seem bluer than usual today?”
“I know Sonja, but I can’t help it. They came yesterday, selecting trees that would be used for Christmas this year. I wasn’t selected again. I’m just a tree; I’ll never be a Christmas tree. Last week Jack and Jill came up the hill to find a place to be alone. They sat down where you are, took one look at me, and said, ‘Have you ever seen such an ugly tree.’ I tell you, it almost made my sap run.”
Sonja sat down in the shade next to Bruce, and the White Dove flew up and perched on one of his branches. He was in need of some love and positive reinforcement. Life had not been easy for Bruce. He had suffered many tragedies. In his early years, some cows in a pasture that bordered the field of young Christmas trees, were searching for greener grass on the other side of the fence. Several of them got out and came straight through the grove of young trees. One of the cows stepped on Bruce, breaking several of his limbs and leaving a very noticeable crink in his trunk. Rumor has it, the same cow was seen jumping over the moon that night, the same night that a dish ran away with a spoon. There were some really strange happenings that night, but that’s another story.
Back to that cow that stepped on Bruce. The farmer who owned the orchard considered ripping him out of the ground and planting a new tree in his place, but they must have forgotten about him after all the excitement of the cow jumping over the moon and that dish running off with the spoon. That same night three blind mice ran after the farmer’s wife and she ended up cutting off their tails with a carving knife. Have you ever seen such a sight in your life? After all the excitement, the farmer forgot all about Bruce and never came back that first year to replace him.
He managed to survive all his injuries, but was never the same. The older he became, the more noticeable his crooked trunk became. Several of his limbs never grew back and he ended up with a funny shape. He was not a beautiful tree. The owners even gave up trying to shape him into a Christmas tree, so his odd shape always stood out among the perfectly groomed trees. Each year he was bypassed when people came through selecting Christmas trees. Not only didn’t anyone select him, but several people would make snide remarks about how ugly he was and why didn’t someone just cut that tree down and get rid of it. Poor Bruce, the people didn’t know he could understand them and how much it hurt his feelings. That’s when the other trees began calling him Blue Bruce Spruce, because Bruce was not only a Blue Spruce, but was always feeling blue.
Many years had gone by since the cow stepped on him, and now Bruce was much taller than the other trees, because people looking for Christmas trees had selected most of the friends he had grown up with. A new generation of trees was now growing up around him. Bruce felt very much like an outcast and very much alone. His favorite story had become The Ugly Duckling. He hoped that someday, someone would find beauty when they looked at him.
Princess Sonja knew how much he wanted to be a beautiful Christmas tree. In the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty, he felt like that ugly duckling. She felt sorry for him but didn’t know what she could do to make him feel better. She hoped someone would come along this year and select Bruce for their tree.
As she was trying to find the right words to cheer Bruce up, several birds landed in his branches and started chatting with the White Dove. There was much joyous singing and Sonja listened carefully.
“We know Bruce is unhappy,” one said, “but we hope no one selects him for a Christmas tree again this year. What would we do when the cold winds and snow arrive this winter? Each winter, we’ve found shelter in his branches. He’s the only tree in the grove that has branches strong enough to hold all of us. The heavy snow coats his branches, providing a protective layer. We huddle together in the shelter of his branches and are able to survive the coldest nights. What will we do if Bruce leaves us? How will we survive?”
Sonja smiled. “Did you hear that?” she asked Bruce. “The birds need you. If you aren’t here, what will happen to them?”
“But Sonja, all my friends have left the grove to become Christmas trees in someone’s home. I hear people decorate them with wonderful lights and ornaments. Everyone proclaims how beautiful they are. No one has ever called me beautiful. They just make remarks about what an ugly tree I am. Just once in my life, I want people to say that I’m beautiful too. I bet even Charlie Brown wouldn’t pick me for his Christmas tree!”
Sonja thought for a few moments before answering. “Bruce, those friends of yours had one shining moment. Granted, they were all decked out for a short time and were beautiful. But that kind of beauty is fleeting, it doesn’t last forever. After Christmas, their useful life is done, and most are discarded on the curbs of the homes that chose them. You’re still here. You’re still alive. You’re still useful. The birds need you, and the animals that make their homes on the ground under your protective branches need you. You’re loved by all of them and you’re never alone.”
“I know that, Sonja. I’m glad I can provide shelter and protection for my feathered friends and animals, but just once I’d like to be all decked out in lights and feel beautiful.”
Bruce felt a little better after talking with Princess Sonja, but he still felt ugly, and knew there was nothing he could do to change his appearance. He would just have to try and change his attitude.
The mild weather of fall soon transitioned into the chilly days of early winter. The first snowflakes rode in on the cold winds of December and a blanket of snow soon covered the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. All thoughts turned to Christmas and people began arriving at Christmas Tree Lane to select their trees. Bruce kept hoping someone would stop and say, “That’s the tree I want this year.” But as usual, everyone passed him by, looking for the perfect tree.
The birds and animals that found shelter from the cold and wind among his branches, were glad that Bruce was still standing tall. Even in the cold weather, Bruce was so blue his sap was running. Princess Sonja couldn’t stand it any longer. She had to do something and she had a plan.
After gathering up all the items she would need, she sent the White Dove ahead to round up as many birds and animals as possible to help with brightening up the life of Blue Bruce Spruce. When Sonja arrived at Christmas Tree Lane everyone was excited and ready to go to work. The birds grabbed strings of lights and began wrapping them around Bruce. A Whitetail Deer family volunteered to pull and lay the extension cords to the nearby farm buildings where the owners of Christmas Tree Lane lived. It took many rolls of cord to reach from Bruce to the buildings, where they managed to plug the cord into an outside outlet. Then they hurried back to let Sonja know they had accomplished their mission.
Sonja and the birds had strung hundreds of lights on Bruce. They had added strands of shiny garland on his braches to help reflect the light. It was starting to get dark by the time they finished. Bruce had never been decked out with anything so fine. He was starting to feel better and his sap even quit running. All the birds and animals surrounded the tree at a distance, as Sonja plugged the strands of lights into the extension cord. Suddenly Bruce lit up like a Christmas tree and his light brightened the fading light. Everyone let out a collective gasp. The light snow that had begun to fall added to the scene. They had never seen a tree this beautiful before.
Cars traveling on Three Rock Chimney Road began to stop and people got out of their cars to admire the beautiful Christmas tree, standing tall, in the middle of Christmas Tree Lane. They all remarked that they had never seen such a beautiful tree. Some of the birds flew to where the cars were parked to see how Bruce looked from there. When they returned they told Bruce, Princess Sonja, and all the assembled birds and animals what the people were saying. Bruce was overflowing with pride and happiness. He had never felt so good and stood up even taller.
Now, every Christmas, Princess Sonja and Bruce’s friends decorate him. People come from all parts of the land to admire the most beautiful Christmas tree in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. Bruce is still a Blue Spruce, but no longer feels ugly and blue. He grows a little bigger each year and still provides shelter for his many friends during the entire year. Bruce has learned that beauty is fleeting, but a useful life, providing for others, far outshines the short time each year when everyone thinks he’s beautiful.
Life is very good on Sunshine Prairie in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty! May your life, wherever you find yourself, also be filled with beauty and life, and may you have a wonderful Christmas.
*
It was a beautiful fall day in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. Sunshine Prairie was awash in beauty and splendor from all the trees decked out in their finest fall colors. Butterflies were flitting from flower to flower, drinking in the finest nectar the kingdom had to offer before the flowers began to fade as colder weather arrived.
Princess Sonja sat among the flowers at the base of Three Rock Chimney. It was a great day to soak up some sun and find a little solitude from her job as the fairy princess in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. She was always being called upon to help someone with their problems. Sometimes, even a fairy princess needed to get away and enjoy some peace and quiet.
But things were not as peaceful as she had hoped. She sensed some tension and sadness in the air and it seemed to be coming from Christmas Tree Lane. The White Dove who had been resting atop Three Rock Chimney, flew down and landed on Princess Sonja’s shoulder. He whispered in Sonja’s ear. “I feel the sadness too,” she said. “Lets take a stroll over to Christmas Tree Lane and see what we can find.”
Sonja and the White Dove walked through the field of fading wild flowers, stopping occasionally to talk with a flower that greeted them as they passed. The beautiful day had all the flowers in a good mood, but even the flowers sensed that their days were numbered and that sadness was coming from the grove of Christmas trees.
As they entered Christmas Tree Lane, Sonja felt the sadness growing stronger. They followed the lane between the trees in the direction it was coming from. All the trees greeted them as they passed. Sonja had a feeling she already knew the problem. They finally came to the tallest tree in the grove. It was Bruce the Blue Spruce. Sonja greeted Bruce with a smile. “What’s wrong, Bruce, you seem bluer than usual today?”
“I know Sonja, but I can’t help it. They came yesterday, selecting trees that would be used for Christmas this year. I wasn’t selected again. I’m just a tree; I’ll never be a Christmas tree. Last week Jack and Jill came up the hill to find a place to be alone. They sat down where you are, took one look at me, and said, ‘Have you ever seen such an ugly tree.’ I tell you, it almost made my sap run.”
Sonja sat down in the shade next to Bruce, and the White Dove flew up and perched on one of his branches. He was in need of some love and positive reinforcement. Life had not been easy for Bruce. He had suffered many tragedies. In his early years, some cows in a pasture that bordered the field of young Christmas trees, were searching for greener grass on the other side of the fence. Several of them got out and came straight through the grove of young trees. One of the cows stepped on Bruce, breaking several of his limbs and leaving a very noticeable crink in his trunk. Rumor has it, the same cow was seen jumping over the moon that night, the same night that a dish ran away with a spoon. There were some really strange happenings that night, but that’s another story.
Back to that cow that stepped on Bruce. The farmer who owned the orchard considered ripping him out of the ground and planting a new tree in his place, but they must have forgotten about him after all the excitement of the cow jumping over the moon and that dish running off with the spoon. That same night three blind mice ran after the farmer’s wife and she ended up cutting off their tails with a carving knife. Have you ever seen such a sight in your life? After all the excitement, the farmer forgot all about Bruce and never came back that first year to replace him.
He managed to survive all his injuries, but was never the same. The older he became, the more noticeable his crooked trunk became. Several of his limbs never grew back and he ended up with a funny shape. He was not a beautiful tree. The owners even gave up trying to shape him into a Christmas tree, so his odd shape always stood out among the perfectly groomed trees. Each year he was bypassed when people came through selecting Christmas trees. Not only didn’t anyone select him, but several people would make snide remarks about how ugly he was and why didn’t someone just cut that tree down and get rid of it. Poor Bruce, the people didn’t know he could understand them and how much it hurt his feelings. That’s when the other trees began calling him Blue Bruce Spruce, because Bruce was not only a Blue Spruce, but was always feeling blue.
Many years had gone by since the cow stepped on him, and now Bruce was much taller than the other trees, because people looking for Christmas trees had selected most of the friends he had grown up with. A new generation of trees was now growing up around him. Bruce felt very much like an outcast and very much alone. His favorite story had become The Ugly Duckling. He hoped that someday, someone would find beauty when they looked at him.
Princess Sonja knew how much he wanted to be a beautiful Christmas tree. In the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty, he felt like that ugly duckling. She felt sorry for him but didn’t know what she could do to make him feel better. She hoped someone would come along this year and select Bruce for their tree.
As she was trying to find the right words to cheer Bruce up, several birds landed in his branches and started chatting with the White Dove. There was much joyous singing and Sonja listened carefully.
“We know Bruce is unhappy,” one said, “but we hope no one selects him for a Christmas tree again this year. What would we do when the cold winds and snow arrive this winter? Each winter, we’ve found shelter in his branches. He’s the only tree in the grove that has branches strong enough to hold all of us. The heavy snow coats his branches, providing a protective layer. We huddle together in the shelter of his branches and are able to survive the coldest nights. What will we do if Bruce leaves us? How will we survive?”
Sonja smiled. “Did you hear that?” she asked Bruce. “The birds need you. If you aren’t here, what will happen to them?”
“But Sonja, all my friends have left the grove to become Christmas trees in someone’s home. I hear people decorate them with wonderful lights and ornaments. Everyone proclaims how beautiful they are. No one has ever called me beautiful. They just make remarks about what an ugly tree I am. Just once in my life, I want people to say that I’m beautiful too. I bet even Charlie Brown wouldn’t pick me for his Christmas tree!”
Sonja thought for a few moments before answering. “Bruce, those friends of yours had one shining moment. Granted, they were all decked out for a short time and were beautiful. But that kind of beauty is fleeting, it doesn’t last forever. After Christmas, their useful life is done, and most are discarded on the curbs of the homes that chose them. You’re still here. You’re still alive. You’re still useful. The birds need you, and the animals that make their homes on the ground under your protective branches need you. You’re loved by all of them and you’re never alone.”
“I know that, Sonja. I’m glad I can provide shelter and protection for my feathered friends and animals, but just once I’d like to be all decked out in lights and feel beautiful.”
Bruce felt a little better after talking with Princess Sonja, but he still felt ugly, and knew there was nothing he could do to change his appearance. He would just have to try and change his attitude.
The mild weather of fall soon transitioned into the chilly days of early winter. The first snowflakes rode in on the cold winds of December and a blanket of snow soon covered the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. All thoughts turned to Christmas and people began arriving at Christmas Tree Lane to select their trees. Bruce kept hoping someone would stop and say, “That’s the tree I want this year.” But as usual, everyone passed him by, looking for the perfect tree.
The birds and animals that found shelter from the cold and wind among his branches, were glad that Bruce was still standing tall. Even in the cold weather, Bruce was so blue his sap was running. Princess Sonja couldn’t stand it any longer. She had to do something and she had a plan.
After gathering up all the items she would need, she sent the White Dove ahead to round up as many birds and animals as possible to help with brightening up the life of Blue Bruce Spruce. When Sonja arrived at Christmas Tree Lane everyone was excited and ready to go to work. The birds grabbed strings of lights and began wrapping them around Bruce. A Whitetail Deer family volunteered to pull and lay the extension cords to the nearby farm buildings where the owners of Christmas Tree Lane lived. It took many rolls of cord to reach from Bruce to the buildings, where they managed to plug the cord into an outside outlet. Then they hurried back to let Sonja know they had accomplished their mission.
Sonja and the birds had strung hundreds of lights on Bruce. They had added strands of shiny garland on his braches to help reflect the light. It was starting to get dark by the time they finished. Bruce had never been decked out with anything so fine. He was starting to feel better and his sap even quit running. All the birds and animals surrounded the tree at a distance, as Sonja plugged the strands of lights into the extension cord. Suddenly Bruce lit up like a Christmas tree and his light brightened the fading light. Everyone let out a collective gasp. The light snow that had begun to fall added to the scene. They had never seen a tree this beautiful before.
Cars traveling on Three Rock Chimney Road began to stop and people got out of their cars to admire the beautiful Christmas tree, standing tall, in the middle of Christmas Tree Lane. They all remarked that they had never seen such a beautiful tree. Some of the birds flew to where the cars were parked to see how Bruce looked from there. When they returned they told Bruce, Princess Sonja, and all the assembled birds and animals what the people were saying. Bruce was overflowing with pride and happiness. He had never felt so good and stood up even taller.
Now, every Christmas, Princess Sonja and Bruce’s friends decorate him. People come from all parts of the land to admire the most beautiful Christmas tree in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. Bruce is still a Blue Spruce, but no longer feels ugly and blue. He grows a little bigger each year and still provides shelter for his many friends during the entire year. Bruce has learned that beauty is fleeting, but a useful life, providing for others, far outshines the short time each year when everyone thinks he’s beautiful.
Life is very good on Sunshine Prairie in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty! May your life, wherever you find yourself, also be filled with beauty and life, and may you have a wonderful Christmas.
*
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Santa Is Definitely A Woman
Across the Fence #370
The ground is bare and there’s no snow in sight around Sherpeland. The past few years we’ve been buried in snow by this time. Unless things change in the next week, I fear Santa will have a hard time with his deliveries in this area. But then, he never seems to have any problems in the southern parts of the country, so I don’t think I have anything to worry about.
I know this is just the calm before the storm, but to tell the truth, I could get used to winters like this. It’s nice not having to put on five layers of clothes, boots, heavy gloves, and a double-layer stocking cap, just to walk to the end of the driveway and get the mail. Last year I even had to resort to using my snowshoes to get to the bird feeders. I got tired of opening a path every day, only to have the wind drift it shut as fast as I could blow it out.
Put it this way, I’m not dreaming of a white Christmas. I’ll let Bing dream about that. When I was young, I’d have been entering panic mode if there was no snow this close to Christmas. I still have vivid memories of listening to the radio on Christmas Eve as they gave reports on the sightings and progress of Santa and his reindeer. As they got closer, it was time to set out a plate of Norwegian baked goods for Santa. Everyone who stopped at our house was fed and given coffee, even Santa. Although Ma left a glass of milk instead of coffee, because she said the coffee would be cold by the time Santa arrived, and not even Santa liked cold coffee. We even left some carrots for the reindeer. They get hungry too, pulling the heavy sleigh, Santa, and all the presents.
Christmas is an exciting time for children. We need to retain some of that childhood magic of Christmas as we get older.
In Ben Logan’s wonderful book, “Christmas Remembered,” he has a story called “Santa Claus Is a Woman.” He tells how his family all waited around for someone to make Christmas happen that first winter after his mother had died. He remembered that Christmas was a casualty of her death.
Ben and I have talked about that story and the feelings he had as a 17-year-old boy whose mother was no longer there to make Christmas happen. It got me thinking about my mother and how important she was to our family at Christmas. We didn’t know it at the time, but she was Santa Claus, just as Ben Logan said his mother was in his story.
