I
was bouncing along on my John Deere riding lawn mower the other day when I had
the urge to spit. There’s something about being outside on a John Deere that
brings out the spit in me. I think my mind still associates it with those days
of bouncing across the dusty fields on the old John Deere B. Those were the
days when you sat on a hard metal seat and didn’t have a cab to keep all the
dust and dirt off you. It didn’t take long before your mouth and nose were
filled with dirt, dust, chaff and assorted flying bugs. It took a lot of
spittin’ and snortin’ to clear everything out. Old habits are hard to break.
I
realize the subject of spittin’ and snortin’ is a bit distasteful for those of
you who weren’t raised in a rural setting and preferred a hanky or Kleenex. But
there’s something to be said for the freedom of living in the wide-open country
and being able to spit if you feel the need to spit. For those of you who are
more refined than me, let me educate you in the art of proper spitting.
First
of all, I grew up around a lot of people who chewed tobacco. Those
practitioners elevated the art of spitting to a higher level than us
non-chewers have achieved. On the down side of chewing, it wasn’t very
appetizing to see the tobacco juice swirling around in the quart jar of water
we all drank from when we worked in the tobacco field. For those of you who
have never had that experience, they didn’t spit in the water jar, but when
they were chewing tobacco, some of the juice was bound to get into the water
jar when they took a drink. But that’s a whole other story, lets get back to
ordinary spitting.
As
I mentioned, there’s an art to rural spitting. Unfortunately, my mind must have
wandered off and left me as I mowed the lawn the other day. The wind was very
strong and rule number one of proper spitting technique is to never spit into
the wind. I ignored that rule and got spit on. It’s just the opposite of
spreading manure. Then you want to head into the wind so the flying manure
doesn’t blow back on you. It wasn’t much fun when you had swirling winds and no
matter which direction you went, you were in the line of fire. On this
particular day when I was mowing, I must have gotten my spittin’ and spreadin’
techniques mixed up. I was definitely down wind. I’d like to think that I was
so busy composing my next column in my mind that I wasn’t paying attention to
the wind direction, but I have no excuse. I simply misfired.
That’s
not nearly as bad as if I had misfired doing what I refer to as a “rural
snort.” Some people refer to it as the "farmer snort." But a lot of you rural people who aren't farming do it too, so I'll call it the rural snort. Those of you who are too refined to have ever tried this may want to
quit reading now. We’ve all seen people blow their nose and most of you have
probably blown your nose too. But I’m talking about rural snortin’ where you
don’t need a handkerchief. Now before I go any father I should warn you that
you shouldn’t try this in public places. People will frown on it. But, if
you’re all by yourself, bouncing along on your riding mower in the privacy of
your own yard, or hiking through the woods, far from humanity, go ahead and
give it a try. This is why I call it rural snortin’. It’s best to be in the
country, away from other people.
This
technique takes a little practice to become proficient, but it certainly saves
on hankies and Kleenex. It comes in mighty handy when you need to keep one hand
on the wheel of a riding mower, tractor, or car. I’d advise not doing a rural
snort if you have other people riding in the car with you. Unless you’re an
expert at snortin’ and know how to read the wind in a moving car, this
technique is not advisable, whether you’re alone or in a car filled with
passengers.
Pardon
me, but I haven’t explained what rural snortin’ is for those of you not
familiar with the term. I’ll need to choose my words carefully because this is
a rather touchy subject. Lets say that you’re on your riding lawn mower when
your allergies begin acting up from all the pollen in the air. You don’t have a
box of Kleenex handy, so there’s a couple of things you could do. Stop the
mower, go in the house, get some Kleenex, and blow your nose. Or, the better
option is to close your mouth, put your index finger to the side of one
nostril, push it shut, and blow as hard as you can through the open nostril.
That should do the trick, so to speak, and you can go on your way without your
work being interrupted.
Just
remember, it’s not as easy as it sounds. You may want to practice this
technique before attempting it from a moving vehicle and having to deal with
the wind.
I hope this column has been informative and helpful
to you as we head into the summer. Have a wonderful time in the great outdoors,
spittin’, spreadin’, and snortin’.
Next
Monday is Memorial Day when we remember all those who have served and died in
military service. This year is also the Sesquicentennial of the American Civil
War that began in 1861 and ended in 1865. The loss of lives during that war was
staggering. On this Memorial Day, I think we need to look back and remember the
human destruction during that war.
