A Prairie Ghost Misadventure

Across the Fence #415

As you know, the best time for ghosts is around Halloween. Return with me now, for another thrilling misadventure of the Prairie Ghosts. The names have been changed to protect the guilty.    

The Prairie Ghosts jumped on their bikes and headed for the secluded pond, hidden by thick brush and trees. It was Halloween and they were looking for a body. Earlier in the week, one member saw a stranger stop near the pond one evening. He had carried something through the brush to the pond. Then a loud splash was heard. Soon the man emerged from the brush, got quickly into his car, and sped away. They wondered if he had dumped a body in the secluded pond.

When they reached the pond they hid their bikes in the weeds along the road and went single file down a narrow path through the trees and brush to the pond. The ground was still wet near the pond because it had been raining earlier in the day. The path was narrow and restricting. They finally came into a clearing and the pond stretched out before them. The day had been dark and overcast. Now darkness was setting in, making the dark pond, surrounded by tall trees and brush, even spookier. A light mist was rising from the water. It gave the place a sinister feeling, like a scene from a horror movie. 

They stood along the edge of the clearing, watching the mist rise slowly, as they scanned the surface for any floating objects. Dan finally broke the silence. “The only thing missing is a monster rising out of the water.” 

“That’s not funny,” Stan said, as his eyes nervously scanned the water.

“Lets spread out around the pond and see if we can spot anything in the water,” Dan said. “Whatever he threw in the water has to be near the bank, unless it floated out to a deeper part.” He broke off a branch to probe the water. Everyone else did the same.

Harold and Stan headed left. Dan and Terri went to the right. The water was so dirty it obscured anything that might be near the banks. Harold probed the water with his stick as they circled the pond. 

The air was alive with the sound of frogs and toads along the water’s edge. A frog suddenly jumped and landed in the water, startling them. It didn’t help nerves that were already on edge.

Fifty yards from where they started, Harold’s stick struck something under the water. He poked again trying to see what it could be. Stan stepped back, and inched closer to the trees, his eyes searching for an escape route if one was needed. He knew monsters living in the murky depths of ponds, was only folklore, but one couldn’t be too sure on a Halloween night like this.

As Harold probed the water, it stirred up the mud, making it even harder to see anything. Stan joined him and he and Harold tried to dislodge whatever was lying under the surface. The water was only three feet deep in that area of the pond, but the water was just too dirty to see anything.

“Whatever you found is soft,” said Stan. “It doesn’t feel solid, like old discarded junk.”

They pushed and probed some more. The object finally moved and started coming to the surface. Harold and Stan stepped back. Their eyes were glued on the object breaking the surface of the water. A skull suddenly popped out of the water and they let out a gasp. They stared into the face of a partially decayed animal. It must have gotten stuck in the mud and drowned. It had been trapped under the water until they dislodged it. Now it floated free on the surface of the water.

“It scared the heck out of me when I saw that skull break the surface,” Harold said, his voice trembling. “I thought we’d found the body.”

The stench suddenly hit them and they gagged from the horrible smell. 

“Let’s get out of here, Stan stammered. “I told you we should have told the cops and let them search for the body.”

They quickly retreated from the body floating lazily on the water, with the mist rising around it. 

Dan and Terri came around the pond from the other direction. “All we found was a sack full of old junk that someone had thrown in the pond,” Dan said.

“We found a rotting body of an animal,” Stan said. “I never smelled anything that horrible before. Just about made me barf! Let’s get out of here.”

“It’s getting too dark to find anything tonight,” Dan said. If the guy threw a body in the water, he probably weighted it down.”

“Maybe he just threw that sack of junk in the pond to get rid of it,” Terri said.

“I don’t think so,” Dan said. “Why would someone dump junk here at night? I think it was a body!”

“Let’s get out of here, Harold said. I don’t like this place at night.” As the Prairie Ghosts felt their way through the dark brush, the Halloween moon emerged from behind the clouds. Branches from the naked trees reached out like boney fingers from a skeleton, trying to touch the moon. There would be no treats for the Prairie Ghosts this Halloween. The trick had been on them.

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The "Invisible Man" Visits My Memory

Across the Fence #314

The Bald Eagle returned today. It was sitting on the same branch in the tree next to the house where it always sits when he comes to visit. At the time I was reading a story in the newspaper about the start of wolf hunting. I thought it was ironic that a bird that had been on the endangered species list showed up in our yard as I was reading about wolves, that were also on the endangered species list, and will now be hunted for sport. I hope we never get to the point where we think we need to kill Bald Eagles too.

I wondered if the spirit of my friend, Dennis, had hitched a ride on the eagle and had come to talk with me about the wolves, that were near and dear to his heart. Yes, the “Invisible Man” had come back to talk with the “Lone Wolf,” the name I was given by Native American friends. It has been 11 years since Dennis died of cancer and I still miss him.  