Our father bought the tree and set it up in the stand, but that’s usually where the role of most men ended in making Christmas happen. Then the women took over. Ma brought down the boxes of lights and ornaments that were stored in the upstairs walk-in attic. She strung the bubble lights, hung the ornaments with the help of us kids, and let us put the icicles on the tree. When we got older and could reach, we got to put the angel on top of the tree. That was a special job. She then opened the red, folded paper bells, fanned them out to form a bell shape, and hung them from a door. I haven’t seen one of those bells since I was young.
When the tree was ready, she decorated the house, hand-addressed and wrote on all the Christmas cards, baked all the Christmas cookies and other Norwegian goodies, and bought and wrapped the presents. The house came alive with the Christmas spirit when she was done.
When I was young and still believed in Santa, it was Ma who comforted me and reassured me that Santa was real and would still bring presents after Sandy told me there was no Santa Claus. Just because we didn’t have a fireplace was no reason for Santa to skip our house. He could always use our front door that was never locked. And no, he wouldn’t get burned up in our wood-burning stove if he came down the chimney. Santa had magical powers and could even make himself small enough to squeeze through the damper in the stovepipe. I couldn’t understand how he could also squeeze his bag and our presents through there, but he always did. He ate all the cookies and drank the milk we left for him too.
Yes, the women have always made Christmas happen. My mother turned the rituals of the season into memories that I still carry and bring to life again each Christmas season.
I know all the pictures we see of Santa show a large man in a red, fur-lined suit, with a bushy, white beard. But tell me this, have any of you ever seen the “real” Santa on Christmas Eve? Not just those Santa’s helpers that you see in the malls. We never saw him, but he always showed up after we had finally fallen asleep. I’m willing to bet, that if we had been lucky enough to catch even a fleeting glimpse of Santa, it would have been a small, thin, woman wearing an apron, and bearing a striking resemblance to my mother.
It’s just like Ben Logan said, “Santa Clause Is a Woman!”
*
The ground is bare and there’s no snow in sight around Sherpeland. The past few years we’ve been buried in snow by this time. Unless things change in the next week, I fear Santa will have a hard time with his deliveries in this area. But then, he never seems to have any problems in the southern parts of the country, so I don’t think I have anything to worry about.
I know this is just the calm before the storm, but to tell the truth, I could get used to winters like this. It’s nice not having to put on five layers of clothes, boots, heavy gloves, and a double-layer stocking cap, just to walk to the end of the driveway and get the mail. Last year I even had to resort to using my snowshoes to get to the bird feeders. I got tired of opening a path every day, only to have the wind drift it shut as fast as I could blow it out.
Put it this way, I’m not dreaming of a white Christmas. I’ll let Bing dream about that. When I was young, I’d have been entering panic mode if there was no snow this close to Christmas. I still have vivid memories of listening to the radio on Christmas Eve as they gave reports on the sightings and progress of Santa and his reindeer. As they got closer, it was time to set out a plate of Norwegian baked goods for Santa. Everyone who stopped at our house was fed and given coffee, even Santa. Although Ma left a glass of milk instead of coffee, because she said the coffee would be cold by the time Santa arrived, and not even Santa liked cold coffee. We even left some carrots for the reindeer. They get hungry too, pulling the heavy sleigh, Santa, and all the presents.
Christmas is an exciting time for children. We need to retain some of that childhood magic of Christmas as we get older.
In Ben Logan’s wonderful book, “Christmas Remembered,” he has a story called “Santa Claus Is a Woman.” He tells how his family all waited around for someone to make Christmas happen that first winter after his mother had died. He remembered that Christmas was a casualty of her death.
Ben and I have talked about that story and the feelings he had as a 17-year-old boy whose mother was no longer there to make Christmas happen. It got me thinking about my mother and how important she was to our family at Christmas. We didn’t know it at the time, but she was Santa Claus, just as Ben Logan said his mother was in his story.
Our father bought the tree and set it up in the stand, but that’s usually where the role of most men ended in making Christmas happen. Then the women took over. Ma brought down the boxes of lights and ornaments that were stored in the upstairs walk-in attic. She strung the bubble lights, hung the ornaments with the help of us kids, and let us put the icicles on the tree. When we got older and could reach, we got to put the angel on top of the tree. That was a special job. She then opened the red, folded paper bells, fanned them out to form a bell shape, and hung them from a door. I haven’t seen one of those bells since I was young.
When the tree was ready, she decorated the house, hand-addressed and wrote on all the Christmas cards, baked all the Christmas cookies and other Norwegian goodies, and bought and wrapped the presents. The house came alive with the Christmas spirit when she was done.
When I was young and still believed in Santa, it was Ma who comforted me and reassured me that Santa was real and would still bring presents after Sandy told me there was no Santa Claus. Just because we didn’t have a fireplace was no reason for Santa to skip our house. He could always use our front door that was never locked. And no, he wouldn’t get burned up in our wood-burning stove if he came down the chimney. Santa had magical powers and could even make himself small enough to squeeze through the damper in the stovepipe. I couldn’t understand how he could also squeeze his bag and our presents through there, but he always did. He ate all the cookies and drank the milk we left for him too.
Yes, the women have always made Christmas happen. My mother turned the rituals of the season into memories that I still carry and bring to life again each Christmas season.
I know all the pictures we see of Santa show a large man in a red, fur-lined suit, with a bushy, white beard. But tell me this, have any of you ever seen the “real” Santa on Christmas Eve? Not just those Santa’s helpers that you see in the malls. We never saw him, but he always showed up after we had finally fallen asleep. I’m willing to bet, that if we had been lucky enough to catch even a fleeting glimpse of Santa, it would have been a small, thin, woman wearing an apron, and bearing a striking resemblance to my mother.
It’s just like Ben Logan said, “Santa Clause Is a Woman!”
*
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Sandy and Christmas Memories
Across the Fence #369
What’s your earliest memory of Christmas? Looking way back, my first memory of Christmas is hoeing tobacco with my cousin, Sandy. I couldn’t have been very old, because I still believed in Santa Claus. Sandy, being three years older and wiser when it came to the mysteries of the universe, suddenly dropped a grenade at my feet that literally blew my world apart that day.
Even though it was a hot summer day, our conversation had turned to Christmas and Santa. Sandy suddenly proclaimed, “There is NO Santa Claus, Uncle and Auntie are Santa Claus.” You can imagine my horror at hearing such a blasphemous statement. In that moment my world started collapsing around me and the sky began falling. If you have my second book, “Across the Fence: Down Country Roads,” you can read the full story on page 131.
Thank goodness my mother came up with answers to all the questions that Sandy had brought up. They were such great answers, I still believe in Santa today! I guess you couldn’t see me wink as I wrote that line.
But, is it any wonder that I remembered where I was and what I was doing at such a moment. It’s just like we remember where we were when President Kennedy was shot, and when the attacks on 9-11 occurred. Traumatic experiences always leave an imprint on our memories.
Many years after that traumatic experience in the tobacco field, Sandy and I found ourselves alone, and far from home and our families, during Christmas in 1965. I was in basic training in the army at Fort Lewis, Washington. We were halfway through basic and weren’t allowed to go home for Christmas. It was like we were in prison and it’s not one of my best Christmas memories. Not only were we “prisoners” during Christmas and New Years, but it was a zero week–it didn’t count since it was holiday time for most personnel who weren’t in basic. That meant we’d spend an extra week in basic training.
On Christmas Eve day it snowed and rained while we were marching all morning. It was really miserable and we got soaked. The snow didn’t stay on the ground. It just turned to slush and our white Christmas quickly disappeared.
That evening we were marched in formation, to and from the Christmas Eve service at one of the chapels on the base. That’s about the only thing that reminded us that it was Christmas. What a joke. I remember how sad everyone was as we sat through that service. It was the saddest Christmas I’ve ever spent. It was even worse than spending Christmas in Vietnam.
On Christmas day, the sergeants let us sleep in until 0600. That was late for us. After pushups and pull-ups we got to eat breakfast. Then we were herded back to our barracks and ordered to GI and spit-shine the barracks and latrines. When everything was to the Sergeant’s liking, I got to march our platoon around our company area for police call. After that we got to stay in our barracks and take it easy until noon.
Sandy was also at Fort Lewis during this time. We weren’t allowed to make or receive phone calls during basic training, so I wasn’t able to see or talk with her. Her husband, Lou Wagner, was an officer with the 1st Cav Division. They had trained at Fort Lewis before being shipped to Vietnam, where he was spending that Christmas, far from home and his family. Sandy and other wives were living on post while their husbands were gone. This is what Sandy later wrote about that Christmas day:
“When Karl (their son) was five months old, Lou’s company shipped out for Vietnam and I stayed on post with Karl. Howard was at Fort Lewis for basic training at that time. Lou was in Vietnam, it was Christmas, I was alone, and wanted very much to spend some time with my cousin. For some reason, the basic trainees were not allowed any visitors. After some serious phone calls, tears, and threats, I was finally able to spend some time with Howard on Christmas day. That was a real sad time for both of us. Seeing each other for a short time, was the only bright spot in that Christmas season.”
I did get to see Sandy for a short visit that afternoon. After being told on the phone that she couldn’t see me, she came to Battalion Headquarters and talked to the O.D. (Officer of the Day), and explained that her husband was in Vietnam and I was the only relative she had around. She said she also shed some crocodile tears for him. The O.D. finally relented, and gave her permission to see me for a short time in a conference room. An armed guard came to our barracks and I was escorted by him to where Sandy was. He stayed with us while we got to visit for about fifteen minutes, and then he escorted me back to my barracks–a distance of about one block! That night we got to watch training films about the Vietnam War.
I echo Sandy’s words, seeing each other for a short time, was the only bright spot in that Christmas season. Santa brought us a great gift that day… a short visit. Even Sandy had to believe in him after that.
*
What’s your earliest memory of Christmas? Looking way back, my first memory of Christmas is hoeing tobacco with my cousin, Sandy. I couldn’t have been very old, because I still believed in Santa Claus. Sandy, being three years older and wiser when it came to the mysteries of the universe, suddenly dropped a grenade at my feet that literally blew my world apart that day.
Even though it was a hot summer day, our conversation had turned to Christmas and Santa. Sandy suddenly proclaimed, “There is NO Santa Claus, Uncle and Auntie are Santa Claus.” You can imagine my horror at hearing such a blasphemous statement. In that moment my world started collapsing around me and the sky began falling. If you have my second book, “Across the Fence: Down Country Roads,” you can read the full story on page 131.
Thank goodness my mother came up with answers to all the questions that Sandy had brought up. They were such great answers, I still believe in Santa today! I guess you couldn’t see me wink as I wrote that line.
But, is it any wonder that I remembered where I was and what I was doing at such a moment. It’s just like we remember where we were when President Kennedy was shot, and when the attacks on 9-11 occurred. Traumatic experiences always leave an imprint on our memories.
Many years after that traumatic experience in the tobacco field, Sandy and I found ourselves alone, and far from home and our families, during Christmas in 1965. I was in basic training in the army at Fort Lewis, Washington. We were halfway through basic and weren’t allowed to go home for Christmas. It was like we were in prison and it’s not one of my best Christmas memories. Not only were we “prisoners” during Christmas and New Years, but it was a zero week–it didn’t count since it was holiday time for most personnel who weren’t in basic. That meant we’d spend an extra week in basic training.
On Christmas Eve day it snowed and rained while we were marching all morning. It was really miserable and we got soaked. The snow didn’t stay on the ground. It just turned to slush and our white Christmas quickly disappeared.
That evening we were marched in formation, to and from the Christmas Eve service at one of the chapels on the base. That’s about the only thing that reminded us that it was Christmas. What a joke. I remember how sad everyone was as we sat through that service. It was the saddest Christmas I’ve ever spent. It was even worse than spending Christmas in Vietnam.
On Christmas day, the sergeants let us sleep in until 0600. That was late for us. After pushups and pull-ups we got to eat breakfast. Then we were herded back to our barracks and ordered to GI and spit-shine the barracks and latrines. When everything was to the Sergeant’s liking, I got to march our platoon around our company area for police call. After that we got to stay in our barracks and take it easy until noon.
Sandy was also at Fort Lewis during this time. We weren’t allowed to make or receive phone calls during basic training, so I wasn’t able to see or talk with her. Her husband, Lou Wagner, was an officer with the 1st Cav Division. They had trained at Fort Lewis before being shipped to Vietnam, where he was spending that Christmas, far from home and his family. Sandy and other wives were living on post while their husbands were gone. This is what Sandy later wrote about that Christmas day:
“When Karl (their son) was five months old, Lou’s company shipped out for Vietnam and I stayed on post with Karl. Howard was at Fort Lewis for basic training at that time. Lou was in Vietnam, it was Christmas, I was alone, and wanted very much to spend some time with my cousin. For some reason, the basic trainees were not allowed any visitors. After some serious phone calls, tears, and threats, I was finally able to spend some time with Howard on Christmas day. That was a real sad time for both of us. Seeing each other for a short time, was the only bright spot in that Christmas season.”
I did get to see Sandy for a short visit that afternoon. After being told on the phone that she couldn’t see me, she came to Battalion Headquarters and talked to the O.D. (Officer of the Day), and explained that her husband was in Vietnam and I was the only relative she had around. She said she also shed some crocodile tears for him. The O.D. finally relented, and gave her permission to see me for a short time in a conference room. An armed guard came to our barracks and I was escorted by him to where Sandy was. He stayed with us while we got to visit for about fifteen minutes, and then he escorted me back to my barracks–a distance of about one block! That night we got to watch training films about the Vietnam War.
I echo Sandy’s words, seeing each other for a short time, was the only bright spot in that Christmas season. Santa brought us a great gift that day… a short visit. Even Sandy had to believe in him after that.
*
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Thanksgiving Leftovers Are Great
Across the Fence #368
Now it begins, that month of anticipation between Thanksgiving and Christmas. As I write this, I’m still as stuffed as the huge turkey our family met up with on Thanksgiving. We were at our daughter and son-in-law’s home near Ixonia, and we certainly didn’t starve. Now we’ve entered the second phase of Thanksgiving—enjoying all the leftovers.
I’ve never been accused of being a great cook, or even a mediocre one. My cooking ability is heating up the charcoal grill, throwing on some hamburger patties or brats, and making sure they don’t get burned to a crisp. I’m not the second coming of Julia Childs.
However, I do have a great recipe for all those leftovers from the big Thanksgiving meal. Dig through your cupboards and find a large microwavable bowl with a cover. Take some of the leftover potatoes, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, chunks of turkey, a large helping of stuffing, and grab anything else that looks appetizing. Throw everything into the bowl. Don’t worry about stuff getting mixed together. As you can see, I’m not a picky eater. You might want to leave the cranberry relish and herring out for the time being. They don’t mix very well with the other ingredients. The cranberries tend to turn to juice when heated.
Put a cover on the bowl and shove it into the microwave. The microwave is my preferred method of heating stuff up. The amount of time you heat the concoction is up to you, depending how hot you like your food. When you think it’s hot enough, take it out of the microwave. Remove the cover and sample the mix to see if it’s heated to your satisfaction. If it is, dump the cranberries, herring, and some pickles into the mix, grab a fork, and eat right out of the bowl. That’s if you’re eating it all by yourself. If you have to share, it’s best to scoop some onto a plate. If you get to eat right out of the bowl, you’ll have a lot less dishes to wash up after you’re done. Why use a bunch of bowls when you can get by with one? Next, find a football game to watch on TV, take that bowl you heated everything in, grab some lefse, a beverage of your choice, sit back in your favorite recliner, put your feet up, and enjoy your great meal of leftovers! I hope you had a little pumpkin pie and sweet potato pie left over like we did. As they say at Borgen’s Café in Westby, “Don’t forget the pie!”
I know all this probably sounds like a mess to you. Granted, it’s all mushed together, but it tastes great, and it’s all going to the same place anyway. OK, I told you I wasn’t the next Julia Childs. It’s not for everyone.
Even before the leftovers had cooled down, Black Friday arrived. I hope none of you were part of those frenzied mob scenes I saw on TV, as shoppers stormed the doors, trampling each other in their hurry for a bargain. You couldn’t drag me to a store with a team of horses on Black Friday. I’m enjoying my leftovers as people are fighting with each other and pepper spraying other shoppers in order to snag that coveted item. I keep hearing how bad shape the economy is in, but you’d never know it by the way people were spending money.
Then just when you think the buying frenzy is over, along comes Cyber Monday. In case you missed out on the bargains on Black Friday because you got trampled or pepper sprayed, you can now sit in the comfort of your home and shop online. No traffic jams, no parking problems, no masses of people to contend with. I wonder if they ever had this kind of buying frenzy in my parent’s generation? I suspect not. I know they always shopped locally in Westby and Viroqua for our Christmas presents. There was a “Dime Store” in Viroqua. I can still remember how awe-struck I was when I saw all the toys on their shelves during Christmas. Looking back, it amounted to one small section of the store, but we thought it was wonderful. We’d probably have died of shock if we could have walked into a huge Toys-R-Us store like they have today.
Another of the happenings after Thanksgiving is over, is the hanging of the Christmas lights and decorations. I know the stores have been decorated since Halloween, but that’s just too early.
Now I’m about to begin an early phase of Christmas—the untangling of the strings of lights. It’s a yearly tradition in most homes. No matter how carefully you put them away, they manage to get all tangled up. Then after I manage to get them untangled, I find out the lights won’t light up. You’d think I’d learn to test them before spending all that time untangling them.
Soon the first Christmas card will arrive. Then I’ll start feeling guilty about not having my cards all picked out, addressed, and ready to send.
There’s only one solution to all this holiday stress. Round up another helping of Thanksgiving leftovers, throw them in the microwave, find a station airing White Christmas with Bing Crosby, then sit back and enjoy those leftovers while watching the movie. Christmas will come soon enough!