I
realize the majority of Americans will go through the three-day holiday weekend
oblivious to the real meaning of Memorial Day. There will be plenty of picnics,
brats, beer, and relaxing. Some people will use the weekend to remember family
members and plant flowers on their graves. All those activities are part of the
weekend. We’ll plant flowers and I plan to have a couple of brats too. I’ll
also celebrate and be thankful that I’m not one of those who will be remembered
in Memorial Day ceremonies.
I’d
like you to join me on a trip back to the Civil War in the 1860s. I know it’s a
long time ago and is ancient history to most people. But then, even the Vietnam
War is ancient history to most people under thirty years of age.
First
a few statistics about the Civil War: There were 1,030,000 casualties, 3% of
the U.S. population. 620,000 soldiers died, some historians think that number
is as high as 850,000. 8% of all white males, ages 13-43 died in the war.
56,000 died in prison camps—that’s almost as many people as were killed in the
Vietnam War. 60,000 people who survived the war, lost limbs.
Those
are staggering numbers when you consider that each of those people was
someone’s son, husband, brother, relative, or friend. So many lost lives, so
much lost potential. The use of outdated Napoleonic tactics caused so many
casualties. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. Units advanced shoulder to
shoulder across open areas and were mowed down like wheat in a field by the
heavy firepower from the deadly weapons that had been developed, including the
gatling gun, the forerunner of the machine gun.
Picture
yourself as Ole, a Civil War Union soldier. You’ve only been in this country
for a few months after arriving from Norway. You were quickly recruited to sign
up with the Union Army with the promise of your own piece of land after the
war. You and several of your friends joined Col. Heg’s 15th
Wisconsin Volunteer Regiment, known as the Ole Regiment since almost all its
soldiers were immigrants from Norway. You’ve survived several battles and now
you find yourself headed for another fight. You’ve been marching for hours in
the cold of late December to reach your objective. Up ahead you see the enemy
forces lined up shoulder to shoulder on the crest of a small hill. It looks
like thousands of them are ready to welcome you. They form up in lines and
begin advancing toward you. You’re ordered to form skirmish lines and you line
up shoulder to shoulder across an open stretch of ground that offers no
protection. You’re in the first line, completely exposed to your front. Others
line up in rows behind you. The order is given to fix bayonets. The forward
command is given and you begin moving forward in a line.
What
kind of thoughts would go through your mind? I can’t imagine the fear they must
have felt? None of us know what we might have thought unless we were there and
experienced it firsthand. Would we have had the courage to keep moving forward
as the cannons began to thunder and belch smoke, and cannon balls began
whizzing through the air, cutting down men and leaving huge gaps in the ranks?
As you narrow the distance between you and the Confederate line, the order to
halt and fire is given. The front line drops to one knee and fires, while the
second line fires standing up. Confederate soldiers drop like ducks in a
shooting gallery. You quickly reload your musket.
Now
it’s the Confederate’s turn to open fire. A thunderous roar of musket fire
fills the air and people drop all around you. The air is filled with bullets,
explosions, and screams. There’s no place to hide. The order to charge is given
and all those not dead or wounded stumble forward into a deadly hail of
bullets. As you close with the Confederate soldiers you engage them in
hand-to-hand combat, bayonets, and rifle butts. There is total chaos on both
sides as men, who in another time and place, would be barbequing brats,
drinking a beer, and relaxing together. Instead they now try to kill each other.
Such is the brutality and senselessness of war.
We
will never know if Ole survived that battle. He still hadn’t learned to speak
English, but he was fighting for the preservation of the new country that would
be his home. I doubt that Ole and his friends, or most combatants in other wars
since that time, understood what they were really getting into when they
volunteered or were drafted. Does anyone?
As we get ready to enjoy the Memorial Day weekend,
let us pause for just a moment and remember all those who have given their
time, and many their lives, in defense of our or other people’s freedom. It’s
the least we can do for all they gave.
Across the Fence 391w (Westby Times Syttende Mai extra)
Welcome back to the Coon Ridge Family Restaurant and Truck Stop.
Things are jumpin’ as usual around here. At least they’re jumpin’ for Coon Ridge.
