Across the Fence #337
By the time you read this I will have slipped quietly from one age into another. I’m another year older. William Shakespeare wrote about aging: “Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?”
I admit that I’m a year older, but I don’t feel like an antique. My mind is still functioning, but it’s getting harder to find and retrieve the information stored in it. I like to say my mind is like a computer, the more information I put in it; the longer it takes to find the compartment where I stored it. So, if you meet me on the street and say, “Hi Howard,” don’t be surprised if I stare blankly at you as my mind says to me, “Who the heck is this person?” My computer is merely searching through its data bank. Unfortunately, it sometimes runs into a brick wall or an empty room. Sometimes I don’t even recognize myself. Do any of you ever look in the mirror and wonder who that old bugger is that’s staring back at you?
Recently, a man in his late 80’s told me, “My mind still thinks that I should be able to do anything, but my body won’t cooperate.” I knew what he was talking about. I’m still in my 60’s, but my body definitely knows it has a lot of mileage on it. I can’t do things the way I once did them.
There’s another Shakespeare quote that I like: “Many strokes, though with a little axe, hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.”
It may take us older folks longer to do something, but inch-by-inch, anything’s a cinch. We may have to spend all day chopping away at that hard oak, but it will come down. That’s a good quote to apply to many things in life. If the task at hand, or an obstacle, looms too large in front of us, we think it’s insurmountable. That’s when small steps, small strokes, will eventually bring us to the top of the mountain. We may not win the race, but we will finish!
Just because our bodies are aging, doesn’t mean that we have to stop doing, thinking, and learning new things.
I’m on the backside of the sixth decade of this journey through the hills and valleys of life. It’s been quite a ride so far. I want to keep riding and enjoying the trip. There’s still so much I want to do and learn. As I begin the 67th year of this journey, what have I learned so far?
I’ve learned that life is a lot like a county fair. There are lots of rides to give us a thrill, games of chance to take our money, and the offer of great rewards and prizes if we’re willing to take a chance.
I’ve learned that politicians are like carney barkers. They offer us great prizes if we’ll support their game, but the majority of them seldom deliver the prizes they promise.
I’ve learned that life is too precious and short to waste. Make use of every waking moment you have. It can be gone in the blink of an eye.
I’ve learned that life and technology keep changing. You need to constantly adapt your thinking or be left behind. Change can be exciting.
I’ve learned that we need to take things less seriously. 95% of the things we worry about, we have no control over and can’t change anyway.
I’ve learned that if you want financial security in old age, you better start planning when you’re young and not depend on the government or someone else to take care of you. The retirement plan for many of us is death.
I’ve learned that life is not what you hope to do, or say you’re going to do, but what you actually do.
I’ve learned that when life looks the darkest, even a small light is appreciated and gives you hope to keep on going.
I’ve learned that money and possessions come and go. Some friends come and go depending on our good or bad fortunes, but the real friends, who are always there through thick and thin, are priceless!
I’ve learned that some people have a mind like an old steel trap. It’s rusted shut. No matter what you do or say, it’s not going to change their thinking.
I’ve learned that even a dead fish can float downstream. If you want to get someplace, you need to expend some effort and often swim against the current.
I’ve also learned that a door will open when you least expect it. We have the choice of closing it or walking through to see what new adventure awaits us. I’m curious and always want to know what’s beyond that door.
I’ll leave you with this final thought by Joseph Campbell. “You don’t want to get to the top of the ladder, or the end of your life, only to find it was leaning against the wrong wall.” Follow your bliss and dreams. Life isn’t a dress rehearsal. Don’t waste it.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Dr. Bland Made House Calls
Across the Fence #336
Do you remember country doctors… the kind that used to make house calls? For those of us who have more years behind us than in front of us, we remember those days of being on the receiving end of a house call.
Here in Westby, we just lost one of those doctors. Phillips T. Bland died on April 15, 2011, at the age of 87. He came to Westby in 1952, and practiced medicine until he retired in 2006. He was also a Staff Physician at Vernon Memorial Hospital for 57 years, and mentored hundreds of young medical students in the UW-Medical School preceptor program. He was also involved in numerous civic organizations and projects, and internationally known as a designer of ski jumps. Dr. Bland was an icon in the Westby area.
But those are just a few of the facts that can be found in the obituary for “Doc” Bland, as he was affectionately known. As with most obituaries, they don’t reach inside and pull the heart out of the person.