*
Now it begins, that month of anticipation between Thanksgiving and Christmas. As I write this, I’m still as stuffed as the huge turkey our family met up with on Thanksgiving. We were at our daughter and son-in-law’s home near Ixonia, and we certainly didn’t starve. Now we’ve entered the second phase of Thanksgiving—enjoying all the leftovers.
I’ve never been accused of being a great cook, or even a mediocre one. My cooking ability is heating up the charcoal grill, throwing on some hamburger patties or brats, and making sure they don’t get burned to a crisp. I’m not the second coming of Julia Childs.
However, I do have a great recipe for all those leftovers from the big Thanksgiving meal. Dig through your cupboards and find a large microwavable bowl with a cover. Take some of the leftover potatoes, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, chunks of turkey, a large helping of stuffing, and grab anything else that looks appetizing. Throw everything into the bowl. Don’t worry about stuff getting mixed together. As you can see, I’m not a picky eater. You might want to leave the cranberry relish and herring out for the time being. They don’t mix very well with the other ingredients. The cranberries tend to turn to juice when heated.
Put a cover on the bowl and shove it into the microwave. The microwave is my preferred method of heating stuff up. The amount of time you heat the concoction is up to you, depending how hot you like your food. When you think it’s hot enough, take it out of the microwave. Remove the cover and sample the mix to see if it’s heated to your satisfaction. If it is, dump the cranberries, herring, and some pickles into the mix, grab a fork, and eat right out of the bowl. That’s if you’re eating it all by yourself. If you have to share, it’s best to scoop some onto a plate. If you get to eat right out of the bowl, you’ll have a lot less dishes to wash up after you’re done. Why use a bunch of bowls when you can get by with one? Next, find a football game to watch on TV, take that bowl you heated everything in, grab some lefse, a beverage of your choice, sit back in your favorite recliner, put your feet up, and enjoy your great meal of leftovers! I hope you had a little pumpkin pie and sweet potato pie left over like we did. As they say at Borgen’s Café in Westby, “Don’t forget the pie!”
I know all this probably sounds like a mess to you. Granted, it’s all mushed together, but it tastes great, and it’s all going to the same place anyway. OK, I told you I wasn’t the next Julia Childs. It’s not for everyone.
Even before the leftovers had cooled down, Black Friday arrived. I hope none of you were part of those frenzied mob scenes I saw on TV, as shoppers stormed the doors, trampling each other in their hurry for a bargain. You couldn’t drag me to a store with a team of horses on Black Friday. I’m enjoying my leftovers as people are fighting with each other and pepper spraying other shoppers in order to snag that coveted item. I keep hearing how bad shape the economy is in, but you’d never know it by the way people were spending money.
Then just when you think the buying frenzy is over, along comes Cyber Monday. In case you missed out on the bargains on Black Friday because you got trampled or pepper sprayed, you can now sit in the comfort of your home and shop online. No traffic jams, no parking problems, no masses of people to contend with. I wonder if they ever had this kind of buying frenzy in my parent’s generation? I suspect not. I know they always shopped locally in Westby and Viroqua for our Christmas presents. There was a “Dime Store” in Viroqua. I can still remember how awe-struck I was when I saw all the toys on their shelves during Christmas. Looking back, it amounted to one small section of the store, but we thought it was wonderful. We’d probably have died of shock if we could have walked into a huge Toys-R-Us store like they have today.
Another of the happenings after Thanksgiving is over, is the hanging of the Christmas lights and decorations. I know the stores have been decorated since Halloween, but that’s just too early.
Now I’m about to begin an early phase of Christmas—the untangling of the strings of lights. It’s a yearly tradition in most homes. No matter how carefully you put them away, they manage to get all tangled up. Then after I manage to get them untangled, I find out the lights won’t light up. You’d think I’d learn to test them before spending all that time untangling them.
Soon the first Christmas card will arrive. Then I’ll start feeling guilty about not having my cards all picked out, addressed, and ready to send.
There’s only one solution to all this holiday stress. Round up another helping of Thanksgiving leftovers, throw them in the microwave, find a station airing White Christmas with Bing Crosby, then sit back and enjoy those leftovers while watching the movie. Christmas will come soon enough!
*
Saturday, November 26, 2011
My First 18 Months Were Eventful
Across the Fence #367
When we went through all the stuff in the house after my parents died, I came across the Viroqua Hospital bill from when I was born. It’s dated May 14, 1944, ten days after I came kicking and screaming into this world.
I was born on Thursday, May 4, 1944 at 5:40 p.m. at the old Viroqua Hospital. I weighed in at 7 lbs, 5 ozs., assisted in my arrival by Dr. Lars Gulbrandsen. My baby book says that I resembled my father. The only other thing mentioned is under “What amuses the baby?” Music is listed. Maybe that’s why I still like listening to the Big Band music from the 1940’s. More on that later.
Back to that hospital bill, it’s itemized, and includes ten days in the hospital for my mother and me at $4.50 per day for a total of $45.00. Other costs were: anesthetic - $2.50, dressings - $2.00, delivery room - $5.00, drugs - $3.00, and nursery – ten days at $1.00 per day: $10.00. It comes to a grand total of $67.50! No matter what happens, I can always say I’m worth at least $67.50. No one can ever say I’m worthless.
Things have certainly changed since those days. That was a lot of money for my folks at the time. They were renting a farm, and my grandmother and my cousin, Sandy, lived with us. In those days people were more self-sufficient. Those were the war years when everything was rationed and times were tough for everyone. At least farmers could produce a lot of the food for their own family.
Some interesting numbers from 1944: the average wage was $2,400, minimum wage was 40 cents per hour, a new house cost $3,450, a car could set you back $1,250, gas to power that car was 15 cents per gallon, a loaf of bread cost 10 cents, and you could mail a first class letter for 3 cents. Now before you start wishing you could pay those prices for things, would you work for $200 a month?
When I checked to see what notable events happened in the world on the day I was born, nothing is listed. There are events on May 3rd and 5th, but it looks like my birth on May 4th did not make the notable events list. Well, at least it was notable to me! On May 3, meat rationing ended in the U.S., “Meet Me In St. Louis” opened on Broadway, and the movie “Going My Way” staring Bing Crosby, was released. On May 5, Gandhi was freed from prison and the Russian offensive began against Sebastopol. I bet some of you remember those events.
A major event occurred when I was 34 days old. On June 6, D-Day began when 155,000 Allied troops hit the beaches of Normandy, France in a major offensive against the Germans. On June 15th, 128,000 U.S. Army and Marine troops began landing on Saipan in the Pacific Theater of operations against the Japanese. That December was the beginning of the Battle of the Bulge. While I enjoyed my first Christmas, in the warmth of our house on the Hauge farm, Allied and German forces were locked in a life and death struggle in the bitter cold and snow during that battle. While I was celebrating my first birthday, the battle for control of Okinawa was being fought. It was one of the largest and bloodiest battles of the war. I wasn’t aware of any of those epic events at the time. The only thing that concerned me at the time was getting my next meal of baby food, a bottle of milk, and having a dry diaper. The fighting men on Okinawa had much bigger problems, but they were also concerned with getting food, water, and staying dry in the rain and mud. Americans suffered 75,000 casualties on the ground on Okinawa. The events taking place involving World War II dominated the news during the first 18 months of my life. It was a historic time to be alive.
What was life like for you during World War II? I’d love to hear your stories and include some of them in Across the Fence.
I mentioned that music was said to amuse me when I was a baby. What songs was I listening to in those years? How about "Shoo-Shoo Baby," "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy," "Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree," and "Rum and Coca-Cola" by the Andrew Sisters. Who wouldn’t be amused and love songs like that? The Mills Brothers had hits like "Paper Doll" and "You Always Hurt the One You Love." I still love their music. Bing Crosby ruled the charts with such hits as "I’ll Be Seeing You," "Swinging On A Star," "People Say We’re In Love," "Moonlight Becomes You," and many more. There were songs by Les Brown with Doris Day, Glenn Miller and his Orchestra, Jimmy Dorsey, The Ames Brothers, Vaughn Monroe, Harry James, Johnny Mercer, Duke Ellington, Judy Garland, The Ink Spots, and of course, Frank Sinatra.
I still love all that music from the 40’s. It’s the music I cut my teeth on. Music played a big part in keeping people’s spirits up, both at home and on the war front, during that momentous time in our history. It also kept a young baby, that cost $67.50, smiling on a farm near Westby!
*
When we went through all the stuff in the house after my parents died, I came across the Viroqua Hospital bill from when I was born. It’s dated May 14, 1944, ten days after I came kicking and screaming into this world.
I was born on Thursday, May 4, 1944 at 5:40 p.m. at the old Viroqua Hospital. I weighed in at 7 lbs, 5 ozs., assisted in my arrival by Dr. Lars Gulbrandsen. My baby book says that I resembled my father. The only other thing mentioned is under “What amuses the baby?” Music is listed. Maybe that’s why I still like listening to the Big Band music from the 1940’s. More on that later.
Back to that hospital bill, it’s itemized, and includes ten days in the hospital for my mother and me at $4.50 per day for a total of $45.00. Other costs were: anesthetic - $2.50, dressings - $2.00, delivery room - $5.00, drugs - $3.00, and nursery – ten days at $1.00 per day: $10.00. It comes to a grand total of $67.50! No matter what happens, I can always say I’m worth at least $67.50. No one can ever say I’m worthless.
Things have certainly changed since those days. That was a lot of money for my folks at the time. They were renting a farm, and my grandmother and my cousin, Sandy, lived with us. In those days people were more self-sufficient. Those were the war years when everything was rationed and times were tough for everyone. At least farmers could produce a lot of the food for their own family.
Some interesting numbers from 1944: the average wage was $2,400, minimum wage was 40 cents per hour, a new house cost $3,450, a car could set you back $1,250, gas to power that car was 15 cents per gallon, a loaf of bread cost 10 cents, and you could mail a first class letter for 3 cents. Now before you start wishing you could pay those prices for things, would you work for $200 a month?
When I checked to see what notable events happened in the world on the day I was born, nothing is listed. There are events on May 3rd and 5th, but it looks like my birth on May 4th did not make the notable events list. Well, at least it was notable to me! On May 3, meat rationing ended in the U.S., “Meet Me In St. Louis” opened on Broadway, and the movie “Going My Way” staring Bing Crosby, was released. On May 5, Gandhi was freed from prison and the Russian offensive began against Sebastopol. I bet some of you remember those events.
A major event occurred when I was 34 days old. On June 6, D-Day began when 155,000 Allied troops hit the beaches of Normandy, France in a major offensive against the Germans. On June 15th, 128,000 U.S. Army and Marine troops began landing on Saipan in the Pacific Theater of operations against the Japanese. That December was the beginning of the Battle of the Bulge. While I enjoyed my first Christmas, in the warmth of our house on the Hauge farm, Allied and German forces were locked in a life and death struggle in the bitter cold and snow during that battle. While I was celebrating my first birthday, the battle for control of Okinawa was being fought. It was one of the largest and bloodiest battles of the war. I wasn’t aware of any of those epic events at the time. The only thing that concerned me at the time was getting my next meal of baby food, a bottle of milk, and having a dry diaper. The fighting men on Okinawa had much bigger problems, but they were also concerned with getting food, water, and staying dry in the rain and mud. Americans suffered 75,000 casualties on the ground on Okinawa. The events taking place involving World War II dominated the news during the first 18 months of my life. It was a historic time to be alive.
What was life like for you during World War II? I’d love to hear your stories and include some of them in Across the Fence.
I mentioned that music was said to amuse me when I was a baby. What songs was I listening to in those years? How about "Shoo-Shoo Baby," "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy," "Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree," and "Rum and Coca-Cola" by the Andrew Sisters. Who wouldn’t be amused and love songs like that? The Mills Brothers had hits like "Paper Doll" and "You Always Hurt the One You Love." I still love their music. Bing Crosby ruled the charts with such hits as "I’ll Be Seeing You," "Swinging On A Star," "People Say We’re In Love," "Moonlight Becomes You," and many more. There were songs by Les Brown with Doris Day, Glenn Miller and his Orchestra, Jimmy Dorsey, The Ames Brothers, Vaughn Monroe, Harry James, Johnny Mercer, Duke Ellington, Judy Garland, The Ink Spots, and of course, Frank Sinatra.
I still love all that music from the 40’s. It’s the music I cut my teeth on. Music played a big part in keeping people’s spirits up, both at home and on the war front, during that momentous time in our history. It also kept a young baby, that cost $67.50, smiling on a farm near Westby!
*
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Much To Be Thankful For
Across the Fence #366
Happy Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving is the time to give thanks for all that we’ve been blessed with. This Across the Fence column certainly falls into that category for me. It’s a privilege to visit across the fence with you each week. I realize how lucky I am to be able to write a column that runs in newspapers where people can actually read it. Many writers would give their right arm for such an opportunity. Fortunately, I’m left handed! A big mange tussen takk (many thousand thanks) to all of you!
This begins the eighth year of “Across the Fence.” I keep looking down into the well to see if it’s running dry. Luckily, there haven’t been any droughts yet, and after a little priming of the pump, I’m able to pull up enough thoughts and words to fill another column. I’m always thankful for readers who help prime my pump by giving me ideas and topics to write about. It’s appropriate that the anniversary of this column falls during Thanksgiving week each year. It’s the perfect time to thank everyone.
My thanks again to Richard Brockman, publisher of the Linn News-Letter in Central City, Iowa, and Dorothy Jasperson-Robson, Editor of the Westby Times in Westby, Wisconsin, for providing a “door of opportunity” for me. I was able to open and walk through that door eight years ago, and start writing this column.
A special thank you to everyone who visits with me each week. I appreciate when I hear from you, whether it’s on the street, by letter, or over the Internet. Your comments help keep me going and energized.
Not only is this Thanksgiving week, but it’s also the deer gun season in Wisconsin. Thousands of orange-clad hunters will be roaming the woods and fields in search of that elusive trophy buck. I wish you all a safe and successful hunt. We had lots of snow on the ground a week ago that would have made for great tracking, but it’s all gone now.
I wasn’t sorry to see it melt. It’s just too early for winter to arrive. I’m still trying to get over the notion that those beautiful fall days are behind us and cold, snow-filled days lie ahead. It gets to be a mighty long winter when there’s snow on the ground from early November into April. Now we can get a new start on the snow, hopefully after Thanksgiving. Mid-December would be a fine time for the next snowfall. The older I get the more I dread the long winters, especially the sub-zero temperatures. On the flip side of that coin, I’ve got to admit, the countryside was beautiful with that new white coat.
The moon was full last week and reflected off the snow. It gave the night landscape a special brightness. It was the type of night that made for many great cross-country skiing experiences over the years. There’s something special about gliding over the snow on a moonlit night. The snow glistens and sparkles like it’s filled with diamonds. It’s very exhilarating and makes you thankful to be alive and able to enjoy it. I’ve said many times, that snow softens the sharp edges of the world and brightens, even the darkest corners. Even a long, cold winter has its good points.
That reminds me of a note I got from a reader last winter in response to a story. He said, “All the seasons had their good & bad points. You are so right in describing the warm glow in the kitchen as we would walk up from the barn on a dark January night. We’d stop to carry an armload of wood, while on our way in. Then of course there’s the prideful feeling of working so hard making hay all day in the summer, and seeing the cows walk out to the pasture after milking, knowing mom had food on the stove, waiting for us when we finished milking. I so wish my boys could have had those wonderful experiences that I did. I’m sure that nothing has shaped my life more than growing up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin.”
Another reader wrote that when she’s driving in the pre-dawn or evening hours and sees the warm glow from lights in barns and houses around the countryside, it makes her feel as if all's right in the world.”
Both of those reader’s comments carry a message of hope and thankfulness. There’s much that is right in this world if we just look around us. Most of the time it’s the little things that mean the most. It’s the things that money can’t buy.
I know I’ve mentioned this before. A friend once told me he enjoyed my column because it reminded him of a box of chocolates… you never know what you’re going to get each week. Many of you have said you enjoy the positive stories, when so much of the news we hear and read about today is negative. I’ll keep trying to stir up good memories with positive stories for you, provide a mix of chocolates to give you some variety, and also make you think about this wonderful world we’re all a part of.
I look forward to meeting you here each week, “Across the Fence.” Until next time, I hope you have a great Thanksgiving.
*
Happy Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving is the time to give thanks for all that we’ve been blessed with. This Across the Fence column certainly falls into that category for me. It’s a privilege to visit across the fence with you each week. I realize how lucky I am to be able to write a column that runs in newspapers where people can actually read it. Many writers would give their right arm for such an opportunity. Fortunately, I’m left handed! A big mange tussen takk (many thousand thanks) to all of you!
This begins the eighth year of “Across the Fence.” I keep looking down into the well to see if it’s running dry. Luckily, there haven’t been any droughts yet, and after a little priming of the pump, I’m able to pull up enough thoughts and words to fill another column. I’m always thankful for readers who help prime my pump by giving me ideas and topics to write about. It’s appropriate that the anniversary of this column falls during Thanksgiving week each year. It’s the perfect time to thank everyone.
My thanks again to Richard Brockman, publisher of the Linn News-Letter in Central City, Iowa, and Dorothy Jasperson-Robson, Editor of the Westby Times in Westby, Wisconsin, for providing a “door of opportunity” for me. I was able to open and walk through that door eight years ago, and start writing this column.
A special thank you to everyone who visits with me each week. I appreciate when I hear from you, whether it’s on the street, by letter, or over the Internet. Your comments help keep me going and energized.
Not only is this Thanksgiving week, but it’s also the deer gun season in Wisconsin. Thousands of orange-clad hunters will be roaming the woods and fields in search of that elusive trophy buck. I wish you all a safe and successful hunt. We had lots of snow on the ground a week ago that would have made for great tracking, but it’s all gone now.