King Arthur has been stirring up a hornet’s nest this week. His
wife gave him a book for his birthday about the Kensington Runestone, so he’s
been filling the rest of the coffee gang in each morning on what he read the
night before. There’s nothing like a story about a bunch of Norwegians and
Swedes exploring America 130 years before Columbus and his gang missed the main
land, and landed in the West Indies. As Arvid said, “If those Italians had used
a Norwegian map of America, they’d a knowed where they was headed!”
I guess I better fill you in on a little history of this
Kensington Runestone and bring you up to speed before we go over and join the
group to see what they’re arguing about today.
In the fall of 1898,
a Swedish farmer, Olaf Ohman, living near Alexandria, Minnesota, found a large
flat stone imbedded in the roots of an Aspen tree he was grubbing out. His son
noticed strange carvings on it. The stone was taken to the farm home where it
was cleaned and washed. They were then able to see a long inscription on the face of the stone, and also along one
the edge. The stone, a native rock called graywacke, measures 31 inches long,
16 inches wide, and 6 inches thick. It weighs 202 pounds.
A Norwegian neighbor, Nils Flaten, was asked to examine the stone,
but was also unable to decipher the inscriptions. After a few days, Ohman took
it to Kensington where it was placed in a bank. The find was announced and
given to newspapers early in the year 1899. It was soon determined that the
symbols on the stone were of runic origin, and quickly translated into Swedish,
Norwegian, and English.
The stone at once aroused a great deal of controversy as to its
authenticity. Several professors at Scandinavian and American universities
claimed that the stone was a forgery after studying the inscriptions.
Consequently, little attention was paid to the stone and it was soon returned
to farmer Ohman who used it as a doorstep for many years, before it was
rediscovered.
H.R. Holand of Wisconsin, a well known Norwegian scholar and
historian, became interested and secured possession of the stone from Mr.
Ohman. Holand devoted many years of research to establish the authenticity of
the Runestone. His translation is now accepted both here and abroad and reads
as follows:
“8 Goths (Swedes) and 22 Norwegians on an exploration journey from
Vinland over the West. We had camp by 2 skerries one days journey north from
this stone. We were out and fished one day. After we came home we found 10 men
red with blood and dead. AVM (Ave Maria) Save us from evil.”
The following lines appear on the edge of the stone: “Have 10 of our party by the sea to look after our ships, 14 days
journey from this island. Year 1362.”
After considerable exploration, the lake with the skerries (rocky
islands) referred to on the stone was identified as Cormorant Lake in Becker
County, Minnesota. At Cormorant Lake are three large boulders with triangular
drilled holes. It’s claimed that this was done for the purposes of mooring
boats in the same way as it was done along the coast of Norway in the 14th
century. The rocks on Cormorant Lake have become known as the “Anchor Rocks” or
“Mooring Rocks.” Similar “mooring” rocks were discovered by H.R. Holand near
where the stone was found.
The “sea” referred to as the place where the ships were left, has
been identified as Hudson Bay. To reach Cormorant Lake, the party came down the
Nelson River to Lake Winnipeg, then the Red River of the North, and then to
Cormorant Lake.
A Scandinavian firesteel of the 14th century was found in the
vicinity of the route the party took to reach Kensington, MN, the place where
the Runestone was found. In later years, a broadaxe and other 14th century
Scandinavian items have been found along the route it is thought they traveled.
So that brings you up to speed on what the boys have been
discussing and arguing about this week. Now needless to say, with most of the
gang having Norwegian roots, they pretty much all agree that the stone is for
real. They just can’t understand how those Norwegians could allow eight Swedes
to go along on their trip!
Let’s go on over to the round table and see what King Arthur is
telling the boys today. By the way, King Arthur isn’t a king as you may have
guessed. He’s Art Olson, but he’s pretty much the undisputed leader of the
morning breakfast gang.
“Hey pull up a chair and sit yourself down,”King Arthur said. “I
was just tellin’ the boys about the White Buffalo Woman and the Sacred Pipe.”
Elmer Storbakken, spat a chew of tobacco into an empty can he
carried with him every place he went. “Ya, first he wants us to believe a bunch
of Norwegians would go exploring with some Swedes, and now he tells us that the
Injuns thought the White Buffalo Woman was with em’ too. Not only that, but
they had some Catlic monks with em’ on this trip. Bunch a’ bullshit. Everyone
knows there weren’t nothin’ but Luterns in Norway.”
“Now don’t go takin’ off again, before you hitch up the wagon,”
said King Arthur. “You always go makin’ conclusions before you get the whole
story. I’m gettin’ to that part.”