Dr. Bland was our family physician for many years. My mother had severe asthma for most of her life. It developed into emphysema in her later years. I remember many times over the years when Dr. Bland would be called in the evening because she was having trouble breathing. A short time later, car lights would come down our road and turn into our driveway. Dr. Bland would come in the house, medical bag in hand, and always wearing a friendly smile to greet us. You knew he had been interrupted from a family gathering or some type of activity, after a long, busy day at the office and hospital. Maybe he had been sitting with his feet up in a Lazy Boy, reading his paper and relaxing when the call came. He had every right to be irritated at being called out at night. If he ever was, he never showed it. You always felt relieved that everything was going to be all right as soon as he walked in the door, greeted you, opened his bag, and took out his stethoscope. There was a calming affect in his manner. I hope every medical student he mentored, developed that same, calming bedside manner.
Many times, he was called out to check on us kids too. Why people always seem to get sicker at night, when the doctor’s office is closed, is a mystery that may never be solved. In those days, you didn’t head for an urgent care facility or the emergency room to be treated, like many people do today.
“Doc” Bland went above and beyond the call of duty when I got hurt in high school football. My cousin, Lauren Ostrem, and I ended up in Dr. Bland’s office that evening. I had a broken leg and Lauren had a concussion. We were both well-taken care of that day by Dr. Bland, who was the team physician for the Westby High School football team for many years.
I spent several days in the Viroqua Hospital. Dr. Bland stopped by each day to check on me. He explained that I had a bad spiral fracture, had torn the ball out of the socket in my ankle, and also injured other muscles and tendons. I always like to do things up good! He constantly reassured me that I would be OK, but it was going to be a lengthy recuperation period. I’d be spending the next month or more on my back, in bed.
One night after I had been transferred home, Dr. Bland and Elmo Gulsvig, my high school principal and football coach, showed up at our farm. They had brought the game film from our last football game of the season to show me. With me lying in bed, they set up the projector and screen, and we all watched the game together, as they provided the commentary. That was way above and beyond the call of duty for both of them. That’s a house call I will always remember.
The last time Dr. Bland treated me, I had developed bursitis in my shoulder from overuse while canoeing. We were home visiting my folks one weekend and the pain had become intense. Dr. Bland made time to see me at his office. He gave me a cortisone injection in the shoulder joint and I never had problems or pain in that shoulder again.
I also remember the care and compassion he showed my mother in her final days as she suffered from emphysema, and struggled to breathe.
Our family, and most families in the Westby area, had a long history with Dr. Bland. I can’t even imagine the amount of house calls and interrupted evenings he must have had over the years.
Those days are gone. Times have changed. “Doc” Bland was a throwback to another time, when doctors in small towns and rural areas, were expected to make house calls. When I think of the inconvenience and sacrifice that must have placed on general practice, country doctors, I appreciate even more what they did for all of us.
The mental image of a doctor, like “Doc” Bland, walking into your house, with medical bag in hand; is like looking at an old Norman Rockwell painting. They are both treasures from a disappearing era.
Do you remember country doctors… the kind that used to make house calls? For those of us who have more years behind us than in front of us, we remember those days of being on the receiving end of a house call.
Here in Westby, we just lost one of those doctors. Phillips T. Bland died on April 15, 2011, at the age of 87. He came to Westby in 1952, and practiced medicine until he retired in 2006. He was also a Staff Physician at Vernon Memorial Hospital for 57 years, and mentored hundreds of young medical students in the UW-Medical School preceptor program. He was also involved in numerous civic organizations and projects, and internationally known as a designer of ski jumps. Dr. Bland was an icon in the Westby area.
But those are just a few of the facts that can be found in the obituary for “Doc” Bland, as he was affectionately known. As with most obituaries, they don’t reach inside and pull the heart out of the person.
Dr. Bland was our family physician for many years. My mother had severe asthma for most of her life. It developed into emphysema in her later years. I remember many times over the years when Dr. Bland would be called in the evening because she was having trouble breathing. A short time later, car lights would come down our road and turn into our driveway. Dr. Bland would come in the house, medical bag in hand, and always wearing a friendly smile to greet us. You knew he had been interrupted from a family gathering or some type of activity, after a long, busy day at the office and hospital. Maybe he had been sitting with his feet up in a Lazy Boy, reading his paper and relaxing when the call came. He had every right to be irritated at being called out at night. If he ever was, he never showed it. You always felt relieved that everything was going to be all right as soon as he walked in the door, greeted you, opened his bag, and took out his stethoscope. There was a calming affect in his manner. I hope every medical student he mentored, developed that same, calming bedside manner.