I wasn’t sorry to see it melt. It’s just too early for winter to arrive. I’m still trying to get over the notion that those beautiful fall days are behind us and cold, snow-filled days lie ahead. It gets to be a mighty long winter when there’s snow on the ground from early November into April. Now we can get a new start on the snow, hopefully after Thanksgiving. Mid-December would be a fine time for the next snowfall. The older I get the more I dread the long winters, especially the sub-zero temperatures. On the flip side of that coin, I’ve got to admit, the countryside was beautiful with that new white coat.
The moon was full last week and reflected off the snow. It gave the night landscape a special brightness. It was the type of night that made for many great cross-country skiing experiences over the years. There’s something special about gliding over the snow on a moonlit night. The snow glistens and sparkles like it’s filled with diamonds. It’s very exhilarating and makes you thankful to be alive and able to enjoy it. I’ve said many times, that snow softens the sharp edges of the world and brightens, even the darkest corners. Even a long, cold winter has its good points.
That reminds me of a note I got from a reader last winter in response to a story. He said, “All the seasons had their good & bad points. You are so right in describing the warm glow in the kitchen as we would walk up from the barn on a dark January night. We’d stop to carry an armload of wood, while on our way in. Then of course there’s the prideful feeling of working so hard making hay all day in the summer, and seeing the cows walk out to the pasture after milking, knowing mom had food on the stove, waiting for us when we finished milking. I so wish my boys could have had those wonderful experiences that I did. I’m sure that nothing has shaped my life more than growing up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin.”
Another reader wrote that when she’s driving in the pre-dawn or evening hours and sees the warm glow from lights in barns and houses around the countryside, it makes her feel as if all's right in the world.”
Both of those reader’s comments carry a message of hope and thankfulness. There’s much that is right in this world if we just look around us. Most of the time it’s the little things that mean the most. It’s the things that money can’t buy.
I know I’ve mentioned this before. A friend once told me he enjoyed my column because it reminded him of a box of chocolates… you never know what you’re going to get each week. Many of you have said you enjoy the positive stories, when so much of the news we hear and read about today is negative. I’ll keep trying to stir up good memories with positive stories for you, provide a mix of chocolates to give you some variety, and also make you think about this wonderful world we’re all a part of.
I look forward to meeting you here each week, “Across the Fence.” Until next time, I hope you have a great Thanksgiving.
*
Saturday, November 12, 2011
North Dakota Prairie Raises Questions
Across the Fence #365
As we traveled mile after mile after mile after mile, across the flatlands of North Dakota, on our way back from Høstfest in Minot, this old Norwegian-American did some thinking and reflecting about the lives of our ancestors. I couldn’t help but wonder how the early settlers survived the experience, and wondered how we would fare if we found ourselves in their place.
In many parts, the land is so flat you can see the horizon in every direction, without even a small hill to obscure your view. A few patches of trees dot the landscape, but they’re often few and far between, especially when you’re used to the hills and valleys of Wisconsin’s Driftless Area.
Many Scandinavians headed west from Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa, to find land on which to homestead. When I looked out at the wide-open landscape, I couldn’t help but wonder what their life was like and how they survived. It must have been a very isolated existence. Farms would have been few and far between. How did they get the supplies they needed in those early days? Even today it’s often a long journey between towns.
Those first settlers couldn’t have farmed too much land, because they didn’t have the use of tractors and large combines, like farmers do today. Now the land is filled with large fields, with few fences in sight. It would be hard to find a place where we could talk across the fence.
Winters must have been brutal. I know how the winds howl across Coon Prairie where we live. There’s nothing to slow down the wind and drifting snow in the winter. I can’t even imagine what winters must have been like for those early settlers in their log and sod houses on the wide-open plains? When winter arrived in all its fury, they must have been isolated until spring.
Many thoughts went through my mind as I looked out our bus windows and wondered about their lives: There were no telephones, radios or televisions. They had no electricity and all the modern appliances and conveniences we’re used to. Even wood to cook with must have been scarce. How did they go about getting water to drink, take baths, and wash clothes? It’s not that easy to drill a well, and from what I could see, streams and rivers were not as plentiful as in Vernon County where I live. Perhaps the early settlers tried to locate their farms near sources of water.
What did they do in the case of a medical emergency or accident? I imagine many people died or simply disappeared and vanished off the face of the earth. In genealogy, you often hear about an individual or family who headed west to seek their fortune and were never heard from again. I suspect some died from illness and accidents. Perhaps some froze or starved to death during the long winters.
At that time, in the mid-to-late 1800’s, Native Americans still occupied the territory. I can’t imagine them being very happy about all the white people taking over their homeland and hunting grounds. As more settlers arrived, they were forced off their land and life as they and their ancestors had known it for thousands of years, would never be the same. Dealing with unhappy Native Americans must have been a part of their life on the prairie.
Fast forward to today. How many of us could do what our ancestor’s generations did? I suspect very few of us would survive. We are too dependent on others and outside sources to provide the majority of the things we need to function on a daily basis. We panic if the electricity is disrupted for even a short time. It knocks out all the appliances that we depend on for survival and entertainment. I know all too well, how people complain if their TV has occasional blocking. Our ancestors certainly had bigger things to worry about.
What would we do if we found ourselves on a piece of land in an isolated area, with no cell phone, no computers, no television or radio, no stoves, refrigerators, washing machines, and no car? Our only possessions were a team of horses or oxen, and some bare necessities that we could fit into a wagon. How many people would know how to build a simple shelter and even survive one winter? That gives me great appreciation and admiration for those generations who did survive. They were tough and resourceful.
I think of my ancestors who pioneered small farms in Vernon County in the 1850’s. They must have been a tough bunch of Norwegians. Knowing how dependent I’ve become on modern conveniences, I wonder how long I’d survive if I suddenly found myself in the conditions they lived through?
Looking out across the North Dakota countryside, posed a lot of questions in my mind regarding the lives of our ancestors, whether they lived on Coon Prairie, or on the immense Dakota prairies. We live in the present with all our modern conveniences, but every once in a while, it’s good to remember the past and keep an appreciation for the people who lived during those times.
*
As we traveled mile after mile after mile after mile, across the flatlands of North Dakota, on our way back from Høstfest in Minot, this old Norwegian-American did some thinking and reflecting about the lives of our ancestors. I couldn’t help but wonder how the early settlers survived the experience, and wondered how we would fare if we found ourselves in their place.
In many parts, the land is so flat you can see the horizon in every direction, without even a small hill to obscure your view. A few patches of trees dot the landscape, but they’re often few and far between, especially when you’re used to the hills and valleys of Wisconsin’s Driftless Area.
Many Scandinavians headed west from Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa, to find land on which to homestead. When I looked out at the wide-open landscape, I couldn’t help but wonder what their life was like and how they survived. It must have been a very isolated existence. Farms would have been few and far between. How did they get the supplies they needed in those early days? Even today it’s often a long journey between towns.
Those first settlers couldn’t have farmed too much land, because they didn’t have the use of tractors and large combines, like farmers do today. Now the land is filled with large fields, with few fences in sight. It would be hard to find a place where we could talk across the fence.
Winters must have been brutal. I know how the winds howl across Coon Prairie where we live. There’s nothing to slow down the wind and drifting snow in the winter. I can’t even imagine what winters must have been like for those early settlers in their log and sod houses on the wide-open plains? When winter arrived in all its fury, they must have been isolated until spring.
Many thoughts went through my mind as I looked out our bus windows and wondered about their lives: There were no telephones, radios or televisions. They had no electricity and all the modern appliances and conveniences we’re used to. Even wood to cook with must have been scarce. How did they go about getting water to drink, take baths, and wash clothes? It’s not that easy to drill a well, and from what I could see, streams and rivers were not as plentiful as in Vernon County where I live. Perhaps the early settlers tried to locate their farms near sources of water.
What did they do in the case of a medical emergency or accident? I imagine many people died or simply disappeared and vanished off the face of the earth. In genealogy, you often hear about an individual or family who headed west to seek their fortune and were never heard from again. I suspect some died from illness and accidents. Perhaps some froze or starved to death during the long winters.
At that time, in the mid-to-late 1800’s, Native Americans still occupied the territory. I can’t imagine them being very happy about all the white people taking over their homeland and hunting grounds. As more settlers arrived, they were forced off their land and life as they and their ancestors had known it for thousands of years, would never be the same. Dealing with unhappy Native Americans must have been a part of their life on the prairie.
Fast forward to today. How many of us could do what our ancestor’s generations did? I suspect very few of us would survive. We are too dependent on others and outside sources to provide the majority of the things we need to function on a daily basis. We panic if the electricity is disrupted for even a short time. It knocks out all the appliances that we depend on for survival and entertainment. I know all too well, how people complain if their TV has occasional blocking. Our ancestors certainly had bigger things to worry about.
What would we do if we found ourselves on a piece of land in an isolated area, with no cell phone, no computers, no television or radio, no stoves, refrigerators, washing machines, and no car? Our only possessions were a team of horses or oxen, and some bare necessities that we could fit into a wagon. How many people would know how to build a simple shelter and even survive one winter? That gives me great appreciation and admiration for those generations who did survive. They were tough and resourceful.
I think of my ancestors who pioneered small farms in Vernon County in the 1850’s. They must have been a tough bunch of Norwegians. Knowing how dependent I’ve become on modern conveniences, I wonder how long I’d survive if I suddenly found myself in the conditions they lived through?
Looking out across the North Dakota countryside, posed a lot of questions in my mind regarding the lives of our ancestors, whether they lived on Coon Prairie, or on the immense Dakota prairies. We live in the present with all our modern conveniences, but every once in a while, it’s good to remember the past and keep an appreciation for the people who lived during those times.
*
Sunday, November 6, 2011
I Salute All Veterans
Across the Fence #364
A cool, strong wind greeted us as we exited the car. The large American flag atop the flagpole stood straight out and rippled in the wind. Welcome to The Highground, a 140-acre veteran’s memorial park west of Neillsville, Wisconsin on Highway 10.
Recently, Harlan Springborn, Larry Skolos, David Lewison, and I took a trip to The Highground. It was the first time for Larry and David. Harlan, Larry, and I had been together in Vietnam. David, from Viroqua, went to Vietnam after we came home, but was also stationed in the Central Highlands and operated in the same areas as we had. We had all grown up as farm boys in Vernon County. We had a lot in common.
A year ago, Harlan and Larry were with me at Westby High School when I was the guest speaker during the Veteran’s Day program. Don Hanson and Ray Slaback were also there. It was the first time all five of us had been together since we left Vietnam. Another year has now been added since that reunion and we’re all still above ground. We realize how lucky we are to still be here.
Veteran’s Day holds a special meaning for us, because it was one day after Veteran’s Day, 45 years ago, that we came close to becoming names on The Wall in Washington instead of living veterans. I mentioned last year how we were almost overrun that day by 1,500 NVA soldiers. We were saved at the last minute when “Puff the Magic Dragon” and napalm-carrying jets finally arrived.
We have much to celebrate and be thankful for. Our trip to The Highground, during this time of year, was to remember those who didn’t survive. As we stood by the Vietnam memorial statue, the chimes that are part of the sculpture, were singing in the wind. We were thankful that our names aren’t engraved on one of the chimes. They hold the names of the 1,181 Wisconsin men who were killed or are still missing. We know we could easily have been among them. We’ve now enjoyed 45 bonus years.
Back in 1988, I wrote the following for the dedication of the Vietnam memorial. It’s called “Coming Home.”
“Listen, I can hear them coming, there are voices in the wind. If you sit and listen quietly they will speak to you again. They tell of years of waiting since they first marched off to war, searching for a quiet place to silence the battle’s roar. Some place to show this country we’re proud of who we are. We supported each other in battle and we’ll support each other now. We’re coming home to The Highground, no more are we to roam. We’ll rest upon this hilltop, at last we’ve found a home.” I wrote those words for the Spirits of those who didn’t make it home, and for the mentally and emotionally wounded Spirits of those who survived.
It took most of us a long time before we sought out other vets. As close as we are now, it took Harlan, Larry, and me 32 years before we got back together. I don’t know why it took us so long. Perhaps Ray Slaback, who finally reunited with us last Veteran’s Day summed it up best. It was not wanting to revisit those horrible memories from our past, that took him so long to reunite with guys he had shared those experiences with. There are a lot of ghosts still with us.
Those of us who survived that battle on November 12, 1966, were finally able to talk about it among ourselves. After 45 years it’s still too hard to talk about with others. I tried writing about it once, thinking that people need to know what really happens in war, in all its gory details, but I tore it up and threw it away. Some things are just too personal to share with anyone. On this trip we never even mentioned that night. There was no need to. We were still here to celebrate another Veteran’s Day together and that’s all that mattered.
We celebrate the day each year, but what exactly is a veteran? Too often, I think people associate veterans with having served in a war zone. Unfortunately, we’ve had way too many wars and too many veterans fall into that category. But a veteran is anyone, man or woman, who has served at any time in any branch of the military. Very few of us had any say in what our MOS (job) would be or where we would serve. Many people served during peacetime. Yes, there have actually been brief periods in our history when we haven’t been involved in a war some place in the world. The people who served during those times were trained and ready to go to war if needed.
I was born a month before D-Day in World War II. I have tremendous respect for the men who served during that war. I can’t imagine the hardships that they and our Korean veterans endured. Their numbers are dwindling every day, just as peacetime veterans and Vietnam veterans are disappearing too. Most veterans have nothing good to say about war, but the majority of veterans stand together, united as a band of brothers and sisters, and proud of having served, regardless of when and where. I salute all of you!
*
A cool, strong wind greeted us as we exited the car. The large American flag atop the flagpole stood straight out and rippled in the wind. Welcome to The Highground, a 140-acre veteran’s memorial park west of Neillsville, Wisconsin on Highway 10.
Recently, Harlan Springborn, Larry Skolos, David Lewison, and I took a trip to The Highground. It was the first time for Larry and David. Harlan, Larry, and I had been together in Vietnam. David, from Viroqua, went to Vietnam after we came home, but was also stationed in the Central Highlands and operated in the same areas as we had. We had all grown up as farm boys in Vernon County. We had a lot in common.
A year ago, Harlan and Larry were with me at Westby High School when I was the guest speaker during the Veteran’s Day program. Don Hanson and Ray Slaback were also there. It was the first time all five of us had been together since we left Vietnam. Another year has now been added since that reunion and we’re all still above ground. We realize how lucky we are to still be here.
Veteran’s Day holds a special meaning for us, because it was one day after Veteran’s Day, 45 years ago, that we came close to becoming names on The Wall in Washington instead of living veterans. I mentioned last year how we were almost overrun that day by 1,500 NVA soldiers. We were saved at the last minute when “Puff the Magic Dragon” and napalm-carrying jets finally arrived.
We have much to celebrate and be thankful for. Our trip to The Highground, during this time of year, was to remember those who didn’t survive. As we stood by the Vietnam memorial statue, the chimes that are part of the sculpture, were singing in the wind. We were thankful that our names aren’t engraved on one of the chimes. They hold the names of the 1,181 Wisconsin men who were killed or are still missing. We know we could easily have been among them. We’ve now enjoyed 45 bonus years.
Back in 1988, I wrote the following for the dedication of the Vietnam memorial. It’s called “Coming Home.”
“Listen, I can hear them coming, there are voices in the wind. If you sit and listen quietly they will speak to you again. They tell of years of waiting since they first marched off to war, searching for a quiet place to silence the battle’s roar. Some place to show this country we’re proud of who we are. We supported each other in battle and we’ll support each other now. We’re coming home to The Highground, no more are we to roam. We’ll rest upon this hilltop, at last we’ve found a home.” I wrote those words for the Spirits of those who didn’t make it home, and for the mentally and emotionally wounded Spirits of those who survived.
It took most of us a long time before we sought out other vets. As close as we are now, it took Harlan, Larry, and me 32 years before we got back together. I don’t know why it took us so long. Perhaps Ray Slaback, who finally reunited with us last Veteran’s Day summed it up best. It was not wanting to revisit those horrible memories from our past, that took him so long to reunite with guys he had shared those experiences with. There are a lot of ghosts still with us.
Those of us who survived that battle on November 12, 1966, were finally able to talk about it among ourselves. After 45 years it’s still too hard to talk about with others. I tried writing about it once, thinking that people need to know what really happens in war, in all its gory details, but I tore it up and threw it away. Some things are just too personal to share with anyone. On this trip we never even mentioned that night. There was no need to. We were still here to celebrate another Veteran’s Day together and that’s all that mattered.
We celebrate the day each year, but what exactly is a veteran? Too often, I think people associate veterans with having served in a war zone. Unfortunately, we’ve had way too many wars and too many veterans fall into that category. But a veteran is anyone, man or woman, who has served at any time in any branch of the military. Very few of us had any say in what our MOS (job) would be or where we would serve. Many people served during peacetime. Yes, there have actually been brief periods in our history when we haven’t been involved in a war some place in the world. The people who served during those times were trained and ready to go to war if needed.
I was born a month before D-Day in World War II. I have tremendous respect for the men who served during that war. I can’t imagine the hardships that they and our Korean veterans endured. Their numbers are dwindling every day, just as peacetime veterans and Vietnam veterans are disappearing too. Most veterans have nothing good to say about war, but the majority of veterans stand together, united as a band of brothers and sisters, and proud of having served, regardless of when and where. I salute all of you!
*
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Someone Has To Win
Across the Fence #363
“We just drew your name and you’re the winner of the 1977 Corvette!” Those were the words I heard when we answered the phone on Friday night, October 21. “Is this a joke? Who is this?” I thought someone was pulling my leg. The caller explained that I had just won the Valley View Rotary Classic Car raffle in La Crosse. They were calling from the drawing for the car celebration party at the La Crosse Center. I heard cheering in the background. I couldn’t remember ever buying a ticket. My mind was still spinning as I tried to remember where I had bought a raffle ticket.