When he called to tell me he’d been given six months to a year to live, I didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to talk with me as soon as he could. When I arrived he was not the big, strong bear of a man I knew. He looked tired and weak, having started his first round of Chemo and had been very sick. 

We sat and talked like we had done many times before at The Highground Veteran’s Memorial Park near Neillsville. He said he was cleaning house and wanted to give me some of his personal things. He wouldn’t need them any more and wanted to be sure they ended up with someone who would take care of them.

The first thing he gave me was a sword. He said I had shown through all the trials and tribulations that we’d been through, that I was a “Warrior for Peace,” so he wanted me to have his sword as a symbol of one who knew how to use it as a weapon of peace and not destruction.

The next thing he gave me was a large, wood carved figure of an Oriental Holy Man.

Then he brought out the leather pouch that I knew contained his Native American peace pipe that he had been given. He laid it on the table and pushed it toward me. “This is yours,” he said. “I want you to have it.” I couldn’t believe he wanted me to have his pipe that I knew had meant so much to him. I opened the pouch and laid all the items out on the table. It is not a fancy pipe, but it had a long history. Once at a gathering, where several pipes were brought out to take part in a ceremony, Dennis had his simple pipe among others that were much more ornate and fancy. The Elder of the tribe singled out the pipe that Dennis held and compared it to the Holy Grail cup in the Raiders of the Lost Arc movie. Everyone chose the fancy cups, but it was the simple cup that was the Holy Grail. He said the same is true of pipes. Some of the simplest pipes are those that have been passed down from generation to generation. They are rich in history and tradition. The pipe Dennis held was one of those pipes rich in history. Now he was passing it on to me. I questioned whether he was sure he wanted to do this. He admonished me to never question a gift. I still couldn’t believe it as I held the sacred pipe. I let him know I would treasure it.

We spent the better part of the day together and talked of many things, just as we always did. We covered subjects from birth to death, and if there is a world or existence beyond what we know. I enjoyed all the philosophical discussions we had, exploring the views of Joseph Campbell, the spiritual realm of life, the Native American ways, and the nature of man in general. There are very few people you can discuss these subjects with. They have always fascinated me and I was glad to find another who liked examining them. He was without doubt one of the most intellectual people I’ve ever met. 

I remembered the time he gave me a package. It contained a simple pair of army green socks and a letter. I understand the significance of that gift and the words so much more now, than I did at the time. I still have those socks and the letter. I read it again just now. Among other things, he said, “This gift is more than just a pair of military socks. These socks symbolize the comfort, relief, and joy that your support and acceptance has brought to me. I want you to know how much I value your friendship.” It was signed with the name he used during his service in the Vietnam War, and also with “Phantom 5 Leader, The Invisible Man.”

I’m reminded of the words that Kicking Bird said to John Dunbar near the end of the movie, Dances with Wolfs, as they were preparing to part and gave each other a pipe, “We have come far, you and I.” 

No other words were needed!

When he died I spread his ashes on The Highground as he had requested.

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Church Dinners Are Real Treasures

Across the Fence #413

October–There’s a chill in the air, fallen leaves accumulate on the lawn, the days grow shorter and the nights grow longer. It won’t be long before the first snowflakes flutter to the ground. Winter is just around the corner.

Outside, there’s a flurry of activity as squirrels and chipmunks are busy gathering and stockpiling food for the long, winter months. Bears and other animals are packing on the pounds that will help them survive the long hibernation until spring.

Here in the soon-to-be frozen tundra, the annual fall pilgrimage to pack on the pounds and insulate our bodies against the cold winter months has begun. I think it must be an evolutionary trait that we’ve been unable to get rid of.  Yes, it’s October and the annual church dinners are in full swing. If you love a good meal, this is a great time of year. Here in the Driftless Country we have a plethora of dinners and suppers to choose from. If you’re lucky, none of the culinary events will overlap, and you can partake in all of them. There’s a chili supper, a sauerkraut supper, a pancake breakfast, a turkey dinner, a potato pancake supper, three meatball dinners, a harvest supper, a pork chop dinner, a pancake and sausage supper, and two lutefisk and meatball dinners. Those are just the ones that I’m aware of.

Church dinners are a staple of rural and small town churches and always have been. Even when I was young, the annual lutefisk dinner was a big event at Westby Coon Prairie Lutheran Church. It was the one time of the year when the women of the church let the men take over the church kitchen. I don’t think they wanted any part of cooking that smelly, lye-soaked, water rinsed, excuse for a cod fish. The smell in the church basement while they’re cooking it is enough to peel the paint off the walls. You can always tell when a Lutheran church with a Norwegian ancestry membership is having a lutefisk feed, because all the doors and windows are open, even in the coldest weather. There’s an old Norwegian-American saying that half the Norwegians who immigrated to America came in order to escape the hated lutefisk, and the other half came to spread the gospel of how wonderful lutefisk is.