Many times, he was called out to check on us kids too. Why people always seem to get sicker at night, when the doctor’s office is closed, is a mystery that may never be solved. In those days, you didn’t head for an urgent care facility or the emergency room to be treated, like many people do today.
“Doc” Bland went above and beyond the call of duty when I got hurt in high school football. My cousin, Lauren Ostrem, and I ended up in Dr. Bland’s office that evening. I had a broken leg and Lauren had a concussion. We were both well-taken care of that day by Dr. Bland, who was the team physician for the Westby High School football team for many years.
I spent several days in the Viroqua Hospital. Dr. Bland stopped by each day to check on me. He explained that I had a bad spiral fracture, had torn the ball out of the socket in my ankle, and also injured other muscles and tendons. I always like to do things up good! He constantly reassured me that I would be OK, but it was going to be a lengthy recuperation period. I’d be spending the next month or more on my back, in bed.
One night after I had been transferred home, Dr. Bland and Elmo Gulsvig, my high school principal and football coach, showed up at our farm. They had brought the game film from our last football game of the season to show me. With me lying in bed, they set up the projector and screen, and we all watched the game together, as they provided the commentary. That was way above and beyond the call of duty for both of them. That’s a house call I will always remember.
The last time Dr. Bland treated me, I had developed bursitis in my shoulder from overuse while canoeing. We were home visiting my folks one weekend and the pain had become intense. Dr. Bland made time to see me at his office. He gave me a cortisone injection in the shoulder joint and I never had problems or pain in that shoulder again.
I also remember the care and compassion he showed my mother in her final days as she suffered from emphysema, and struggled to breathe.
Our family, and most families in the Westby area, had a long history with Dr. Bland. I can’t even imagine the amount of house calls and interrupted evenings he must have had over the years.
Those days are gone. Times have changed. “Doc” Bland was a throwback to another time, when doctors in small towns and rural areas, were expected to make house calls. When I think of the inconvenience and sacrifice that must have placed on general practice, country doctors, I appreciate even more what they did for all of us.
The mental image of a doctor, like “Doc” Bland, walking into your house, with medical bag in hand; is like looking at an old Norman Rockwell painting. They are both treasures from a disappearing era.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Barn Owls, Swallows, and Haymows
Across the Fence #336
Another page in the changing world we live in involves barn owls and barn swallows. I’ve seen lots of barn swallows, but can’t remember seeing a barn owl in a barn. We had an abundance of pigeons roosting in the haymow of our barn, but never an owl. If they were around, they were certainly good at concealing themselves.
We were discussing the demise of old barns with some friends this week, and we wondered how this would impact the birds that used to make their homes in barns.
Barn owls will make their nests in hollow trees and birdhouses made especially for barn owls. You can buy pre-built houses or build one yourself. I noticed when I looked up the subject on the Internet, they also have houses for screech owls. I know we have them around, because we had one in our house when we were building it. We managed to capture it and released it unharmed. We now have a photo of that owl hanging near the peak of our four-season room, where he was sitting on the exposed rafters at the time. I think I’ll have to build a house for a screech owl and see if I get any renters.
Even though we don’t have an old barn near our house, we have plenty of barn swallows. When I mow the yard in the summertime, they constantly fly around the mower and dive bomb for moths, mosquitoes, and other insects kicked out of the grass as the mower approaches. Sometimes they come so close, I think they’re going to collide with me. I’ve seen dozens of them at a time around our house. They must build their nests in nearby structures.
When the old timber frame barn was still standing, there were several nests attached to the rafters in the ceiling. The top half of the double doors were always open in the summer and swallows had easy access to their nests. It was always fun to watch how they built the nests and then follow the progress of the eggs being laid, the feeding of the babies, and then learning to fly. Each spring swallows would return to the existing nests and I wondered if it was the same birds that returned or maybe one of the chicks that had been born and raised in that nest, returning home and becoming the new renter.