The woman I was talking with assured me it wasn’t a crank call. I was the winner of the Corvette. As we continued talking, I was still in my skeptical mode because I still couldn’t remember buying a ticket. We arranged for me to pick up the car at Brenengen Chevrolet near Valley View Mall on Monday at 4:30 pm. I asked how much the IRS would want from me, because I knew they always got their money when someone wins a larger prize. A man came on the line to explain that the IRS required a 28% gambling tax on the value of the car. There’s no free lunch. I needed to pay the tax before the car could leave the lot.
When we finally hung up, I was still searching my memory for when and where I had bought a ticket. I guess I was still skeptical, so I went on the web and googled Valley View Mall Rotary. Holy cow, there were pictures of a burgundy-colored 1977 Corvette, and a notice that the drawing would be held on October 21. It was for real! I read through the rules of the raffle to see if that would jog my memory. The tickets were $10 or three for $20. Then I remembered. I had bought the ticket during the Westby Syttende Mai, way back in May, at the Classic Car Show. I remembered they were trying to sell me the three for $20, a better deal, and I said it only takes one ticket to win.
I never buy raffle tickets thinking I’m going to win. I think most of us buy them to support the organizations. They were also donating money to the Freedom Honor Flight program to send World War II vets to Washington. I’m pretty “fugal” when it comes to buying raffle tickets, but that was a cause I wanted to donate to, or I wouldn’t have spent $10. Is it any wonder I’d forgotten about a purchase I’d made six months earlier?
So now we have a 1977 Corvette. I’d never even sat in one before. They’re interesting to get in and out of, but once you’re seated and fastened in, it’s like sitting in the cockpit of a race car. I’ve never had a sporty-looking car before. People will probably think I’m having a “late-life” crisis if they see me driving around in this car. I’m way past the “mid-life” crisis stage.
I bought my first car when I was 23 years old and had just returned from Vietnam in 1967. It was a used, 1965 Chevy Impala. While driving it on the way to Fort Knox, Kentucky, I found out why the previous owner had gotten rid of it. It was an oil burner. I joked that every time I filled up the gas tank, I added a quart of oil. It wasn’t far from the truth.
Every car we’ve ever had has been a Chevy. I’ve even had a couple Chevettes. Not exactly in the same league with the Chevy Corvette, but I liked them. They usually got me from Point A to Point B without too much trouble, and they suited my frugal pocketbook. I had a used, Chevy Impala that I remember. It was yellow with a brown, vinyl top. Actually the top was several shades of brown and black and peeling off in spots. The yellow exterior had nice, brown rust spots of varying sizes. I called it my Ghetto Cruiser. I could have left it unattended in the toughest sections of Chicago and no self-respecting thief would have touched it. I’ll need to be a bit more careful where I park this Corvette.
When Linda and I went to La Crosse to pick the car up, my brother, Arden, rode along. You should have seen Arden and me getting into the car for the ride back to Westby. If you’ve ever gotten in and out of a Corvette, you know what I’m talking about. It had been a long time since I’d driven a stick shift, but it didn’t take long to get the hang of it again. The worst part was hitting rush hour traffic as we were leaving. I didn’t want someone banging into us before we even got it home.
Corvette’s are not exactly a Wisconsin winter mode of transportation, so it will go into storage at the first hint of snow, and not emerge until spring. Then I think I’ll have to do a little cruisin’.
I used to say, if my name was the only one in the hat, they’d draw out the hat size. I guess I can’t say that any more. Someone has to win, and this time I was the lucky one.
*
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Sleepy Hollow-een
Across the Fence #362
The other day we were driving around, when I started noticing all the roads with Hollow in the name. It brought back memories of Sleepy Hollow. How many of you remember “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” by Washington Irving? I remember watching Walt Disney’s animated version on The Wonderful World of Disney in the mid-1950’s when I was young.
It had the gangly schoolteacher, Ichabod Crane as the main character and was narrated by Bing Crosby. It also had a dark forest and the scary headless horseman. I don’t remember a lot of details about the story, but I know it was exciting and frightening.
I remember the headless horseman chasing after Ichabod as they rode through that dark forest, with the branches of the trees reaching out like skeletal fingers, trying to grab Ichabod—Pretty scary stuff. A perfect story to remember as Halloween approaches.
There’s always something magical about Disney animation, and when you add Bing Crosby narrating and singing, you have the makings of a wonderful film. Ichabod was the underdog in the story. He was everything that we associate with the non-hero type of person. I think most of us like to stick up for the underdog and see them win. We see ourselves as underdogs too, and can relate to them.
I prefer the Disney animated films to the horror films, usually associated with Halloween. Even before I went to art school, I wanted to be an animator for Walt Disney Productions in California. I even wrote a letter to Walt when I was still in grade school, telling him I hoped to work for him some day. I never did hear back from him. I suspect he had more important things to do, and received many letters like that every day. It’s probably a good thing I never headed off to California to seek employment with Walt, or my life would have been completely different and I wouldn’t be writing this story now. Life seems to offer us paths that we can choose to travel, but just as Ichabod found out, some of the paths we choose can be pretty scary at times.
Halloween has changed a lot in my time. When I was young, I don’t remember going trick or treating. When you lived in the country, you couldn’t just walk door to door and collect more candy than you could eat in a month, as kids do today. In our case, our father would have had to drive us from place to place. He was busy milking cows and we were busy helping with the chores. My mother didn’t drive.
I think our Halloween celebration happened in our one-room country school, where we had a party on a day close to Halloween. We bobbed for apples, and had a fish pond where a sheet was strung up and we took turns fishing. The pole had a line attached to it with a clothespin on the end. When you put the line over the sheet, older kids behind the sheet attached a small prize. They pulled on the line so it felt like you’d caught a fish, and you brought up your prize. I don’t remember what the prizes were, but they were probably pretty simple. The dressing up we did was called Hobo Day. I think that was all part of our Halloween celebration.
When our kids were young, they always went trick or treating around our neighborhood. Linda or I went with them and stayed on the sidewalk while they went up to each house. One of us stayed home to dish out the candy to kids who came to our house. We just went to houses where we knew the people, not to every house within a mile radius, as some kids seemed to do. One year I got into the act too. Linda’s brother, Lon, and his family, lived in Middleton. We drove to their house, where I put on a mask and wore an old trench coat. When the kids rang the doorbell, I knelt on my knees between them. When they opened the door, we all said “trick or treat.” But the trick was on me. They knew exactly who that big kid was between Erik and Amy. “Aren’t you a little old to be trick or treating?” I guess I should have stuck to tipping corn shocks and outhouses. I’ve heard tell, people used to do those activities on Halloween.
Halloween can also be a cold time of year. Many times it’d be raining and very cold. The kids would be all dressed up in their Halloween outfits and then have to wear a coat over the top to go trick or treating. That kind of defeated the whole purpose of dressing up. They could just as well have dressed up in long johns, heavy parkas, mittens, and a ski mask to cover their face, and gone door to door that way. At least they’d have been incognito and warm.
They also had Halloween parties at their school, except for a couple years, when it was decided by the powers-to-be in Madison, that it was not politically correct to dress up with masks, because some people might be offended or frightened. At least Halloween was later reinstated, so the kids could enjoy the occasion and have some fun memories to look back on too.
Happy Hollow-eening everyone!
*
The other day we were driving around, when I started noticing all the roads with Hollow in the name. It brought back memories of Sleepy Hollow. How many of you remember “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” by Washington Irving? I remember watching Walt Disney’s animated version on The Wonderful World of Disney in the mid-1950’s when I was young.
It had the gangly schoolteacher, Ichabod Crane as the main character and was narrated by Bing Crosby. It also had a dark forest and the scary headless horseman. I don’t remember a lot of details about the story, but I know it was exciting and frightening.
I remember the headless horseman chasing after Ichabod as they rode through that dark forest, with the branches of the trees reaching out like skeletal fingers, trying to grab Ichabod—Pretty scary stuff. A perfect story to remember as Halloween approaches.
There’s always something magical about Disney animation, and when you add Bing Crosby narrating and singing, you have the makings of a wonderful film. Ichabod was the underdog in the story. He was everything that we associate with the non-hero type of person. I think most of us like to stick up for the underdog and see them win. We see ourselves as underdogs too, and can relate to them.
I prefer the Disney animated films to the horror films, usually associated with Halloween. Even before I went to art school, I wanted to be an animator for Walt Disney Productions in California. I even wrote a letter to Walt when I was still in grade school, telling him I hoped to work for him some day. I never did hear back from him. I suspect he had more important things to do, and received many letters like that every day. It’s probably a good thing I never headed off to California to seek employment with Walt, or my life would have been completely different and I wouldn’t be writing this story now. Life seems to offer us paths that we can choose to travel, but just as Ichabod found out, some of the paths we choose can be pretty scary at times.
Halloween has changed a lot in my time. When I was young, I don’t remember going trick or treating. When you lived in the country, you couldn’t just walk door to door and collect more candy than you could eat in a month, as kids do today. In our case, our father would have had to drive us from place to place. He was busy milking cows and we were busy helping with the chores. My mother didn’t drive.
I think our Halloween celebration happened in our one-room country school, where we had a party on a day close to Halloween. We bobbed for apples, and had a fish pond where a sheet was strung up and we took turns fishing. The pole had a line attached to it with a clothespin on the end. When you put the line over the sheet, older kids behind the sheet attached a small prize. They pulled on the line so it felt like you’d caught a fish, and you brought up your prize. I don’t remember what the prizes were, but they were probably pretty simple. The dressing up we did was called Hobo Day. I think that was all part of our Halloween celebration.
When our kids were young, they always went trick or treating around our neighborhood. Linda or I went with them and stayed on the sidewalk while they went up to each house. One of us stayed home to dish out the candy to kids who came to our house. We just went to houses where we knew the people, not to every house within a mile radius, as some kids seemed to do. One year I got into the act too. Linda’s brother, Lon, and his family, lived in Middleton. We drove to their house, where I put on a mask and wore an old trench coat. When the kids rang the doorbell, I knelt on my knees between them. When they opened the door, we all said “trick or treat.” But the trick was on me. They knew exactly who that big kid was between Erik and Amy. “Aren’t you a little old to be trick or treating?” I guess I should have stuck to tipping corn shocks and outhouses. I’ve heard tell, people used to do those activities on Halloween.
Halloween can also be a cold time of year. Many times it’d be raining and very cold. The kids would be all dressed up in their Halloween outfits and then have to wear a coat over the top to go trick or treating. That kind of defeated the whole purpose of dressing up. They could just as well have dressed up in long johns, heavy parkas, mittens, and a ski mask to cover their face, and gone door to door that way. At least they’d have been incognito and warm.
They also had Halloween parties at their school, except for a couple years, when it was decided by the powers-to-be in Madison, that it was not politically correct to dress up with masks, because some people might be offended or frightened. At least Halloween was later reinstated, so the kids could enjoy the occasion and have some fun memories to look back on too.
Happy Hollow-eening everyone!
*
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Across the Fence: Roads Less Traveled
Book #5
Now Available
$16.00
Contact Howard Sherpe
to purchase a book.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
A Norsk Høstfest Experience
Across the Fence #361
We recently went on a four-day bus tour to Minot, North Dakota, where we attended Norsk Høstfest, the largest Scandinavian festival in North America. Being of Norwegian ancestry, a Norwegian folk art wood carver, and loving all things Scandinavian–even lutefisk, a visit to Høstfest was a must at some point in my life. I imagine many of you have also attended over the years.
Marjorie and Elnor Haugen, relatives from Coon Valley, had been to Høstfest before and had decided to go again this year. They encouraged Linda and me to go along. We signed up last spring, and soon discovered that several other people we know from the Westby area would also be going; Jennings and Lois Bjornstad, Tip and Eleanor Bagstad, Janet Johnson, and Sandra Peterson, would be on the same bus as us. Other friends were leaving with a different tour group a day before us, so the Westby area was well represented at the festival.
This was the first bus tour for Linda and me, and we had a great time. It’s nice to sit back, relax, enjoy the scenery, and let the bus driver worry about where to go. We were part of Glenn’s Motorcoach Tours out of Rochester, Minnesota.
At 3:30 on Wednesday morning, we sleepily boarded our bus at the pickup point in La Crosse. I envy people who can sleep on a bus or plane. It would certainly make the trip pass faster. After several stops in Minnesota to pick up other passengers, and some rest stops, we finally arrived at our hotel in Bismark, North Dakota, twelve and a half hours later.
The next morning we were back on the bus by 8:00 a.m. for the almost two-hour trip to Minot. Due to the devastating flood earlier this year, many places where people had stayed in previous years, were still closed. We drove through parts of Minot, near the Høstfest grounds, where entire neighborhoods will have to be torn down. The destruction from the flooding was very evident.
I had no idea what to expect from Høstfest, but knew it was a large event. As we entered the grounds, I was surprised by how many tour buses and RV Campers I saw. The campers alone, must have numbered a thousand or more, and surrounded the huge arena. Høstfest is to Minot, what the World Dairy Expo is to Madison.
The Great Hall of the Vikings, where the headliner shows take place, holds 10,000 people. We saw the Trace Atkins show on Thursday and the Judds on Friday. There were also six free stages in the arena where you could enjoy continuous entertainment throughout the day and evening.
The Oak Ridge Boys have been performing at Høstfest for many years. Linda and I went to their concert at the Madison Coliseum many years ago when I was doing the advertising for shows that appeared there. We always had excellent seats for any shows. The Oaks still sound good after all these years. Everyone laughed when Joe Bonsall said, “We used to think this was an old crowd at Høstfest, but now we’ve caught up to you.”
Another must-see show was Williams and Ree, also known as “the Indian and the White Guy.” They kept everyone in stitches for over an hour. Bjøro Haaland, Norway’s Country Gentleman, was also a crowd favorite with his country western songs.
The arena fest grounds is huge, and divided into many areas, where you can find wood carving, rosemaling, crafts, clothes, jewelry, books, and just about every kind of Scandinavian food you can imagine–yes, even lutefisk.
If you get separated from someone, you might not see them again until you board the bus at 8:30 in the evening for the trip back to the hotel. This is one of those stories that’s just begging to be told! About half an hour after arriving at Høstfest for our second day, I ran into Janet Johnson. She wondered if I had seen Sandra (Peterson) go by. I hadn’t seen her since we got off the bus. That afternoon we ran into Janet again. She had found Sandra back in the morning, but now they had become separated again. Later, we found out they both had cell phones but had neglected to get each other’s number. Janet had finally called Sandra’s husband back in Cashton, to get her number so she could call her. After several attempts to reach Sandra, they finally connected and were re-united! As I said, it’s a huge place, with thousands of people and it’s easy to turn around and find you’ve lost someone. I wonder if Janet could have checked for Sandra at the Lost and Found booth?! If you go to Høstfest, be sure to carry a cell phone and type in the numbers of people in your traveling party. Thanks Janet and Sandra for giving me permission to share this wonderful story.
One of the great parts of Høstfest is meeting and talking with people from all over the country, Canada, and Scandinavian countries. I ran into two people from Westby… Westby, Montana, and we compared notes on our hometowns. I also ran into people, who when they found out who I was, said they read my column every week. That was nice to hear.
If you want a fun experience, put Høstfest on your calendar for next year, and bring your cell phone.
*
We recently went on a four-day bus tour to Minot, North Dakota, where we attended Norsk Høstfest, the largest Scandinavian festival in North America. Being of Norwegian ancestry, a Norwegian folk art wood carver, and loving all things Scandinavian–even lutefisk, a visit to Høstfest was a must at some point in my life. I imagine many of you have also attended over the years.
Marjorie and Elnor Haugen, relatives from Coon Valley, had been to Høstfest before and had decided to go again this year. They encouraged Linda and me to go along. We signed up last spring, and soon discovered that several other people we know from the Westby area would also be going; Jennings and Lois Bjornstad, Tip and Eleanor Bagstad, Janet Johnson, and Sandra Peterson, would be on the same bus as us. Other friends were leaving with a different tour group a day before us, so the Westby area was well represented at the festival.
This was the first bus tour for Linda and me, and we had a great time. It’s nice to sit back, relax, enjoy the scenery, and let the bus driver worry about where to go. We were part of Glenn’s Motorcoach Tours out of Rochester, Minnesota.
At 3:30 on Wednesday morning, we sleepily boarded our bus at the pickup point in La Crosse. I envy people who can sleep on a bus or plane. It would certainly make the trip pass faster. After several stops in Minnesota to pick up other passengers, and some rest stops, we finally arrived at our hotel in Bismark, North Dakota, twelve and a half hours later.
The next morning we were back on the bus by 8:00 a.m. for the almost two-hour trip to Minot. Due to the devastating flood earlier this year, many places where people had stayed in previous years, were still closed. We drove through parts of Minot, near the Høstfest grounds, where entire neighborhoods will have to be torn down. The destruction from the flooding was very evident.
I had no idea what to expect from Høstfest, but knew it was a large event. As we entered the grounds, I was surprised by how many tour buses and RV Campers I saw. The campers alone, must have numbered a thousand or more, and surrounded the huge arena. Høstfest is to Minot, what the World Dairy Expo is to Madison.
The Great Hall of the Vikings, where the headliner shows take place, holds 10,000 people. We saw the Trace Atkins show on Thursday and the Judds on Friday. There were also six free stages in the arena where you could enjoy continuous entertainment throughout the day and evening.
The Oak Ridge Boys have been performing at Høstfest for many years. Linda and I went to their concert at the Madison Coliseum many years ago when I was doing the advertising for shows that appeared there. We always had excellent seats for any shows. The Oaks still sound good after all these years. Everyone laughed when Joe Bonsall said, “We used to think this was an old crowd at Høstfest, but now we’ve caught up to you.”
Another must-see show was Williams and Ree, also known as “the Indian and the White Guy.” They kept everyone in stitches for over an hour. Bjøro Haaland, Norway’s Country Gentleman, was also a crowd favorite with his country western songs.