“I still say no self respecting Norwegian Lutern would go
associatin’ with a bunch of Swedes and Catlics!” Elmer shot back.
“Just shut up and let me tell my story. Maybe you’ll learn
something if you opened your mind instead of your mouth all the time. Now let
me back up a step and tell our new arrivals where we were. In Black Elk
Speaks, he tells of a
visit to his people by the White Buffalo Woman, who presented them with a
Sacred Pipe. He said that this event took place in what has been determined
from oral tribal history to be in the 14th century. The sacred pipe has had
nineteen caretakers since it was presented. Given an average of about thirty
years per caretaker, that puts the origin of the pipe within a few years of
1362. According to Dakota oral history many of their beliefs and how they
practiced those beliefs also changed about that same time.
Now according to recent research, they think a Norwegian knight
named Paul Knutson led an ill-fated band of forty armored soldier-missionaries
to the headwaters of the Red River in West Central Minnesota l30 years before
the first voyage of Columbus. Evidence of such an expedition, accumulated
through half a century, is now so substantial that some of this country’s
foremost archaeologists consider the case nearly proven and the Kensington
Runestone is now called “the most important archaeological object yet found in
North America.”
Late in the autumn of 1354, King Magnus Erikson, first ruler of
the combined realms of Norway and Sweden, commissioned Knutson, a “law speaker”
(or judge) and one of the most prominent men of his court, to recruit an
expedition to rescue the souls of a vanished Norwegian colony on the west coast
of Greenland and also to seek out any lost souls in Vinland. Presumably the
party sailed early the next spring. It was never heard from again.
So, a few years before the date found on the Kensington Stone,
Paul Knutson, led an expedition across the Atlantic. Certainly no hoaxer of the
nineteenth century could have known this. The date on the stone, eight years
after the issuance of the order, would have been a big coincidence with
history. Eight years would have allowed Knutson to have put the expedition
together, sail from Bergen, explore Greenland, search for the Vinland colonies,
and sail to the headwaters of the Red River in Minnesota.
There can hardly be any question that the crusade left Norway. Mr.
Holand in his writings, ventures a reconstruction of what happened. Presumably,
Knutson, guided by vague descriptions in the Icelandic sagas, proceeded to some
point on the New England coast, established a base camp, and made a systematic
search for the lost colony. Failing to find any trace of the Greenlanders, he
must have turned northward with a considerable number of his party, perhaps
leaving a small rear guard in what is now Massachusetts or Rhode Island, and
finally sailed into the iceberg-filled Hudson Bay. Still there was no trace of
the men he sought. And very likely his instructions from King Magnus had been
quite explicit: If you don’t find them you needn’t come back.
He came to the mouth of the great Nelson River, followed it
southward to Lake Winnipeg, and then followed a series of lakes and portages to
the Red River country, whose waters flow into the Mississippi and the Gulf of
Mexico. Even today there is an almost continuous waterway from the ice-filled
sea to the Minnesota lake land where the Kensington Stone was found. This, the
explorer probably thought, would have been a natural route from Greenland for
the lost colonists. Also, Holand figures, Knutson thought he was following the
easiest route back to his base in Vinland. He did not picture North America as
a continent but as a group of large islands.
This, of course, is all highly speculative. But one fact remains:
If the Kensington Stone is genuine, Paul Knutson and his crusading knights were
in Central Minnesota in 1362. Evidence increases for the authenticity of the
relic. If Farmer Ohman told the truth about the circumstances of the stone’s
discovery, and this hard working, unlettered immigrant must have been leading
an extraordinary sort of double life if he concocted the story. The tablet had
been in the spot where he found it for at least as long as the aspen tree had
been growing. Archaeologists have a reasonably accurate means of dating trees
and timbers from the rings in the wood; examination of similar trees in the
neighborhood has led to the conservative assumption that the tree in whose
roots the rune stone was found was at least forty years old in 1898. This means
that, if the relic had been “planted,” the attempted deception must have taken
place in the 1850’s. There were then few white men in that part of Minnesota.
It was inhabited by savage and hostile Sioux.”
Enough about all that,” Elmer said. “Tell em’ the buffalo part.”
“OK, OK, I’m just trying to give them some background on how these
guys ended up in Minnesota.”
“Everyone knows how they ended up in Minnesota,” Arvid
interrupted.
