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.

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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!

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Across the Fence: Roads Less Traveled

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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.

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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.

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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)

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