The arena fest grounds is huge, and divided into many areas, where you can find wood carving, rosemaling, crafts, clothes, jewelry, books, and just about every kind of Scandinavian food you can imagine–yes, even lutefisk.
If you get separated from someone, you might not see them again until you board the bus at 8:30 in the evening for the trip back to the hotel. This is one of those stories that’s just begging to be told! About half an hour after arriving at Høstfest for our second day, I ran into Janet Johnson. She wondered if I had seen Sandra (Peterson) go by. I hadn’t seen her since we got off the bus. That afternoon we ran into Janet again. She had found Sandra back in the morning, but now they had become separated again. Later, we found out they both had cell phones but had neglected to get each other’s number. Janet had finally called Sandra’s husband back in Cashton, to get her number so she could call her. After several attempts to reach Sandra, they finally connected and were re-united! As I said, it’s a huge place, with thousands of people and it’s easy to turn around and find you’ve lost someone. I wonder if Janet could have checked for Sandra at the Lost and Found booth?! If you go to Høstfest, be sure to carry a cell phone and type in the numbers of people in your traveling party. Thanks Janet and Sandra for giving me permission to share this wonderful story.
One of the great parts of Høstfest is meeting and talking with people from all over the country, Canada, and Scandinavian countries. I ran into two people from Westby… Westby, Montana, and we compared notes on our hometowns. I also ran into people, who when they found out who I was, said they read my column every week. That was nice to hear.
If you want a fun experience, put Høstfest on your calendar for next year, and bring your cell phone.
*
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Milk Hauling Days - Part 4 (Conclusion)
Across the Fence #360
Another job milk haulers had, was to report to the milk inspector any violations that you noticed on farms. Then the inspector would go to that farm and check it out. I had one farmer that let the manure pile up in the gutters and the cows were absolutely filthy. I had to report him several times. His farm was at the end of a long road in the hills up above the Kickapoo Valley. His buildings were old and in disrepair.
The toughest times for milk hauling were the winter months. I think that winter of ‘1963-’64, convinced me that I didn’t want to haul milk the rest of my life.
It didn’t matter how cold it was or how much snow there was, the milk needed to be picked up. There was a block heater attached to the truck that I plugged in each day so it would start in the mornings. It was tough crawling into that cold cab when it was still dark out and taking off when the temperature was way below zero. When I pulled the cans out of the coolers, the cold water would drip on my apron and boots, and before long it would be frozen hard as a rock, with icicles hanging from it. My heavy leather gloves would get wet and frozen and my fingers would feel numb.
Sometimes a farmer couldn’t get his pickup or tractor started, and ask if I could jump it to get it going, or sometimes we hooked a chain from the truck to the vehicle and pulled it until it started. Not only was that a cold, miserable job, lying in the snow under the truck, attaching the chain, but it also put me behind on my route. Then I had to go faster to make up lost time.
After a snowstorm it was hard to make it through the snow to some of the farms. Then I’d crawl under the truck and put the chains on the dual rear wheels before I started out in the morning; a cold, miserable job. I remember getting stuck in driveways several times and had to shovel until I could get going again. If a driveway was completely blocked and I couldn’t get to the farm, the farmer would haul the cans out to the road on a sled.
The sideroads of Vernon County are not the best places to drive, even on a good winter day. There are many hills and winding roads. I’d wind the truck up as tight as I could on the downhills to get a run at the uphills. By the time I reached the top of the hill with my heavy load, I was in my lowest gear and barely moving.
I never slid in the ditch or tipped the truck, but came close one day while returning to the creamery with a full load on Highway 27. The roads were snow-packed and slippery. As I rounded one of the many curves, the back end of the truck took off on me and I found myself sliding sideways down the center of the road. Luckily, no cars were coming and I managed to bring the back end around, over corrected, and started going the other way. I finally brought it to a stop sitting along the edge of a ditch that would certainly have rolled the truck. I was lucky. All the doors stayed shut through the ordeal and not a drop of milk was spilled.
I wasn’t that lucky one day, when in my hurry, I neglected to secure the latch on one of the doors. It worked loose, and as I rounded a curve on a county road, I saw the door fly open, in my rearview mirror, and watched as cans started rolling out of the truck and bouncing into the ditch. By the time I brought the truck to a halt, I’d lost over a dozen cans. The covers came off some of them and there was a nice trail of spilled milk along the road and ditch.
As I mentioned earlier, that cold winter convinced me to seek school and other employment. I continued hauling milk through the next summer. At the end of summer, I retired from milk hauling and returned to Madison, where I entered the commercial art program at MATC.
I was a milk hauler for fourteen months and never missed a day, hauling seven days a week. It was quite an experience, but convinced me there must be an easier way to make a living. And all that double clutching and shifting that I thought was so great when I started, that got old real fast!
I must admit, I really got in shape lifting all those cans every day. By the time I quit, I could take a full can in each hand and, doing a curl like a weightlifter, set them up in the truck. It helped to be young too.
Now those days are gone and milk is picked up in bulk tank trucks and the hauler doesn’t have to lift all those heavy cans anymore. But, milk haulers today still have to deal with all the other problems and adventures we went through back in the days of hauling canned milk.
All in all, my time hauling milk was certainly an adventure, and quite a learning experience.
*
Another job milk haulers had, was to report to the milk inspector any violations that you noticed on farms. Then the inspector would go to that farm and check it out. I had one farmer that let the manure pile up in the gutters and the cows were absolutely filthy. I had to report him several times. His farm was at the end of a long road in the hills up above the Kickapoo Valley. His buildings were old and in disrepair.
The toughest times for milk hauling were the winter months. I think that winter of ‘1963-’64, convinced me that I didn’t want to haul milk the rest of my life.
It didn’t matter how cold it was or how much snow there was, the milk needed to be picked up. There was a block heater attached to the truck that I plugged in each day so it would start in the mornings. It was tough crawling into that cold cab when it was still dark out and taking off when the temperature was way below zero. When I pulled the cans out of the coolers, the cold water would drip on my apron and boots, and before long it would be frozen hard as a rock, with icicles hanging from it. My heavy leather gloves would get wet and frozen and my fingers would feel numb.
Sometimes a farmer couldn’t get his pickup or tractor started, and ask if I could jump it to get it going, or sometimes we hooked a chain from the truck to the vehicle and pulled it until it started. Not only was that a cold, miserable job, lying in the snow under the truck, attaching the chain, but it also put me behind on my route. Then I had to go faster to make up lost time.
After a snowstorm it was hard to make it through the snow to some of the farms. Then I’d crawl under the truck and put the chains on the dual rear wheels before I started out in the morning; a cold, miserable job. I remember getting stuck in driveways several times and had to shovel until I could get going again. If a driveway was completely blocked and I couldn’t get to the farm, the farmer would haul the cans out to the road on a sled.
The sideroads of Vernon County are not the best places to drive, even on a good winter day. There are many hills and winding roads. I’d wind the truck up as tight as I could on the downhills to get a run at the uphills. By the time I reached the top of the hill with my heavy load, I was in my lowest gear and barely moving.
I never slid in the ditch or tipped the truck, but came close one day while returning to the creamery with a full load on Highway 27. The roads were snow-packed and slippery. As I rounded one of the many curves, the back end of the truck took off on me and I found myself sliding sideways down the center of the road. Luckily, no cars were coming and I managed to bring the back end around, over corrected, and started going the other way. I finally brought it to a stop sitting along the edge of a ditch that would certainly have rolled the truck. I was lucky. All the doors stayed shut through the ordeal and not a drop of milk was spilled.
I wasn’t that lucky one day, when in my hurry, I neglected to secure the latch on one of the doors. It worked loose, and as I rounded a curve on a county road, I saw the door fly open, in my rearview mirror, and watched as cans started rolling out of the truck and bouncing into the ditch. By the time I brought the truck to a halt, I’d lost over a dozen cans. The covers came off some of them and there was a nice trail of spilled milk along the road and ditch.
As I mentioned earlier, that cold winter convinced me to seek school and other employment. I continued hauling milk through the next summer. At the end of summer, I retired from milk hauling and returned to Madison, where I entered the commercial art program at MATC.
I was a milk hauler for fourteen months and never missed a day, hauling seven days a week. It was quite an experience, but convinced me there must be an easier way to make a living. And all that double clutching and shifting that I thought was so great when I started, that got old real fast!
I must admit, I really got in shape lifting all those cans every day. By the time I quit, I could take a full can in each hand and, doing a curl like a weightlifter, set them up in the truck. It helped to be young too.
Now those days are gone and milk is picked up in bulk tank trucks and the hauler doesn’t have to lift all those heavy cans anymore. But, milk haulers today still have to deal with all the other problems and adventures we went through back in the days of hauling canned milk.
All in all, my time hauling milk was certainly an adventure, and quite a learning experience.
*
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Milk Hauling Days - Part 3 (Long Days)
Across the Fence #359
Last week, I mentioned that I always let a woman go ahead of me and helped her unload the four or five cans she had in the back of her pickup.
A couple years later, when I was home on leave before heading for Vietnam, I ran into Neil Nelson in Westby. He wanted to buy me a coke at the drug store and thanked me for always helping unload their milk when I had been a milk hauler. He told me to wait at the counter, and he went next door to the bank. He came back and gave me two silver dollars. Neil said, “Now that you owe me money, you have to come back safely.” He wanted me to carry them as good luck and when I returned, I had to give one back to him and I could keep the other. I returned that dollar to him a year later, and I’ve carried the other coin every day since he gave it to me.
But I digress, back to the milk hauling. After I arrived at the creamery, I waited for my turn and then opened the large doors on the right side of the truck, and pulled in around a corner post and positioned my truck as close to the track as possible. As time went on, I could line it up with an inch to spare instead of a foot, as I had done when I first started. That made it much easier to unload. I then climbed up into the back of the truck and started unloading.
The cans belonging to one farm all had to stay in a group. I used a special wrench to knock the can covers loose and then placed one can at a time on a track of rollers that carried them into the creamery, where the milk was weighed for each farmer and dumped into a large vat.
After the load was emptied, I drove ahead and the empty cans, washed and sanitized, came through a small door on more rollers. I put them back in the truck, making sure all the cans for one farm stayed in a group and in the position I wanted them in the truck, depending on where I would load the cans from that farm. If the milk house was on the right side of the truck, I put them on that side of the truck. All this was pretty much learned on the fly, with one quick lesson, when I rode along that first day.
As soon as the empty cans were loaded, I headed out for the second load and in many cases, back to some of the same farms to pick up the morning milking for those who had too many cans to fit in the cooler. This was a problem in the summer when milk could sour very fast. The second load was the same routine as the first. I had a couple of farmers who were always late. Even when I left them until the end of my route, they were still milking when I arrived at 11:00. Sometimes, if they still had several cows to milk, I just took what they had ready. The rest could sit in the cooler until the next day.
Most dogs were very friendly and liked to have me pay attention to them when I arrived. But one dog always had to be watched. As I got out of the truck, he’d come running with his lips laid back, his teeth barred, and growling. I’d yell and he’d usually stop, and just growl, but I never trusted turning my back on him. When the farmer was around, he’d chase him off. One day he told me I should smack the dog if he got too close. A couple days later I was ready for him. I had placed a can cover in the seat next to me. When I got out of the truck he came charging as usual. This time I didn’t yell, and when he got close enough, I nailed him in the head with the can cover and sent him sprawling and yelping. He never bothered me after that.
When I was done with my route, I filled up the tank with gas and headed home to our farm, parked the truck, and helped my dad with farm work the rest of the day. It got old real fast. The days were long, and the milk route alone, would have been enough physical labor for one day, but then I had to spend the rest of the day helping farm, and of course, chores and milking in the evenings. I lived for the weekends when I could go cruisin’, let loose, and raise some H with my friends.
However it was pure H to get up on Sunday morning and climb back into that truck with only a couple hours sleep. Cows don’t stop producing milk on the weekends, so hauling milk was a seven days a week job. Neither rain, sleet, snowstorm, sub-zero temperatures, sickness, don’t feel like working today, or hangover, could keep the milk hauler from his appointed rounds. I managed to survive those wild weekends of my youth, and got all the milk picked up. I never missed a day hauling milk in those 14 months.
(Concluded next week)
*
Last week, I mentioned that I always let a woman go ahead of me and helped her unload the four or five cans she had in the back of her pickup.
A couple years later, when I was home on leave before heading for Vietnam, I ran into Neil Nelson in Westby. He wanted to buy me a coke at the drug store and thanked me for always helping unload their milk when I had been a milk hauler. He told me to wait at the counter, and he went next door to the bank. He came back and gave me two silver dollars. Neil said, “Now that you owe me money, you have to come back safely.” He wanted me to carry them as good luck and when I returned, I had to give one back to him and I could keep the other. I returned that dollar to him a year later, and I’ve carried the other coin every day since he gave it to me.
But I digress, back to the milk hauling. After I arrived at the creamery, I waited for my turn and then opened the large doors on the right side of the truck, and pulled in around a corner post and positioned my truck as close to the track as possible. As time went on, I could line it up with an inch to spare instead of a foot, as I had done when I first started. That made it much easier to unload. I then climbed up into the back of the truck and started unloading.
The cans belonging to one farm all had to stay in a group. I used a special wrench to knock the can covers loose and then placed one can at a time on a track of rollers that carried them into the creamery, where the milk was weighed for each farmer and dumped into a large vat.
After the load was emptied, I drove ahead and the empty cans, washed and sanitized, came through a small door on more rollers. I put them back in the truck, making sure all the cans for one farm stayed in a group and in the position I wanted them in the truck, depending on where I would load the cans from that farm. If the milk house was on the right side of the truck, I put them on that side of the truck. All this was pretty much learned on the fly, with one quick lesson, when I rode along that first day.
As soon as the empty cans were loaded, I headed out for the second load and in many cases, back to some of the same farms to pick up the morning milking for those who had too many cans to fit in the cooler. This was a problem in the summer when milk could sour very fast. The second load was the same routine as the first. I had a couple of farmers who were always late. Even when I left them until the end of my route, they were still milking when I arrived at 11:00. Sometimes, if they still had several cows to milk, I just took what they had ready. The rest could sit in the cooler until the next day.
Most dogs were very friendly and liked to have me pay attention to them when I arrived. But one dog always had to be watched. As I got out of the truck, he’d come running with his lips laid back, his teeth barred, and growling. I’d yell and he’d usually stop, and just growl, but I never trusted turning my back on him. When the farmer was around, he’d chase him off. One day he told me I should smack the dog if he got too close. A couple days later I was ready for him. I had placed a can cover in the seat next to me. When I got out of the truck he came charging as usual. This time I didn’t yell, and when he got close enough, I nailed him in the head with the can cover and sent him sprawling and yelping. He never bothered me after that.
When I was done with my route, I filled up the tank with gas and headed home to our farm, parked the truck, and helped my dad with farm work the rest of the day. It got old real fast. The days were long, and the milk route alone, would have been enough physical labor for one day, but then I had to spend the rest of the day helping farm, and of course, chores and milking in the evenings. I lived for the weekends when I could go cruisin’, let loose, and raise some H with my friends.
However it was pure H to get up on Sunday morning and climb back into that truck with only a couple hours sleep. Cows don’t stop producing milk on the weekends, so hauling milk was a seven days a week job. Neither rain, sleet, snowstorm, sub-zero temperatures, sickness, don’t feel like working today, or hangover, could keep the milk hauler from his appointed rounds. I managed to survive those wild weekends of my youth, and got all the milk picked up. I never missed a day hauling milk in those 14 months.
(Concluded next week)
*
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Milk Hauling Days - Part 2
Across the Fence #358
I’ll try to describe a typical day in the life of this milk hauler. Up at 4:00 am, grab a sandwich that my mother had made the night before, and out to the truck, parked at the farm. I headed out in the dark toward Cashton, north of Westby, to my first farm. At each stop I’d maneuver the truck as close to the milk house as possible. Some places were set up so you could drive right alongside the milk house. At others, you had to back down a winding path or around buildings to reach the milk house, using only your sideview mirrors.
The first order of business was to unload the empty cans for the next day’s milking. Each farmer had cans with numbers painted on in red or black, so the hauler and the creamery knew who the milk belonged to. I always carried extra cans without numbers in case a farmer needed them and then used a red marker to write their number on the cans.
All milk haulers wore a large leather apron like blacksmiths use. This was used because you were always pulling cold, wet cans out of the milk coolers in the milk houses and carrying them to the truck. Without the apron you’d have been soaking wet. I pulled the full cans from the cooler and carried them outside where I loaded them on the truck. At first I’d carry one can at a time and with a swinging motion, hoist it up into the truck. After all, they weighed a hundred pounds when full. Eventually I could carry two cans at a time, because it saved a lot of steps and time. Depending on the size of the dairy herd, a farm could have as little as two cans or as many as twenty. The truck had doors on the back and sides to make loading easier. After the cans were loaded, I secured the door latch on the truck and headed off to the next farm.
As I became more familiar with driving the truck, I’d roar along the back roads as fast as I could go in order to save time. At the creamery I usually had to wait in line for at least one other hauler to unload, and also for farmers who hauled their own milk in pickups. That meant spending a half hour in line and another twenty minutes unloading and loading. If Magnus Sather beat me to the creamery, it meant waiting even longer. He also had two loads a day.
Magnus was a friend of our family. His daughter and I graduated from high school together. Magnus was built like a bull, strong and muscular from hauling milk for over twenty years. He had bad knees, arthritis in his hands, back problems, and aches and pains from all those years of lifting heavy cans. He told me many times, “Howard, go back to school, you don’t want to be doing this for twenty years. It’s too hard. You’ll end up like me.” I was still having fun, but I hadn’t gone through a cold Wisconsin winter hauling milk at that point.