Even though barns are filled with hungry cats that would love to have a bird for lunch, the swallows weren’t sleeping when brains were assigned. They attach their nests to the sides of support beams right under the floor of the haymow. It’s safe and dry. Barn swallows are pretty darn smart. I always wondered how the little babies knew enough to stay in the nest and not start crawling around and fall out. It must have been very frustrating for the cats to sit under those nests and watch the birds flying in and out and not be able to do anything about it.
I mentioned the pigeons that occupied the haymow. Our old barn had a cupola on the roof. The pigeons could access it from inside the haymow. That’s where they had their nests and raised their young. When the haymow was full of bales, we could climb up into the cupola and see where the nests had been. In the spring when the haymow was almost empty, the only way to get up to the cupola was to climb up the hay rope. I did it one time, but found it was really a stupid thing to do. It was much higher when there was very little hay below you, and scary. I clung to that rope like my life depended on it, and it probably did. We’re lucky we didn’t fall and kill ourselves. I think those swallows living in the barn below me, had more brains and smarts than I did.
We also used that same hay rope to swing on. We’d climb up and stand on a crossbeam, take the rope in hand, launch ourselves out, and then let go and hopefully land in the loose hay we had piled up. We didn’t have a rope attached to a tree where we could swing over a body of water and then launch into the water. The haymow was our substitute, and I suspect the landings were much more painful. Unless you timed your release just right, you missed the middle of the pile. If there was a barn owl hiding somewhere in our haymow, he must have been shaking his head over our attempts at flight. At least it makes me feel better, knowing that many of you did those same exciting, but stupid things, in the haymow.
Now most haymows stand empty. Modern methods of putting up hay have changed and it would be hard for a kid to find a hay rope to swing from. Maybe that’s a good thing. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but most of us survived with minor injuries and lots of harrowing adventures to tell about.
Just as the barn owls and barn swallows have to adapt to the changing times and fewer barns, I have faith that young kids will still find new adventures to test themselves, and many memories to tell the next generation.
Another page in the changing world we live in involves barn owls and barn swallows. I’ve seen lots of barn swallows, but can’t remember seeing a barn owl in a barn. We had an abundance of pigeons roosting in the haymow of our barn, but never an owl. If they were around, they were certainly good at concealing themselves.
We were discussing the demise of old barns with some friends this week, and we wondered how this would impact the birds that used to make their homes in barns.
Barn owls will make their nests in hollow trees and birdhouses made especially for barn owls. You can buy pre-built houses or build one yourself. I noticed when I looked up the subject on the Internet, they also have houses for screech owls. I know we have them around, because we had one in our house when we were building it. We managed to capture it and released it unharmed. We now have a photo of that owl hanging near the peak of our four-season room, where he was sitting on the exposed rafters at the time. I think I’ll have to build a house for a screech owl and see if I get any renters.
Even though we don’t have an old barn near our house, we have plenty of barn swallows. When I mow the yard in the summertime, they constantly fly around the mower and dive bomb for moths, mosquitoes, and other insects kicked out of the grass as the mower approaches. Sometimes they come so close, I think they’re going to collide with me. I’ve seen dozens of them at a time around our house. They must build their nests in nearby structures.
When the old timber frame barn was still standing, there were several nests attached to the rafters in the ceiling. The top half of the double doors were always open in the summer and swallows had easy access to their nests. It was always fun to watch how they built the nests and then follow the progress of the eggs being laid, the feeding of the babies, and then learning to fly. Each spring swallows would return to the existing nests and I wondered if it was the same birds that returned or maybe one of the chicks that had been born and raised in that nest, returning home and becoming the new renter.
Even though barns are filled with hungry cats that would love to have a bird for lunch, the swallows weren’t sleeping when brains were assigned. They attach their nests to the sides of support beams right under the floor of the haymow. It’s safe and dry. Barn swallows are pretty darn smart. I always wondered how the little babies knew enough to stay in the nest and not start crawling around and fall out. It must have been very frustrating for the cats to sit under those nests and watch the birds flying in and out and not be able to do anything about it.
I mentioned the pigeons that occupied the haymow. Our old barn had a cupola on the roof. The pigeons could access it from inside the haymow. That’s where they had their nests and raised their young. When the haymow was full of bales, we could climb up into the cupola and see where the nests had been. In the spring when the haymow was almost empty, the only way to get up to the cupola was to climb up the hay rope. I did it one time, but found it was really a stupid thing to do. It was much higher when there was very little hay below you, and scary. I clung to that rope like my life depended on it, and it probably did. We’re lucky we didn’t fall and kill ourselves. I think those swallows living in the barn below me, had more brains and smarts than I did.