“What do you know about this story?” Kenny Tollakson asked.
“I’ll tell you,” said Arvid, as he leaned back in his chair. “It
seems that, centuries ago, many Norwegians came to Ireland to escape the
bitterness of Norwegian winters. Ireland was having a famine, and food was
scarce. The Norse were eating most of the fish caught in the area, leaving the
Irish with nothing but potatoes. St. Patrick, taking matters into his own
hands, decided the Norwegians had to go. Secretly, he organized members of the
Irathicans (Irish) Republican Army to rid Ireland of the Norsemen. The
Irathicans sabotaged all power plants in the hope that fish in the Norwegians
refrigerators would spoil, forcing the invaders to a colder climate where the
fish would keep. They spoiled, as expected, but the Norwegians thrived on the
spoiled fish. They still do to this day. Faced with failure, the Irishmen
sneaked into the Norse fish-storage house during the night and sprinkled the
rotten fish with lye, hoping to poison the intruders. But, they only introduced
lutefisk to the Norwegians, who still thrive on the lye-soaked smelly fish.
Matters became even worse for the Irish when the Norse started taking over the
potato crop and making it into lefse. St. Patrick was at his wit’s end.
Finally, on March 17, he blew his cork and told the Norwegians to go to hell.
It worked. They all packed up, left Ireland, and moved to Minnesota!”
Arvid laughed at his own joke, as those around the table mostly
groaned. “What’s the matter, don’t you guys have a sense of humor?” Arvid
asked.
“I like a good joke as well as anyone,” King Arthur said, “But I’m
trying to tell a serious story here. Now if you’re done, I’ll continue!”
“Don’t let me stop you,” said Arvid, raising the empty coffee pot
for Lucy to see. She brought a full pot to the table as King Arthur continued
his story.
“The part I was getting to, is that when the Norwegians arrived in
Dakota Indian Country, they were the first white men they had seen. With their
bushy, bearded faces with long hair, the Dakota thought they looked like white
buffalo. Back in the 1300’s the Catholic Church was the church in Scandinavia.
Elmer, if you went to that Lutheran church you belong to once in a while, you’d
know the Lutheran religion didn’t even exist back in the 1300’s. All them
Norwegians and Swedes were ‘Catlics’ as you call em’. Anyway, they would have
had some Catholic monks with them if they were on a mission to Christianize the
Greenlanders and Vinlanders. They always carried a large “white” statue of the
Virgin Mary with them. This is what the historians think the Dakota referred to
as the White Buffalo Woman in their history. The Sacred Pipe was presented to
the Dakotas on behalf of this woman. Their history says that the White Buffalo
woman said, ‘I do not wish to have any trouble with you, because I am on a
mission from God.’
It’s believed the Norse party then carved a pipe and presented it
to the Dakotas as a symbol of peace. That pipe is still in their possession and
has a different design and shape than the traditional Indian pipes used during
that time.
They also looked at the rune stone as being a sacred item having
been made by these White Buffalo Men who came with the sacred White Buffalo
Woman. They were not familiar with writing, and when the Norse carved the
message in the stone, they read what it said to the Dakotas. The Dakotas
thought it was the stone talking, just as they thought it was the Virgin Mary’s
statue talking when the Norse let it be known to them that the pipe was given
as a gift by the Virgin Mary.
It’s believed that the Norse party lived among the Dakotas for at
least a year or more, trying to teach them many of their Christian beliefs.”
“Well, that’s all fine and dandy,” Elmer interrupted. “But how did
those Injuns know what those Norwegians and Swedes were talking about? I can’t
even understand what you’re talkin’ about most of the time.”
“Well, how the hell should I know how they communicated. Maybe
they did it telepathically. I wasn’t there, so how should I know!”
“If you don’t know how they communicated with each other, how the
hell do you know all this other stuff is nothin’ more than a bunch of bull!”
Now that got another argument going, so I think it’s about time we
leave before things get too wild. Guess if we want to know more about that or
how they communicated we’ll just have to study up on the subject. Anyway, it’s
a fascinating story, and it appears the stone is for real. Maybe just maybe,
there’s some truth to those stories about there being an Ole Redcloud!
You come back and see us again real soon. Maybe we’ll have an
answer to that communication problem. Though I doubt it. Those boys at the
round table have been having communication problems for years!