But all kidding aside, church dinners are great. They are also a lot of work for the members who prepare and serve the meal. The preparation of the food begins days before the first group of hungry diners takes their place at the tables. You need to arrive early if you want to get your ticket and be in the first group of numbers called to head for the dining room.

People travel for miles to attend church dinners and know where the best ones are held. You don’t need to be a member of the church serving the meal, or a member of any church, to partake in the food. All you need is enough change in your pocket to cover the cost of the meal and a hearty appetite. No one goes away hungry from a church dinner. If you do, it’s not because there isn’t enough to eat.

Our latest dining adventure was the Skogdalen Lutheran Church meatball dinner. It was a feast fit for a hungry thrashing crew. We’re talking real home-cooked food when you attend a church dinner. Real mashed potatoes with the skins included, not some institution mashed potatoes out of a package. You plop a couple of heaping spoonfuls on your plate and spoon a couple of huge meatballs onto the potatoes and cover them with dark brown gravy. Add a good helping of cooked carrots to the mix, and top it all off with home-made coleslaw. Add some cottage cheese and applesauce if there’s any room left, and grab a couple pieces of lefse from the heaping plate, that also includes bread. A side note, if you have lefse at the Westby Coon Prairie Church, it was most likely made by a group of church women called “The Holy Rollers.” They know how to roll lefse dough. 

At Skogdalen we also had milk and coffee to drink, and a piece of homemade pie to top it all off. Did I mention that most church dinners are all you can eat! Like I said, if you go away hungry it’s your own fault. All this for $8.00 at Skogdalen. That’s a bargain. Plus, there’s great conversation with your fellow diners. It’s no wonder church dinners and suppers are so popular. They’re a real treasure.

The way I figure it, by the end of October I should have a real good layer of insulation to keep me warm during the coming winter months, thanks to all those great church dinners and the wonderful people who prepared and served them. Church dinners have been an integral part of rural life. I hope you get to take part in a meal at a church near you. When you’ve eaten your fill and vacated your place for the next round of hungry diners, don’t forget to thank all those members who make church dinners possible. There’s a lot of work for those involved, but it’s certainly appreciated by me. 

Check out a church dinner near you. I guarantee you’ll be back.

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A Door To the Past

Across the Fence #412

Have you ever looked at the door of an old building and wanted to open it and walk inside? It’s like taking a peek into the past. A lot of history has taken place behind those old doors. Perhaps it’s the writer in me that is curious to know the story behind each old door. I don’t mean the door itself, but the story of the people who once occupied the building.

Before the old timber frame barn on the farm was demolished a few years ago, I spent some time looking around and taking pictures, both inside and out. One of the photos I took was of the front door of the barn. It was the old, split door often found in barns. The top half could be opened separately from the bottom. I also took a photo of the old latch on the barn door. It was weathered and worn, just like the wood in the door. As I looked at that latch, I wondered how many people had grabbed that latch and opened the door over the years. It had been on the door when my folks bought the farm when I was around ten years old.

As I turn the latch and open the door in my mind, I can still picture how the barn looked at that time. As you walked into the barn, there were wooden horse stalls on the left side with horse harness and equipment hung on the posts. On the right side of the barn, the cows were kept. There were old wooden stalls and stanchions for the cows. Looking back there was probably room for only 14 to 16 cows. A track hung from the middle of the aisle behind the cows and curved around to exit through the double door on the backside of the barn, leading to the barnyard. An old manure bucket hung from the track. A couple years after buying the farm, the horse stalls and old stanchions were torn out and replaced with a cement floor with gutters behind the cows, and modern stanchions. There was room for 22 cows and a small calf pen. That’s not very big by today’s standards, but it sufficed for many years.

The old track and manure bucket remained, but only went to the side of the barn where the cow stalls were originally located. We had to carry the manure from the old horse stall side of the barn to the manure bucket. That bucket had seen a lot of “trips” from the barn to the manure pile behind the barn. Sometimes it didn’t latch very securely if we overloaded the bucket and it tended to trip and dump the load in the middle of the aisle. Dad wasn’t a very happy camper when we dumped the load inside the barn.

Thinking about that old barn door brings back a lot of memories. It really is a door to the past. When the barn was torn down, I saved a portion of the front door before it got buried with the rest of the barn. It still has the old latch attached.

There was something special about those double doors. You could open the top half and leave the bottom half closed. The top usually stood open in the summer allowing barn swallows to enter and build their nests on the ceiling beams. In the winter they were closed but did a poor job of keeping the cold weather outside. It found its way through every crack in that door and often froze the pipes and drinking cups closest to the door.