We also used that same hay rope to swing on. We’d climb up and stand on a crossbeam, take the rope in hand, launch ourselves out, and then let go and hopefully land in the loose hay we had piled up. We didn’t have a rope attached to a tree where we could swing over a body of water and then launch into the water. The haymow was our substitute, and I suspect the landings were much more painful. Unless you timed your release just right, you missed the middle of the pile. If there was a barn owl hiding somewhere in our haymow, he must have been shaking his head over our attempts at flight. At least it makes me feel better, knowing that many of you did those same exciting, but stupid things, in the haymow.
Now most haymows stand empty. Modern methods of putting up hay have changed and it would be hard for a kid to find a hay rope to swing from. Maybe that’s a good thing. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but most of us survived with minor injuries and lots of harrowing adventures to tell about.
Just as the barn owls and barn swallows have to adapt to the changing times and fewer barns, I have faith that young kids will still find new adventures to test themselves, and many memories to tell the next generation.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Call Me A Tree Hugger
Across the Fence #334
The trees were alive with the sound of birds singing as I walked down Sherpe Road this weekend. It was cool, but sunny, and they were enjoying the advent of warmer weather as much as I was. It made me sad to think that very soon I won’t see and hear any birds singing in those trees. There are major changes blowing in the wind.
All those trees that line both sides of Sherpe Road along Highway 14 will soon be gone. Construction, I call it destruction, of a four-lane highway between Westby and Viroqua has begun. A perfectly good two-lane highway connects the two cities now.
Almost everyone I’ve talked to says the four-lane is a big waste of money and not needed. We’re talking about a 4.5-mile stretch of new road that’s costing over 16 million dollars, and destroying many farms and homes to make way for the two extra lanes and a bike path along side the highway. It’s also destroying a lot of habitat for animals and birds.
As with all projects like this, and it could one day happen where you live, the only people affected are those along any new highway construction, who have lost their land and homes. No one else seems to care. That’s just the nature of the beast. When I’ve mentioned to people that all the trees along our road will be destroyed, a few have said, “They’re just trees, plant some new ones.”
Call me a tree hugger if you want, but I look at them in a different light. Those trees and brush are home to countless birds and wild critters. I don’t know when the cutting and destruction of the trees will begin, but I hope it’s before the birds lay their eggs, or the nests and eggs will be destroyed in the process. The poem, “Trees,” by Joyce Kilmer has the line, “A tree that may in summer wear a nest of robins in her hair,” applies to those trees. During my walks in the spring and summer, I’ve counted over twenty robins at a time, filling those trees and singing. It was a great nesting place for them and many types of other birds. It wasn’t unusual to see a deer and fawn come out of the trees and brush, stand and look at me for a while, and then head back into the safety and seclusion they found there. Those are encounters that only someone who loves nature can truly appreciate. They are simple pleasures and moments that you can’t buy.
In winter I’ve seen those trees bare, with each branch capped by a layer of snow; I’ve enjoyed watching them come alive again each spring; I’ve seen them decked out in their finest summer foliage; In the fall, I’ve watched them change into their coats of many colors; and I’ve marveled at the beauty of the entire lane, especially the pines, adorned with hoarfrost. Simple pleasures, available every season of the year, to anyone who seeks them out.
Among the trees are wild blackberry bushes and plum trees that will also be destroyed. Those plums made some really good jam.
Smith School, where I spent eight years, is already gone. That was in the way of the new highway too. It now lives only in the memories of those who received their education there. I remember walking to and from school when Highway 14 was being widened and straightened in the 1950s. A bunch of us neighbor kids would walk together each day and stop to play, in and on, the large culverts before they were put in place. We watched the large earthmovers carve openings through the hills to provide fill for the valleys to make the road level. It never occurred to me in my youth that in the construction there was also destruction. What must the Ostrem family that lived along the highway near us have felt, when their entire farm was destroyed to make way for the highway? Many of the trees that will now be destroyed are all that remain from that farm.