Magnus and I helped each other unload, because it went faster and we’d be back on the road for our second load, and finish sooner. But there was a friendly rivalry to see who could get to the creamery first.
One day Magnus and I arrived at a crossroad on Highway 27 at the same time, about a mile north of town. I pulled onto the highway first and Magnus pulled in right behind me. I barreled down the highway toward town with him on my bumper. At that time there were two stop signs at the north edge of Westby where 14 and 27 split. One went straight ahead to go south into Westby, the other veered to the right to go toward Coon Valley. As we came to the intersection, I pulled to a stop and leaned forward to look out my right window, and see if any cars were coming. No cars were coming, but there was Magnus, barreling by and waving to me. He had taken the right exit and must have run the stop sign, in order to get ahead of me. I roared after him, both of us double clutching our way down Main Street. We might have exceeded the speed limit just a bit. We pulled into the creamery in the south part of town and screeched to a halt.
Magnus got out of his truck grinning ear to ear. “Thought you were going to beat me, didn’t you?” He let out a big laugh and I had to laugh too.
Another milk hauler, Cal Anderson, pulled in behind us and got out. “Where’s the fire? I saw you guys racing into town as I was coming down 14.” He knew why we’d been in a hurry. Cal was probably trying to get there ahead of us so he wouldn’t have to wait an extra hour!
I felt sorry for some of the farmers who hauled their own cans when they got behind a line of our trucks. One woman arrived about the time I did. I always let her go ahead of me and helped her unload the four or five cans she had in the back of their pickup.
(Continued next week)
*
I’ll try to describe a typical day in the life of this milk hauler. Up at 4:00 am, grab a sandwich that my mother had made the night before, and out to the truck, parked at the farm. I headed out in the dark toward Cashton, north of Westby, to my first farm. At each stop I’d maneuver the truck as close to the milk house as possible. Some places were set up so you could drive right alongside the milk house. At others, you had to back down a winding path or around buildings to reach the milk house, using only your sideview mirrors.
The first order of business was to unload the empty cans for the next day’s milking. Each farmer had cans with numbers painted on in red or black, so the hauler and the creamery knew who the milk belonged to. I always carried extra cans without numbers in case a farmer needed them and then used a red marker to write their number on the cans.
All milk haulers wore a large leather apron like blacksmiths use. This was used because you were always pulling cold, wet cans out of the milk coolers in the milk houses and carrying them to the truck. Without the apron you’d have been soaking wet. I pulled the full cans from the cooler and carried them outside where I loaded them on the truck. At first I’d carry one can at a time and with a swinging motion, hoist it up into the truck. After all, they weighed a hundred pounds when full. Eventually I could carry two cans at a time, because it saved a lot of steps and time. Depending on the size of the dairy herd, a farm could have as little as two cans or as many as twenty. The truck had doors on the back and sides to make loading easier. After the cans were loaded, I secured the door latch on the truck and headed off to the next farm.
As I became more familiar with driving the truck, I’d roar along the back roads as fast as I could go in order to save time. At the creamery I usually had to wait in line for at least one other hauler to unload, and also for farmers who hauled their own milk in pickups. That meant spending a half hour in line and another twenty minutes unloading and loading. If Magnus Sather beat me to the creamery, it meant waiting even longer. He also had two loads a day.
Magnus was a friend of our family. His daughter and I graduated from high school together. Magnus was built like a bull, strong and muscular from hauling milk for over twenty years. He had bad knees, arthritis in his hands, back problems, and aches and pains from all those years of lifting heavy cans. He told me many times, “Howard, go back to school, you don’t want to be doing this for twenty years. It’s too hard. You’ll end up like me.” I was still having fun, but I hadn’t gone through a cold Wisconsin winter hauling milk at that point.
Magnus and I helped each other unload, because it went faster and we’d be back on the road for our second load, and finish sooner. But there was a friendly rivalry to see who could get to the creamery first.
One day Magnus and I arrived at a crossroad on Highway 27 at the same time, about a mile north of town. I pulled onto the highway first and Magnus pulled in right behind me. I barreled down the highway toward town with him on my bumper. At that time there were two stop signs at the north edge of Westby where 14 and 27 split. One went straight ahead to go south into Westby, the other veered to the right to go toward Coon Valley. As we came to the intersection, I pulled to a stop and leaned forward to look out my right window, and see if any cars were coming. No cars were coming, but there was Magnus, barreling by and waving to me. He had taken the right exit and must have run the stop sign, in order to get ahead of me. I roared after him, both of us double clutching our way down Main Street. We might have exceeded the speed limit just a bit. We pulled into the creamery in the south part of town and screeched to a halt.
Magnus got out of his truck grinning ear to ear. “Thought you were going to beat me, didn’t you?” He let out a big laugh and I had to laugh too.
Another milk hauler, Cal Anderson, pulled in behind us and got out. “Where’s the fire? I saw you guys racing into town as I was coming down 14.” He knew why we’d been in a hurry. Cal was probably trying to get there ahead of us so he wouldn’t have to wait an extra hour!
I felt sorry for some of the farmers who hauled their own cans when they got behind a line of our trucks. One woman arrived about the time I did. I always let her go ahead of me and helped her unload the four or five cans she had in the back of their pickup.
(Continued next week)
*
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Milk Hauling Days - Part 1
Across the Fence 357
I ran into two people recently that brought back memories of my milk hauling days. Many of you are familiar with the days of farming when milk was hauled in cans. I’d like to take you back to those days of yesteryear when I hauled milk to the Westby Cooperative Creamery for 14 months.
During the summer of 1963, I was working on the family farm. One day, while I was doing chores, our milk hauler, Vernal Bjornstad, arrived. I helped lift the cans out of the cooler and carried them from the milk house while he lifted them into the truck. That was back in the days when you still put milk in ten-gallon cans, not bulk tanks. A full can weighed 100 pounds.
Vernal said he could use help with his milk route. He had two trucks and wondered if I’d be interested in hauling milk for him. He’d pay me $125 dollars a month. That seemed like a lot of money, especially when I wasn’t making any money working at home. “Talk it over with your dad,” he said, “and let me know tomorrow.” The hours would be from four or five in the morning until around one in the afternoon. I could still help on the farm in the afternoon and evening.
Dad was reluctant to have me haul milk. “You don’t know how to drive a big truck like that, it’s different from driving a pickup.” He finally relented.
The next morning I told Vernal I’d take the job. He said he’d pick me up at 4:30 the next morning and I’d ride with on the route I’d be taking over. Depending on the time of year there would be from 175 to 250 cans, and it would take two loads per day.
The next morning I was ready to roll. It was my first “real” job. Before then, I’d only worked on the farm or helped neighbors with farm work for short periods of time.
My route was mostly in the area north of Westby along Highway 27, the Clockmaker area, Jersey Valley, Rognstad Ridge, Highway 33 near Cashton, and several farms south of Westby, including our farm. It was a lot of miles to cover every day and still get the second load to the Westby Creamery and unloaded before 1:00.
Vernal drove while I made notes on what farms were on the route, and other things I needed to know, such as how many pounds of butter each received, and which dogs to watch out for. After the truck was full we headed for the creamery to unload. Vernal said I should try to beat Magnus Sather to the creamery, or I’d lose half an hour waiting behind him while he unloaded. Magnus also had a big route and it usually took about twenty minutes to half an hour to unload the full cans and load empty cans back on the truck.
After we’d completed the second load, Vernal parked the truck, and said, “It’s all yours!” He told me to take it to the gas station on the south edge of town and fill it up each day when I finished my route. He had an account there. Then he got in another truck and drove away.
There I stood. I still hadn’t driven the truck. I’d only been a passenger and watched while he explained how to shift from high to low gear by pressing the little red button on the side of the shift knob, while double clutching. He said I’d learn quickly which gear to use, depending on how heavy the load was.
I climbed up into the cab of that truck and started it up. I tried shifting it into gear. I had problems at first, but eventually made it out of the creamery driveway and onto Highway 14, sweating profusely!
I felt pretty cool bouncing along on my way to the gas station. Look at me; I’m a double-clutching truck driver, a real macho-man. I tried not to grind the gears too much as I headed down the highway. It was fun running through all those gears and constantly shifting. Little did I know that a year later it’d be a big pain in the butt shifting all the time.
That was the start of my truck driving, milk hauling career. Thank goodness it was in the summer when the weather was nice and the roads were good.
The next morning I was up and on the road before 4:30. It took longer that first day because everything was new, and I was still learning how to drive and shift the truck. I also found it tricky backing into tight places near milk houses using only the side-view mirrors and trying to judge the distance
.
Somehow I survived that first day, with no accidents or spilled milk. I didn’t hit any milk houses, run over anyone, and even managed to maneuver the truck into the unloading dock without damaging the creamery.
By that evening every muscle in my body was sore. I was 19 and thought I was in great shape from doing farm work, but slinging 250 milk cans around and lifting them up into the bed of the truck was hard work. What had I gotten myself into?
Next week: A day in the life of a milk hauler.
*
I ran into two people recently that brought back memories of my milk hauling days. Many of you are familiar with the days of farming when milk was hauled in cans. I’d like to take you back to those days of yesteryear when I hauled milk to the Westby Cooperative Creamery for 14 months.
During the summer of 1963, I was working on the family farm. One day, while I was doing chores, our milk hauler, Vernal Bjornstad, arrived. I helped lift the cans out of the cooler and carried them from the milk house while he lifted them into the truck. That was back in the days when you still put milk in ten-gallon cans, not bulk tanks. A full can weighed 100 pounds.
Vernal said he could use help with his milk route. He had two trucks and wondered if I’d be interested in hauling milk for him. He’d pay me $125 dollars a month. That seemed like a lot of money, especially when I wasn’t making any money working at home. “Talk it over with your dad,” he said, “and let me know tomorrow.” The hours would be from four or five in the morning until around one in the afternoon. I could still help on the farm in the afternoon and evening.
Dad was reluctant to have me haul milk. “You don’t know how to drive a big truck like that, it’s different from driving a pickup.” He finally relented.
The next morning I told Vernal I’d take the job. He said he’d pick me up at 4:30 the next morning and I’d ride with on the route I’d be taking over. Depending on the time of year there would be from 175 to 250 cans, and it would take two loads per day.
The next morning I was ready to roll. It was my first “real” job. Before then, I’d only worked on the farm or helped neighbors with farm work for short periods of time.
My route was mostly in the area north of Westby along Highway 27, the Clockmaker area, Jersey Valley, Rognstad Ridge, Highway 33 near Cashton, and several farms south of Westby, including our farm. It was a lot of miles to cover every day and still get the second load to the Westby Creamery and unloaded before 1:00.
Vernal drove while I made notes on what farms were on the route, and other things I needed to know, such as how many pounds of butter each received, and which dogs to watch out for. After the truck was full we headed for the creamery to unload. Vernal said I should try to beat Magnus Sather to the creamery, or I’d lose half an hour waiting behind him while he unloaded. Magnus also had a big route and it usually took about twenty minutes to half an hour to unload the full cans and load empty cans back on the truck.
After we’d completed the second load, Vernal parked the truck, and said, “It’s all yours!” He told me to take it to the gas station on the south edge of town and fill it up each day when I finished my route. He had an account there. Then he got in another truck and drove away.
There I stood. I still hadn’t driven the truck. I’d only been a passenger and watched while he explained how to shift from high to low gear by pressing the little red button on the side of the shift knob, while double clutching. He said I’d learn quickly which gear to use, depending on how heavy the load was.
I climbed up into the cab of that truck and started it up. I tried shifting it into gear. I had problems at first, but eventually made it out of the creamery driveway and onto Highway 14, sweating profusely!
I felt pretty cool bouncing along on my way to the gas station. Look at me; I’m a double-clutching truck driver, a real macho-man. I tried not to grind the gears too much as I headed down the highway. It was fun running through all those gears and constantly shifting. Little did I know that a year later it’d be a big pain in the butt shifting all the time.
That was the start of my truck driving, milk hauling career. Thank goodness it was in the summer when the weather was nice and the roads were good.
The next morning I was up and on the road before 4:30. It took longer that first day because everything was new, and I was still learning how to drive and shift the truck. I also found it tricky backing into tight places near milk houses using only the side-view mirrors and trying to judge the distance
.
Somehow I survived that first day, with no accidents or spilled milk. I didn’t hit any milk houses, run over anyone, and even managed to maneuver the truck into the unloading dock without damaging the creamery.
By that evening every muscle in my body was sore. I was 19 and thought I was in great shape from doing farm work, but slinging 250 milk cans around and lifting them up into the bed of the truck was hard work. What had I gotten myself into?
Next week: A day in the life of a milk hauler.
*
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Let's Park for a While
Across the Fence #356
At least I know a few people read Across the Fence. I hear my cruisin’ with WLS in the 60’s story sparked some memories in many of you.
I walked into Borgen’s Café in Westby one day and ran into two of my high school classmates. One of them remarked, “I didn’t know you were a dancer?” I was a bit puzzled, until she said she read my story about going to Lloyd’s and Danceland. I doubt if anyone in my high school class ever saw me dance. I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly in high school. I was more like a moth stuck inside a cocoon and couldn’t find my way out.
By the way, I was 19 years old, had been out of high school for over a year, and was hauling milk, when I was frequenting Lloyd’s and Danceland. Let’s just say, those were my coming out of my cocoon years.
One day we stopped in Ole and Lena’s Kaffe Hus in Westby. Mike, the owner, said, “I was hoping you’d come in this week.” Then he burst into song. “On top of a pizza all covered with cheese…” At that point I joined in… “I saw my first meatball, til’ somebody sneezed. It rolled off the table and onto the floor…” You’d have thought Mike and I were cruisin’ down the highway in a ’57 Chev, and singing along with Dick Biondi on WLS! Other people in Ole and Lena’s must have wondered what was wrong with the two of us.
Mike was surprised to find out we had been listening to WLS in Westby. Mike is a Chicago-area native and even got to attend a Rockin’ New Year’s Eve with Dick Biondi at the Chicago Theatre one year. We had a good time reminiscing about our cruisin’ and listenin’ to WLS years. It’s a small world. Kids in Westby and kids in Chicago were tuned into the same radio station and doing the same things.
What we all did was similar to the movie, American Graffiti, where they cruised around listening to Wolfman Jack. Readers reminded me that guys and gals also parked their cars for a while in that movie. That was another activity that went on in that era… parking. You do remember parking, don’t you? Some people wondered if young people still park. We suspect it’s not a common activity these days. In all our travels around back roads in the country, day or night, I’ve never come across a situation that even resembles parking.
Perhaps I need to do a little explaining here for the younger crowd, and for those in my age group or older, who’ve been living in isolation in the back woods. Now I’m not saying I have any experience with parking, but any writer worth his weight in printer’s ink, researches his subject before putting words to paper. I’ve tried asking people about the subject, but it’s almost impossible to find anyone who will admit they used to park. As I’ve already mentioned, I’m not saying I have any experience on this subject either, but I’ve heard a lot about parking.
For the younger crowd, I’m not talking about driving to the local mall, parking your car, and going shopping. Back in the cruisin’ days, so I’ve been told, guys and gals would go cruisin’ around some lonely back roads at night and find a secluded place to park the car so they could spend some time alone… and sit and talk.
Back in those days, most cars didn’t have bucket seats and shifting knobs between the seats. It was just one seat and the shifting lever was on the steering column. That made it easier for a girl, way over on the passenger side, to slide over closer to the guy in case she couldn’t hear what he was saying. I should also mention that we didn’t have seat belts in those days, to keep us in our proper place. Sitting closer did make for some stimulating conversation, so I’ve been told.
Another interesting activity associated with parking, was bushwhacking. Again, I’m not saying I ever engaged in such activities, but I have it on good authority that such things took place. Bushwhacking was an activity carried out by a group of guys who didn’t have any girls to park and talk with. They would go looking for people who were parking. It was best to have the use of an old pickup truck, so one guy could drive, and the rest could ride in the back. Then we headed for the prime parking spots that we knew of. Did I say we? I meant to say, “they” headed for the prime parking spots. When they spotted a car parked in the shadows, they sprang into action. If it was in a field, they’d circle the car and guys would whoop and yell while pounding on the sides of the pickup. The occupants looked like a couple of deer caught in the headlights.
Then we roared off down the road as quickly as we’d arrived. We didn’t want to hurt anyone, just give them a little excitement, and a break from their heavy conversation.
Cruisin’, parking, and bushwhacking… activities that are a part of me and my generation. Just don’t blame me if this sparks a revival of those activities.
*
At least I know a few people read Across the Fence. I hear my cruisin’ with WLS in the 60’s story sparked some memories in many of you.
I walked into Borgen’s Café in Westby one day and ran into two of my high school classmates. One of them remarked, “I didn’t know you were a dancer?” I was a bit puzzled, until she said she read my story about going to Lloyd’s and Danceland. I doubt if anyone in my high school class ever saw me dance. I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly in high school. I was more like a moth stuck inside a cocoon and couldn’t find my way out.
By the way, I was 19 years old, had been out of high school for over a year, and was hauling milk, when I was frequenting Lloyd’s and Danceland. Let’s just say, those were my coming out of my cocoon years.
One day we stopped in Ole and Lena’s Kaffe Hus in Westby. Mike, the owner, said, “I was hoping you’d come in this week.” Then he burst into song. “On top of a pizza all covered with cheese…” At that point I joined in… “I saw my first meatball, til’ somebody sneezed. It rolled off the table and onto the floor…” You’d have thought Mike and I were cruisin’ down the highway in a ’57 Chev, and singing along with Dick Biondi on WLS! Other people in Ole and Lena’s must have wondered what was wrong with the two of us.