The bottom half was also a good place to rest your arms as you stood in the doorway and looked outside. I often peered out into the darkness of the night and watched as a cow, that I had just let out after being milked, disappeared into the night. A chorus of crickets could be heard out there, hidden in the darkness, as they conducted their nightly symphony. That open barn door became a front row seat to their wonderful music.

I can still picture my father standing in the door after the milking was done, looking out into the night, with our dog beside him, standing on his back legs with his paws on the door, also looking out into the night. It was quite a sight.

Yes, those old barn doors bring back a lot of memories when you turn the latch and open them up. Even if the building is long gone, they can open the door to the past as you picture them again in your memories.

Close your eyes and think of a door that was once important in your life. It can be any type of building: a house, barn, school, or shed, even an old outhouse if you wish. Picture that door in your mind. Now take hold of the doorknob or latch and turn it. Slowly open the door and take a peek inside. Enter the building, take some time to look around, and remember. It’s your door to the past. Walk around, examining all the details you can remember. What smells and sounds do you associate with the scene. Keep your eyes closed, breath deeply through your nose, and remember. I hope you find all the memories behind that door delightful.

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Don't Miss the Fall Experience

Across the Fence #411

Fall arrived today, bringing a chilling reminder that our hot summer is now only a memory. It was 32 degrees here on the prairie in Sherpeland this morning. (Sunday night it got down to 28 degrees.) I love fall but I’m not ready for the cold weather that accompanies it.

Farmers around us have been busy chopping corn. They still blow the silage into wagons, and in some cases into large trucks, but most of it is unloaded into concrete bunkers in the ground or blown into the long, white “worms” you see on many farms. I don’t see a lot of silage being unloaded and blown up long pipes into silos these days.

Silo filling was always a great adventure when I was young. Dad didn’t have his own chopper, wagons, and silo unfiller. He hired a farmer who had the equipment and went from farm to farm, doing the harvesting.

It was always an exciting time when they arrived with the silo filler and started running the pipes up into the silo. We were usually in school when silo filling took place, but got to help out when we got home. I got to drive the John Deere B or 50 and hauled wagons from the field to the silo. Then helped unload the wagons by pulling the silage from the back end of the wagon into the silo filler. An auger would push the silage into the blower and it would shoot up the pipe and into the silo with a rattling sound. It was a dangerous job and you had to be careful not to get your clothes caught in the auger. That could lead to a quick amputation of a limb. Many farmers are missing an arm or a leg because of silo filling accidents.

When I think of silo filling. I can still smell the sweet scent of the silage. I always liked the smell of fresh silage as we unloaded it. There’s something about smells that conjure up all kinds of memories associated with that smell. The smell of silage brings back memories of silo-filling, throwing the silage down the silo chute on cold days in the middle of winter, knocking the frozen silage from the side of the silo with a pick axe, and finally that sickening smell from the fermented silage in the bottom of the silo at the end of the year. I didn’t care for that smell. I bet those same smells come drifting back from your memory bank as you read this.

There are still silos on many farms, but just like many timber frame barns, many silos now stand empty too. They are symbols of a lifestyle that has changed since I was young. I wonder how long it will be before timber frame barns, and the silos that stand next to them, are as scarce as windmills and corncribs on a farm? Most farmers find it’s too expensive to restore them.

During the recent Vernon County Fair, I met a couple from Crawford County who have restored an old barn on their farm. I was at our booth in the co-op building when I heard my name mentioned in a conversation at the next booth to us. Three people were talking about my column. Naturally, my ears perked up.

After introducing myself, we started talking. I found out that one man reads Across the Fence in the Boscobel Dial and the other couple read it in the Crawford County Independent. The couple moved to the area several years ago, and have restored the old barn on their property. It cost them a lot of money, but they love old barns like I do. We think they have so much character and you can see the axe marks on the beams from the hard, physical labor that went into building a barn in those days. Of course now that the barn has been restored, their property taxes took a substantial jump. Perhaps that’s a big reason most people tear down, instead of restoring old barns on their property. They said that people now stop when driving by and get out to take pictures of the barn. They invited me to stop by sometime and they’ll show me the barn. I plan to take them up on their invitation. 

This is a great time of the year to take a leisurely drive on country roads and check out the old barns that are still standing. The colors should be reaching their peak during the next couple weeks and you’re in for a visual treat as you travel those roads. Many trees have already turned. Get out and enjoy the beauty of the fall colors before rain and wind strip the leaves from the trees. Better yet, park the car and go for a walk if you’re able. Listen to the wind in the trees and the rustling of the corn stalks. See how the sun shining on a field of corn makes it glimmer with a golden glow. 

If you want a spiritual experience, find a wooded area that’s alive with color and streaks of sunshine beaming through the leaves. Sit quietly, listen, and watch as colorful leaves float gently to the ground. No stain-glassed cathedral can compare. If you’re looking for me in the fall, check the back roads and our woods. I’ll be spending as much time as possible there.

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