Syttende
Mai is a good time to remember our roots and take a look back at some of our
ancestors. In previous columns, I’ve told you about one of my ancestors,
Hothead Sven, who was executed for murder in 1639 in Norway. Now I’d like to
tell you about one of my 23rd great grandparents. We need to go back a few
years to find out about Grandpa Gaut. Return with me to those thrilling days of
yesteryear in Norway: A time when men were men and women were women. A time
when the Age of the Vikings was coming to a close and men were trying to change
their ways to conform to Christianity, which was replacing their pagan beliefs.
It was when pillaging and plundering other countries was replaced by 110 years
of civil warfare within Norway, starting in 1130.
This
is when the history of the Ænes (Urnes) family is first recorded. Gaut at Ænes
was born around 1100, give or take five years. According to King Sverre’s Saga,
Gaut came from an old Viking chieftain family in Hordaland, and was one of the
most powerful families in Norway. The saga states that Gaut was a Feudal Lord
with King Magnus Erlingson in 1160.
Gaut
had two sons who are listed in records: Jon Gautsson of Ænes, my 22nd
great grandfather, and Munan Gautsson. Like their father before them, they were
Feudal Lords with King Magnus Erlingson and took part in battles against
Sverre, leader of the Birkebeiners.
In
the battle of Fimreite in Norfjord on 15 June 1181, Jon Gautsson led a ship
into battle against Sverre and the Birkebeiners. 5,000 men took part in the
fierce battle that began in the afternoon and lasted until midnight. Half the
men who took part in the battle died, including King Magnus Erlingson. Jon
Gautsson, who was in his mid-40s at the time, was severely wounded and retired
from fighting to his farm at Ænes. After the victory, Sverre became King, and
it appears he came to an agreement with Jon Gautsson that allowed him to keep
his property and position, the rank of Feudal Lord.
The
sagas also say that Jon Gautsson was the father of three of the most capable
chieftains during this time and during the rein of King Håkon Håkonson. Two of
them Arnbjørn Jonsson and Gaut Jonsson, are both my great grandfathers in
different lines. We will look at Gaut ‘One Eye’ Jonsson in this story.
Gaut
‘One Eye’, born around 1190, is my 21st great grandfather in both my
Sherpe and Østrem lines. Gaut had one eye (the other had been lost in a
battle). Once when Snorre Sturlusøn, was in Norway, he composed an unflattering
song (poem) about Gaut’s one eye. This is the same Snorre Sturluson who wrote
the Heimskringla, The History of the Norwegian Kings. The poem said: “The Lords of battle-magic
urged on Hildetann and Ring to battle, and Gaut increased Odin’s power and
existence at that time; The warrior (Gaut) from a mighty family, who was famous
in battle caused for a long time, dissension between chieftains; the armies
leader rejected his judgement.”
Gaut
Jonsson became a Birkebeiner chieftain in 1217. Before that, Gaut was not a
Birkebeiner supporter. That changed after Sverre died and Gaut aligned himself
with the family of Håkon Håkonson. I think he saw in which direction the power
was shifting and liked being in a position of wealth and power.
It’s
stated in the records that Gaut Jonsson was an outstanding Birkebeiner
Chieftain for King Håkon Håkonsøn and was the King’s close advisor. Gaut was
around 28 years old at the time.
In 1218 Gaut started to Jerusalem to
fight in the 5th Crusade. However, he encountered a heavy storm and his ship
was damaged. He returned to Norway and to King Håkon. Gaut was present during
Håkon Håkonsøn’s official crowning as King of Norway in 1223.
When
Håkon’s son, Magnus Håkonsøn, was crowned King of Norway in 1260, Gaut carried
the crowning sword for Magnus. This ceremony was held at the time of Magnus’
marriage. Magnus didn’t officially ascend to the throne until after his
father’s death
In
the summer of 1263, King Håkon assembled a huge armada of 160 ships and 20,000 warriors
and set sail to Scotland to relieve the Hebrides, which was under attack by the
Scottish King and his army. King Håkon had Gaut Jonsson, who was then around 73
years old, remain in Norway with his son Magnus Håkonsøn and be his advisor.
King Håkon put Gaut in charge, to oversee the running of the country while he
was gone. This shows how highly King Håkon regarded him. Gaut also helped King
Håkon cover-up and keep quiet the birth of an illegitimate daughter that the
King’s oldest son, Sigurd Håkonson, had with a married woman. Gaut’s son, Gaut
Gautsson of Hatteberg, my 20th great grandfather, would eventually
marry that illegitimate daughter, but that’s another story!