I mentioned that a bike path is being constructed alongside the highway. It’s too bad that someone didn’t have the foresight to make the old Milwaukee Road right-of-way a bike path when rail service to the area was abandoned. We used to walk the rails when I was young, and it would have been an absolutely scenic route with minor grades that could have gone from Viroqua, through Westby, down through Spring Coulee to Coon Valley, and down toward the Mississippi River. The other spur headed to Sparta and could have joined the Elroy-Sparta trail. It would have attracted bikers from all over Wisconsin and beyond as a scenic bike route. It would have been much better than biking along a four-lane highway. It’s going to be hard to stop and listen to the wind rustling through the trees with traffic whizzing by.
There’s a poem titled “Trees Against the Sky” by Robert William Service. Here is part of it: Trees, trees against the sky - O I have loved them well! There are pleasures you cannot buy, Treasures you cannot sell, And not the smallest of these, Is the gift and glory of trees…
Call me a tree hugger if you want, but in the story of my life, this is another page.
The trees were alive with the sound of birds singing as I walked down Sherpe Road this weekend. It was cool, but sunny, and they were enjoying the advent of warmer weather as much as I was. It made me sad to think that very soon I won’t see and hear any birds singing in those trees. There are major changes blowing in the wind.
All those trees that line both sides of Sherpe Road along Highway 14 will soon be gone. Construction, I call it destruction, of a four-lane highway between Westby and Viroqua has begun. A perfectly good two-lane highway connects the two cities now.
Almost everyone I’ve talked to says the four-lane is a big waste of money and not needed. We’re talking about a 4.5-mile stretch of new road that’s costing over 16 million dollars, and destroying many farms and homes to make way for the two extra lanes and a bike path along side the highway. It’s also destroying a lot of habitat for animals and birds.
As with all projects like this, and it could one day happen where you live, the only people affected are those along any new highway construction, who have lost their land and homes. No one else seems to care. That’s just the nature of the beast. When I’ve mentioned to people that all the trees along our road will be destroyed, a few have said, “They’re just trees, plant some new ones.”
Call me a tree hugger if you want, but I look at them in a different light. Those trees and brush are home to countless birds and wild critters. I don’t know when the cutting and destruction of the trees will begin, but I hope it’s before the birds lay their eggs, or the nests and eggs will be destroyed in the process. The poem, “Trees,” by Joyce Kilmer has the line, “A tree that may in summer wear a nest of robins in her hair,” applies to those trees. During my walks in the spring and summer, I’ve counted over twenty robins at a time, filling those trees and singing. It was a great nesting place for them and many types of other birds. It wasn’t unusual to see a deer and fawn come out of the trees and brush, stand and look at me for a while, and then head back into the safety and seclusion they found there. Those are encounters that only someone who loves nature can truly appreciate. They are simple pleasures and moments that you can’t buy.
In winter I’ve seen those trees bare, with each branch capped by a layer of snow; I’ve enjoyed watching them come alive again each spring; I’ve seen them decked out in their finest summer foliage; In the fall, I’ve watched them change into their coats of many colors; and I’ve marveled at the beauty of the entire lane, especially the pines, adorned with hoarfrost. Simple pleasures, available every season of the year, to anyone who seeks them out.
Among the trees are wild blackberry bushes and plum trees that will also be destroyed. Those plums made some really good jam.
Smith School, where I spent eight years, is already gone. That was in the way of the new highway too. It now lives only in the memories of those who received their education there. I remember walking to and from school when Highway 14 was being widened and straightened in the 1950s. A bunch of us neighbor kids would walk together each day and stop to play, in and on, the large culverts before they were put in place. We watched the large earthmovers carve openings through the hills to provide fill for the valleys to make the road level. It never occurred to me in my youth that in the construction there was also destruction. What must the Ostrem family that lived along the highway near us have felt, when their entire farm was destroyed to make way for the highway? Many of the trees that will now be destroyed are all that remain from that farm.
I mentioned that a bike path is being constructed alongside the highway. It’s too bad that someone didn’t have the foresight to make the old Milwaukee Road right-of-way a bike path when rail service to the area was abandoned. We used to walk the rails when I was young, and it would have been an absolutely scenic route with minor grades that could have gone from Viroqua, through Westby, down through Spring Coulee to Coon Valley, and down toward the Mississippi River. The other spur headed to Sparta and could have joined the Elroy-Sparta trail. It would have attracted bikers from all over Wisconsin and beyond as a scenic bike route. It would have been much better than biking along a four-lane highway. It’s going to be hard to stop and listen to the wind rustling through the trees with traffic whizzing by.