Mike was surprised to find out we had been listening to WLS in Westby. Mike is a Chicago-area native and even got to attend a Rockin’ New Year’s Eve with Dick Biondi at the Chicago Theatre one year. We had a good time reminiscing about our cruisin’ and listenin’ to WLS years. It’s a small world. Kids in Westby and kids in Chicago were tuned into the same radio station and doing the same things.
What we all did was similar to the movie, American Graffiti, where they cruised around listening to Wolfman Jack. Readers reminded me that guys and gals also parked their cars for a while in that movie. That was another activity that went on in that era… parking. You do remember parking, don’t you? Some people wondered if young people still park. We suspect it’s not a common activity these days. In all our travels around back roads in the country, day or night, I’ve never come across a situation that even resembles parking.
Perhaps I need to do a little explaining here for the younger crowd, and for those in my age group or older, who’ve been living in isolation in the back woods. Now I’m not saying I have any experience with parking, but any writer worth his weight in printer’s ink, researches his subject before putting words to paper. I’ve tried asking people about the subject, but it’s almost impossible to find anyone who will admit they used to park. As I’ve already mentioned, I’m not saying I have any experience on this subject either, but I’ve heard a lot about parking.
For the younger crowd, I’m not talking about driving to the local mall, parking your car, and going shopping. Back in the cruisin’ days, so I’ve been told, guys and gals would go cruisin’ around some lonely back roads at night and find a secluded place to park the car so they could spend some time alone… and sit and talk.
Back in those days, most cars didn’t have bucket seats and shifting knobs between the seats. It was just one seat and the shifting lever was on the steering column. That made it easier for a girl, way over on the passenger side, to slide over closer to the guy in case she couldn’t hear what he was saying. I should also mention that we didn’t have seat belts in those days, to keep us in our proper place. Sitting closer did make for some stimulating conversation, so I’ve been told.
Another interesting activity associated with parking, was bushwhacking. Again, I’m not saying I ever engaged in such activities, but I have it on good authority that such things took place. Bushwhacking was an activity carried out by a group of guys who didn’t have any girls to park and talk with. They would go looking for people who were parking. It was best to have the use of an old pickup truck, so one guy could drive, and the rest could ride in the back. Then we headed for the prime parking spots that we knew of. Did I say we? I meant to say, “they” headed for the prime parking spots. When they spotted a car parked in the shadows, they sprang into action. If it was in a field, they’d circle the car and guys would whoop and yell while pounding on the sides of the pickup. The occupants looked like a couple of deer caught in the headlights.
Then we roared off down the road as quickly as we’d arrived. We didn’t want to hurt anyone, just give them a little excitement, and a break from their heavy conversation.
Cruisin’, parking, and bushwhacking… activities that are a part of me and my generation. Just don’t blame me if this sparks a revival of those activities.
*
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Days of Summer Are Fading
Across the Fence #355
As the days become shorter and cooler, I can feel the beginning of fall in the air. Summer is heading south for the winter and leaving us behind.
Colorful wildflowers are disappearing and the wind rushing through the cornfields near our house sounds like waves rolling onto a beach. Summer is winding down and students have headed back to school. That can be an exciting or very apprehensive time in the life of every student, regardless of their age.
It’s also a tough time for parents as their child begins the first day of kindergarten, first grade, high school, or college. I know that emptiness and sadness you’re feeling. Been there, done that. On the other hand, maybe some of you are whooping it up and dancing in the streets. Summer vacation’s over and the kids are back in school! It makes me wonder how my parents felt when we headed off to school each fall.
Back to school for us farm kids was a mixed blessing. It was also tobacco harvesting time. We never got out of helping with tobacco when we were young. There was always lots of tobacco to pile as soon as we got home from school. I think Dad timed the cutting of the tobacco so it would be wilted and ready to pile when we arrived. In a way, we hated to miss the excitement of the harvest. Dad always put an ad in the paper, advertising for experienced tobacco harvest help. He got more than enough people who were willing to work for a dollar an hour, plus meals. That was the going wage at that time for a long day of physical labor.
When we were very young, we got the job of suckering and piling. I hated both jobs, but we didn’t have a choice. Those unglamorous jobs were reserved for us kids, as if any job in tobacco could be called glamorous. Things got better when we graduated to helping cut tobacco down and spear it onto laths. Those seemed like more grown-up jobs. When we got to help haul and hang tobacco in the shed, we knew we’d been promoted to the major leagues. That was “manly” work.
I think the best part of harvesting was when Ma brought coffee out to the field mid-morning and mid-afternoon. Then everyone stopped what they were doing and gathered around the tobacco rack for not just coffee, but sandwiches, cookies, and assorted other goodies. We ate more for coffee than I eat at a regular meal now. We all drank water out of a large mason jar. Many of the men chewed tobacco and I can still see that tobacco juice swirling around in the water. It didn’t look the most appetizing, but we never considered not drinking it.
When we had our noon meal in the house, everyone washed up outside. We had a pail of water and wash basins on an old table behind the shanty. Most people didn’t worry about getting all the dirt off, just enough to look presentable at the kitchen table. Anyone who’s worked in tobacco knows how hard it is to get caked-on tobacco juice and dirt off. We used Lava soap. It seemed to be the only thing that would take most of it off, other than dousing your hands with gasoline, but then you had that gas smell that lingered forever.
Stained hands and smelling like I’d taken a bath in gasoline, or had just come from cleaning the barn, were part of our life. The barn smell was a natural smell to us and I never gave it a second thought until I got to high school. Going from a one-room school to high school was a big transition for me.
At Smith School we were like one big family with around 20 kids in all eight grades. We were all farm kids and everyone helped with chores at home. Most of us didn’t have indoor plumbing and I suspect most of the kids were like us, and only had a bath in a portable tub once a week. Many of you grew up on farms and you know how the many barn smells seem to permeate your clothes and hair. It was no big deal. I never even thought that I smelled like a barn. That was life as we knew it. Maybe we subconsciously carried that barn smell like a badge of honor. It let people know that we knew how to work. We certainly didn’t smell like fancy, store-bought cologne. I don’t think we ever used cologne or deodorant when we were young. I’m not saying we didn’t need some; we just didn’t use any.
But then I headed off to high school in Westby. We still used an outhouse, and didn’t have indoor plumbing, although Ma had a hand pump at the kitchen sink to draw water from. I became much more self-conscious of how I smelled when sitting in class with “city girls.” By the time I started my sophomore year we had a bathroom and indoor plumbing. It didn’t seem to enhance my status with the girls, so maybe it wasn’t just smelling like I’d been born in a barn that was hindering my social standing!
Life is full of changes, obstacles, insecurities, and possibilities. Summer transitioning to fall is one of them. Don’t fight it. Enjoy it!
*
As the days become shorter and cooler, I can feel the beginning of fall in the air. Summer is heading south for the winter and leaving us behind.
Colorful wildflowers are disappearing and the wind rushing through the cornfields near our house sounds like waves rolling onto a beach. Summer is winding down and students have headed back to school. That can be an exciting or very apprehensive time in the life of every student, regardless of their age.
It’s also a tough time for parents as their child begins the first day of kindergarten, first grade, high school, or college. I know that emptiness and sadness you’re feeling. Been there, done that. On the other hand, maybe some of you are whooping it up and dancing in the streets. Summer vacation’s over and the kids are back in school! It makes me wonder how my parents felt when we headed off to school each fall.
Back to school for us farm kids was a mixed blessing. It was also tobacco harvesting time. We never got out of helping with tobacco when we were young. There was always lots of tobacco to pile as soon as we got home from school. I think Dad timed the cutting of the tobacco so it would be wilted and ready to pile when we arrived. In a way, we hated to miss the excitement of the harvest. Dad always put an ad in the paper, advertising for experienced tobacco harvest help. He got more than enough people who were willing to work for a dollar an hour, plus meals. That was the going wage at that time for a long day of physical labor.
When we were very young, we got the job of suckering and piling. I hated both jobs, but we didn’t have a choice. Those unglamorous jobs were reserved for us kids, as if any job in tobacco could be called glamorous. Things got better when we graduated to helping cut tobacco down and spear it onto laths. Those seemed like more grown-up jobs. When we got to help haul and hang tobacco in the shed, we knew we’d been promoted to the major leagues. That was “manly” work.
I think the best part of harvesting was when Ma brought coffee out to the field mid-morning and mid-afternoon. Then everyone stopped what they were doing and gathered around the tobacco rack for not just coffee, but sandwiches, cookies, and assorted other goodies. We ate more for coffee than I eat at a regular meal now. We all drank water out of a large mason jar. Many of the men chewed tobacco and I can still see that tobacco juice swirling around in the water. It didn’t look the most appetizing, but we never considered not drinking it.
When we had our noon meal in the house, everyone washed up outside. We had a pail of water and wash basins on an old table behind the shanty. Most people didn’t worry about getting all the dirt off, just enough to look presentable at the kitchen table. Anyone who’s worked in tobacco knows how hard it is to get caked-on tobacco juice and dirt off. We used Lava soap. It seemed to be the only thing that would take most of it off, other than dousing your hands with gasoline, but then you had that gas smell that lingered forever.
Stained hands and smelling like I’d taken a bath in gasoline, or had just come from cleaning the barn, were part of our life. The barn smell was a natural smell to us and I never gave it a second thought until I got to high school. Going from a one-room school to high school was a big transition for me.
At Smith School we were like one big family with around 20 kids in all eight grades. We were all farm kids and everyone helped with chores at home. Most of us didn’t have indoor plumbing and I suspect most of the kids were like us, and only had a bath in a portable tub once a week. Many of you grew up on farms and you know how the many barn smells seem to permeate your clothes and hair. It was no big deal. I never even thought that I smelled like a barn. That was life as we knew it. Maybe we subconsciously carried that barn smell like a badge of honor. It let people know that we knew how to work. We certainly didn’t smell like fancy, store-bought cologne. I don’t think we ever used cologne or deodorant when we were young. I’m not saying we didn’t need some; we just didn’t use any.
But then I headed off to high school in Westby. We still used an outhouse, and didn’t have indoor plumbing, although Ma had a hand pump at the kitchen sink to draw water from. I became much more self-conscious of how I smelled when sitting in class with “city girls.” By the time I started my sophomore year we had a bathroom and indoor plumbing. It didn’t seem to enhance my status with the girls, so maybe it wasn’t just smelling like I’d been born in a barn that was hindering my social standing!
Life is full of changes, obstacles, insecurities, and possibilities. Summer transitioning to fall is one of them. Don’t fight it. Enjoy it!
*
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Road Destruction-Construction Update
Across the Fence #354
It’s been four months since I wrote a eulogy to the destruction of Sherpe Road and the farmland along Highway 14 between Westby and Viroqua. That column generated more comments than any story I’ve ever written. I had e-mails, phone calls, and I’m stilling getting people commenting about it when I meet someone on the street. I’d say that 99% of those people think the four-lane highway is a waste of money, especially during this time when we hear that the state is practically broke.
Education budgets are stripped to the bare bones and yet we throw money into projects like this road that local residents say isn’t needed. Except for two people who were in favor of the road, over two hundred people told me it was a total waste of money and destruction of land. One woman told me that during one of the listening sessions, where no one was listening, she asked if anyone had considered all the lost tax base from destroyed farms. The state officials admitted they hadn’t considered that problem.
I have to tell you what Trygve Thompson, a long time friend and neighbor, told me. I have his permission to relate his story.
I was born on the farm that was located just north of the Thompson farm. Our farm was located behind what is now Frontier Ag and Turf, the John Deere dealer along Highway 14. I grew up with Trygve and Joel Thompson and we often walked across the fields, and crossed the fences between our farms, to play with each other.
When the new highway was constructed back in the 1950’s, they put a tunnel under Highway 14, so Thompson’s cows could safely cross to the other side of the highway. They have around 180 acres on the west side of the road and all the buildings and 50 more acres on the east side of the road. It was fun for us kids to use the tunnel under the highway and it was a great place to play, catch frogs, and have frog races.
The new highway will eliminate that tunnel. Granted, Trygve no longer milks cows so they don’t need it for the cows to reach the other side. The problem is that the state will not put an access road across the four lanes, so farm machinery can cross to the other side. Now he’ll have to travel north from his driveway, on the two lanes to Frontier, where he can cross the road to his fields. To get back to his farm buildings, he’ll have to enter at the Frontier access and travel down the other two lanes, heading south, until he reaches the Rogers farm where he can cross the road and head back north to reach his driveway. That will be some dangerous travel with large, slow machinery.
Like everything else about this road construction, no one cares about things like this unless you’re the one affected by it. Time will tell how that access problem works out, but don’t blame Trygve if you get behind slow-moving machinery trying to do farm work. Point a finger toward the powers-to-be in Madison, who don’t seem to care about the rural disruptions and problems they create.
Many people, including readers in Iowa and Minnesota, have asked me how the road is coming along. The new lanes on the west side are almost completed. Then traffic will begin traveling on the new road and they’ll tear up the existing two lanes and redo them. Several people have commented about how empty the landscape looks now. I don’t think there’s a bush or tree left along the new highway, and the bike path that runs alongside the road will certainly be exposed.
Speaking of exposed, I’ve been suggesting that we invite the naked bike racers from Madison to come north to God’s Country and initiate the new trail when it opens. I understand they had 40-50 bikers show up for this year’s race/tour in Madison. I can guarantee that you’ll have a great view of the entire race from Westby to Viroqua, because there isn’t a bush or tree to obstruct your view. Maybe even some locals would like to join them, although I will respectfully decline any invitation. It’s tough enough biking with padded bike shorts, let alone, au naturel.
Now before you start getting together a party to tar and feather me, and run me out of town, we’ve got to have a little tongue-in-cheek humor to go along with this new highway and multi-use trail!
As I’ve said so many times in this column, times change and we can’t go back. According to the vast majority of people around here, this un-needed, wasteful spending, destructive, four-lane highway, is another of those changes we could have done without. But it’s here now and we’ll have to learn to live with it. I doubt if I’ll ever see Sherpe Road lined with large trees and brush, and full of wildlife again, in my lifetime. But I hope future generations will find it as beautiful as it was, before it was all destroyed this summer.
One last comment, if you get behind some slow-moving farm machinery near the John Deere dealer, don’t blame the farmers, they’re just trying to do their job.
*
It’s been four months since I wrote a eulogy to the destruction of Sherpe Road and the farmland along Highway 14 between Westby and Viroqua. That column generated more comments than any story I’ve ever written. I had e-mails, phone calls, and I’m stilling getting people commenting about it when I meet someone on the street. I’d say that 99% of those people think the four-lane highway is a waste of money, especially during this time when we hear that the state is practically broke.
Education budgets are stripped to the bare bones and yet we throw money into projects like this road that local residents say isn’t needed. Except for two people who were in favor of the road, over two hundred people told me it was a total waste of money and destruction of land. One woman told me that during one of the listening sessions, where no one was listening, she asked if anyone had considered all the lost tax base from destroyed farms. The state officials admitted they hadn’t considered that problem.
I have to tell you what Trygve Thompson, a long time friend and neighbor, told me. I have his permission to relate his story.
I was born on the farm that was located just north of the Thompson farm. Our farm was located behind what is now Frontier Ag and Turf, the John Deere dealer along Highway 14. I grew up with Trygve and Joel Thompson and we often walked across the fields, and crossed the fences between our farms, to play with each other.
When the new highway was constructed back in the 1950’s, they put a tunnel under Highway 14, so Thompson’s cows could safely cross to the other side of the highway. They have around 180 acres on the west side of the road and all the buildings and 50 more acres on the east side of the road. It was fun for us kids to use the tunnel under the highway and it was a great place to play, catch frogs, and have frog races.
The new highway will eliminate that tunnel. Granted, Trygve no longer milks cows so they don’t need it for the cows to reach the other side. The problem is that the state will not put an access road across the four lanes, so farm machinery can cross to the other side. Now he’ll have to travel north from his driveway, on the two lanes to Frontier, where he can cross the road to his fields. To get back to his farm buildings, he’ll have to enter at the Frontier access and travel down the other two lanes, heading south, until he reaches the Rogers farm where he can cross the road and head back north to reach his driveway. That will be some dangerous travel with large, slow machinery.
Like everything else about this road construction, no one cares about things like this unless you’re the one affected by it. Time will tell how that access problem works out, but don’t blame Trygve if you get behind slow-moving machinery trying to do farm work. Point a finger toward the powers-to-be in Madison, who don’t seem to care about the rural disruptions and problems they create.
Many people, including readers in Iowa and Minnesota, have asked me how the road is coming along. The new lanes on the west side are almost completed. Then traffic will begin traveling on the new road and they’ll tear up the existing two lanes and redo them. Several people have commented about how empty the landscape looks now. I don’t think there’s a bush or tree left along the new highway, and the bike path that runs alongside the road will certainly be exposed.
Speaking of exposed, I’ve been suggesting that we invite the naked bike racers from Madison to come north to God’s Country and initiate the new trail when it opens. I understand they had 40-50 bikers show up for this year’s race/tour in Madison. I can guarantee that you’ll have a great view of the entire race from Westby to Viroqua, because there isn’t a bush or tree to obstruct your view. Maybe even some locals would like to join them, although I will respectfully decline any invitation. It’s tough enough biking with padded bike shorts, let alone, au naturel.
Now before you start getting together a party to tar and feather me, and run me out of town, we’ve got to have a little tongue-in-cheek humor to go along with this new highway and multi-use trail!
As I’ve said so many times in this column, times change and we can’t go back. According to the vast majority of people around here, this un-needed, wasteful spending, destructive, four-lane highway, is another of those changes we could have done without. But it’s here now and we’ll have to learn to live with it. I doubt if I’ll ever see Sherpe Road lined with large trees and brush, and full of wildlife again, in my lifetime. But I hope future generations will find it as beautiful as it was, before it was all destroyed this summer.
One last comment, if you get behind some slow-moving farm machinery near the John Deere dealer, don’t blame the farmers, they’re just trying to do their job.
*
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