During the winter of the Scottish
campaign King Håkon became ill and died on December 15, 1263. The following
spring his body was returned to Norway where he was buried in the presence of
the new king, his son, Magnus, and Magnus’ advisor, Gaut ‘One Eye’
Jonsson.
Old
Grandpa Gaut died in 1270, at around 80 years of age, a tough and crafty old
warrior right up to the end.
While
we were out for a ride one evening last week, before it got dark, we saw
several cows running and chasing each other in a field. It brought back a lot
of memories.
We
always kept our 22 cows in the barn during the winter months. Most farmers did
the same thing. The cows were confined to their stalls and stanchions for five
months, sometimes more, depending on how harsh the winter was. That’s a long
time to be “locked up.”
When
the barnyard had finally dried up and the nights stayed above freezing, the
cows were set free. After being confined for such a long time they had a hard
time getting their legs going again and would stumble on their way out of the
barn. I can’t imagine how stiff they must have been at first. I get stiff after
riding in a car for two hours and look like an old man getting out of the car.
Wait a minute, I am an old man! Anyway, I have a lot of empathy for how those
poor cows must have felt when we unlocked the stanchions.
As
soon as the cows were out the door they started to jump around and kick up
their heels. They would do a lot of stumbling around at first, but it didn’t
take long before they headed down the cow lane, running and still kicking up
their heels, with their tails in the air. Their udders would be swinging from
side to side. They would follow each other down the lane and out to the
pasture. They’d turn around and come running back down the lane to the barnyard
again. Then the head-butting and fighting would begin. It was time to determine
the leadership and pecking-order of the herd for another year. It was always
fun to stand in the doorway of the barn and watch the cows frolick when they
were finally let outside in the spring.
It
wasn’t as much fun trying to get them back inside again. It took a few days to
get them back into the routine of heading for the same stall when it was
milking time. There were always a few younger cows that tried to take the stall
of an older cow, but she would have no part of that and would push her way into
the stall alongside the younger cow and force the intruder out. Everyone had
their place and there was definitely a pecking order.
Another
problem during those first few days of putting the cows outside on new pasture,
instead of eating old, baled hay, was the resulting loose bowels. You had to be
on your guard when you were walking behind them while you were milking. If a
cow coughed, woe to anyone who was within six feet of them. It was like a
liquid explosion. Milking was always an adventure when the cows were on fresh
pasture.
There
was another problem while milking. You grabbed the milking machine, pushed the
cow over, and settled down beside her. Just as you were about to slip the teat
cups on—wham—you got a manure-soaked tail across your face. You haven’t lived
until you’ve had that wonderful experience. I know many of you can relate to
the wet tail in the face.
I
think milking parlors on large dairy operations and clipped tails have
alleviated that adventure for farmers these days. But I wonder with those
clipped tails, how the poor cows keep the biting bugs and pesky flies off? They
were always a problem around the barn in the summertime. We had a hand-pump
sprayer filled with DDT. After the cows were in their stalls, one of us would
go down the aisle behind the cows and spray them before we started milking. I
can still see and taste that cloud of DDT hanging in the air. I guess we didn’t
realize at the time, what a dangerous chemical we were dealing with and breathing
in. It certainly did a good job of killing all the flies and other pesky bugs.
Another
ritual of spring was the great cattle drive. It certainly didn’t compare to the great cattle drives out
west, but it was always an adventure. We usually had around ten heifers that
spent the summer in the back forty pasture, where they would remain until fall.
We had to herd them from their pen next to the barn, down the road, and into
the lane that led to the pasture. There was a job for everyone to successfully
accomplish the big drive. Even Ma and Grandma Inga took part. They guarded the
road next to the pen while Dad herded the heifers out of the pen and went
behind them, usually accompanied by the dog. David and I went ahead to open the
gate in the back forty and try to chase them into the lane. I always dreaded
the “heifer drive.” They didn’t always go where they were supposed to go and
Dad didn’t appreciate it if they got by us and continued running down the road.
At least those were the days when there were still fences along the fields. I
was always glad when the great cattle drive was over.
Spring
was always an interesting time when the cows and heifers were let out to
pasture and they were free at last.