There’s a poem titled “Trees Against the Sky” by Robert William Service. Here is part of it: Trees, trees against the sky - O I have loved them well! There are pleasures you cannot buy, Treasures you cannot sell, And not the smallest of these, Is the gift and glory of trees…
Call me a tree hugger if you want, but in the story of my life, this is another page.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
When Clothes Were American Made
Across the Fence #333
I recently saw a news report on TV about all the products that are now made in other countries. The reporter had a hard time finding any American made products. Clothes are just one example.
I remember when clothes weren’t made in other countries. They weren’t made in factories either. They were made right here in America, in most homes on the old treadle sewing machines. We had one that my mother and grandmother used, to make many items. I can’t ask my mother or grandmothers questions about those days, but my relative, Doreen (Roiland) Nienow was able to provide a lot of information for me. When I sit in the four-season porch, where I do most of my writing, I can see the farm where she grew up. Her grandfather was Syvert Sherpe, brother to my great-grandfather.
Doreen said that her mother, Alma Roiland, received her treadle sewing machine from her father, Syvert, before she was married. She made very good use of it for many different sewing projects. Alma ordered fabric and a pattern from the Montgomery Ward catalog and sewed her own wedding dress that she wore when she married Doreen’s father, Nels Roiland, at the Country Coon Prairie Lutheran Church.
That reminded me of the story Arvella Sorenson told us about her father sewing my great grandfather’s wedding suit from burlap feed sacks. I imagine they died the material black.
Doreen said her mother sewed most of the clothes that her brothers and sisters wore as children, including their Confirmation dresses. Her mother made many outfits for her from hand-me-down clothes belonging to her older sisters. She never minded, because she could re-style a dress and it would look like new. Her mother sewed many pretty aprons and trimmed them with bright rick-rack and bias tape.
She also mended clothing on her treadle machine, including sewing patches over holes in the knees of her father and brother’s overalls. There wasn’t a lot of money to spend on new clothes in those days, so the patches helped to extend the life of an overall. Nels kept his round box of Copenhagen snuff in the right rear pocket of his overalls and eventually a hole would develop, so Alma would sew a new pocket or a patch on the old one.
She taught Doreen how to use her machine and she’d sew clothes for her doll from scraps of calico fabrics left over from her mother’s quilting projects and from sewing other clothes. Doreen enjoyed looking into all the drawers of her sewing machine to find different colored threads and buttons of all shapes and colors.
Her father purchased chicken feed in muslin sacks, and also flour and sugar in muslin sacks. The empty sacks would be washed and bleached, and then opened up to make 30” x 30” pieces of fabric. Her mother hemmed all those clean sacks on her treadle sewing machine and they made excellent dish towels. That story brought back memories of my grandmother, Inga Sherpe, taking old feed sacks with colorful patterns, after they were empty of course, and making them into shirts and other items of clothing that we wore. Looking back, I never thought twice about wearing clothes made from feed sacks.
Doreen said one of her mother’s winter projects was to cut narrow strips from no longer worn dresses, aprons, shirts, and overalls, and sew them end to end and coordinate the different prints and colors. Then she wound up the strips to form a ball the size of a softball. She usually had several carry-all bags filled with the carpet rag balls by spring. Then her mother and father would drive to Viroqua and take them to a lady who had a loom. She made beautiful rag rugs in different lengths. They washed up beautifully and were so useful, besides being pretty.
The treadle machine was kept in the downstairs bedroom in front of the west window. When the cover of the machine was closed, it was a favorite napping place for one of the tame kittens that would spend the day in the house. Her mother placed a soft towel on top of the machine for the kitten’s bed. On sunny days, the kitten would take a nap in the warmth of the sunshine.
I was glad to hear that Doreen’s daughter, Joan, has inherited the ancestral treadle sewing machine, and it’s now in her home. Joan has fond memories of when she was a child and would go to visit her grandparents. Her grandmother would let Joan use the machine and give her scraps of pretty material so she could sew clothes for her doll. One of Joan’s daughters has already put in her request to inherit her great-grandmother’s treadle sewing machine some day. I always like hearing that an ancestral item is cherished and kept in the family. Doreen said her grandpa, Syvert Sherpe, would be happy to know that his gift to his daughter, Alma, would be so useful and treasured for many generations.
Yes, clothes used to be made in America, by Americans, who knew how to create just about anything with their hands and a treadle sewing machine. Our ancestors were talented, innovative, hard-working people. I take my hat, that’s now made in China, off to them!
I recently saw a news report on TV about all the products that are now made in other countries. The reporter had a hard time finding any American made products. Clothes are just one example.
I remember when clothes weren’t made in other countries. They weren’t made in factories either. They were made right here in America, in most homes on the old treadle sewing machines. We had one that my mother and grandmother used, to make many items. I can’t ask my mother or grandmothers questions about those days, but my relative, Doreen (Roiland) Nienow was able to provide a lot of information for me. When I sit in the four-season porch, where I do most of my writing, I can see the farm where she grew up. Her grandfather was Syvert Sherpe, brother to my great-grandfather.
Doreen said that her mother, Alma Roiland, received her treadle sewing machine from her father, Syvert, before she was married. She made very good use of it for many different sewing projects. Alma ordered fabric and a pattern from the Montgomery Ward catalog and sewed her own wedding dress that she wore when she married Doreen’s father, Nels Roiland, at the Country Coon Prairie Lutheran Church.
That reminded me of the story Arvella Sorenson told us about her father sewing my great grandfather’s wedding suit from burlap feed sacks. I imagine they died the material black.
Doreen said her mother sewed most of the clothes that her brothers and sisters wore as children, including their Confirmation dresses. Her mother made many outfits for her from hand-me-down clothes belonging to her older sisters. She never minded, because she could re-style a dress and it would look like new. Her mother sewed many pretty aprons and trimmed them with bright rick-rack and bias tape.
She also mended clothing on her treadle machine, including sewing patches over holes in the knees of her father and brother’s overalls. There wasn’t a lot of money to spend on new clothes in those days, so the patches helped to extend the life of an overall. Nels kept his round box of Copenhagen snuff in the right rear pocket of his overalls and eventually a hole would develop, so Alma would sew a new pocket or a patch on the old one.
She taught Doreen how to use her machine and she’d sew clothes for her doll from scraps of calico fabrics left over from her mother’s quilting projects and from sewing other clothes. Doreen enjoyed looking into all the drawers of her sewing machine to find different colored threads and buttons of all shapes and colors.
Her father purchased chicken feed in muslin sacks, and also flour and sugar in muslin sacks. The empty sacks would be washed and bleached, and then opened up to make 30” x 30” pieces of fabric. Her mother hemmed all those clean sacks on her treadle sewing machine and they made excellent dish towels. That story brought back memories of my grandmother, Inga Sherpe, taking old feed sacks with colorful patterns, after they were empty of course, and making them into shirts and other items of clothing that we wore. Looking back, I never thought twice about wearing clothes made from feed sacks.
Doreen said one of her mother’s winter projects was to cut narrow strips from no longer worn dresses, aprons, shirts, and overalls, and sew them end to end and coordinate the different prints and colors. Then she wound up the strips to form a ball the size of a softball. She usually had several carry-all bags filled with the carpet rag balls by spring. Then her mother and father would drive to Viroqua and take them to a lady who had a loom. She made beautiful rag rugs in different lengths. They washed up beautifully and were so useful, besides being pretty.
The treadle machine was kept in the downstairs bedroom in front of the west window. When the cover of the machine was closed, it was a favorite napping place for one of the tame kittens that would spend the day in the house. Her mother placed a soft towel on top of the machine for the kitten’s bed. On sunny days, the kitten would take a nap in the warmth of the sunshine.
I was glad to hear that Doreen’s daughter, Joan, has inherited the ancestral treadle sewing machine, and it’s now in her home. Joan has fond memories of when she was a child and would go to visit her grandparents. Her grandmother would let Joan use the machine and give her scraps of pretty material so she could sew clothes for her doll. One of Joan’s daughters has already put in her request to inherit her great-grandmother’s treadle sewing machine some day. I always like hearing that an ancestral item is cherished and kept in the family. Doreen said her grandpa, Syvert Sherpe, would be happy to know that his gift to his daughter, Alma, would be so useful and treasured for many generations.
Yes, clothes used to be made in America, by Americans, who knew how to create just about anything with their hands and a treadle sewing machine. Our ancestors were talented, innovative, hard-working people. I take my hat, that’s now made in China, off to them!
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