A Surprise Visitor After 46 Years

Across the Fence #454

Friday evening I had just settled down to read the paper, when there was a knock on the door. Linda answered it and said it was a man looking for directions.

The man, who appeared to be about my age, handed me a piece of paper. He had long grey hair, flowing out from underneath a baseball cap, a grey beard, and was wearing glasses. He asked if I knew the guy whose name was on the paper. His voice sounded familiar. I looked at the paper and saw my name and address. When I looked up he was smiling. He asked if I knew who he was. That voice? “My God, is it Doc Tomczak?” “Hey Doc Sherpe, it’s been a long time,” he said. He had that right. It had been 46 years since we had seen each other. What a wonderful surprise.

Robert “Butch” Tomczak and I were in the army together. Butch was from Ashland, Wisconsin. We went through basic training, medical training, and advanced medical training together. Then we spent a year together in Vietnam as medics in the same unit of the 4th Infantry. That’s a lot of togetherness. After Vietnam we went on with our lives and lost touch. It’s sad, but that’s the case with the vast majority of Vietnam vets. Too many of us tried to bury the experience and didn’t tell anyone we had even been there.

Butch said I’m the only friend he’s had any contact with since we left Vietnam. He had been visiting his brother in Ashland and decided to look me up on the Internet. He found my website. After he found me, he decided to drive down and surprise me on his way back to Michigan. We had a wonderful visit for three hours before he had to head to Milwaukee and meet a friend. We caught up on what has been going on in each other’s lives and also rehashed some of our times together in the army.

We were in the same platoon in basic training and I was appointed as the acting platoon sergeant, to be in charge of the platoon when the real sergeants weren’t around. It was a tough position to be in. Some guys didn’t like taking orders from another trainee. Butch reminded me of the night another trainee challenged me and we went out behind the barracks to fight it out. If I had lost, the rest of my time in basic training would have been even more miserable. Luckily I won and didn’t have any more trouble with guys not listening to me after that. No questions were asked by the sergeants the next day when the two of us showed up with cuts and bruises. They knew what had happened.

Tomczak and Sherpe on LA beach - 1966

When we were in advanced medical training together at Ft. Irwin, California, we got a 3-day pass for Memorial Day weekend. We went to Los Angeles and spent it with my uncle and aunt and their family. James Hanson was my mother’s brother. He and Millie gave us a wonderful tour of LA that we both remember. We also remembered the one low spot of the visit. They lived close to the UCLA campus and James thought we’d have fun socializing with some people our age. He dropped us off at a popular campus bar not far from their home. When we walked in it was like Moses parting the waters. You’d have thought a couple of lepers had entered the bar. We knew enough not to wear our uniforms away from our base, but our short hair and military appearance gave us away. No one talked to us and we got a lot of dirty looks. We had one beer and left. We knew then that things had changed for us. It appeared that we were despised by our own generation. 

We talked about the night the helicopter crashed while trying to resupply us with a sling load of ammo because we were running out. It came in right over Butch’s bunker but crashed and destroyed it. The chopper began to burn. Butch and his bunker partner managed to drag the wounded crew out and saved them, just as the ammo began to cook off (explode). Everyone buried themselves in the bottom of their bunkers as the explosions and rounds went off in every direction around us. As my friend, Larry Skolos, from Viroqua said afterwards, “That’s the best fireworks we’ll ever see.” 

I wanted to know if Butch had ever received the Bronze Star for Valor that he had been put in for. He said he never heard another word about it. Our unit was real stingy at giving out medals unless you were a lifer or an officer. The joke among us draftees was that we didn’t need any medals because we’d either be dead or out of the army in a year.

That was the only war experience we talked about. The rest of the visit was about how we’ve survived these years since those experiences and where we are today. We cheated death in Vietnam, and Butch cheated it again in a very bad snowmobile accident. We’re happy that we’re still above ground, and we agreed that being on that journey together for those two years, created a bond and brotherhood we’ll always share.

Sherpe and Tomczak  

Two old Docs, reunited after 46 years - 2013

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What Happened To the Peacock?

Across the Fence #453

It’s time to talk about peacocks again. Many people have wanted to know if our visitor is still hanging around. At least I know that some people are reading this column and they want to know the rest of the story.

I’ll keep you in suspense for a little longer. The female peacock showed up again, always in the evening, just as twilight sets in. I was worried about her well-being, so I put an old milk can lid filled with water near where she hangs out by our back deck. I didn’t know if she had a place to get drinking water, even though it had been raining almost every day. I also worried about her spending the nights alone in the fields and woods. I didn’t know where she was hiding out, and there are coyotes roaming around this area at night looking for a meal. I doubted that any of them had ever dined on peacock or even been up close and personal with one, but it would be a Thanksgiving feast compared to a pheasant or other smaller birds. Peacocks are not native to the Frozen Tundra, at least not living in the wild.

My brother, David, reminded me that Esofea Park in Vernon County had a peacock strutting around in a pen when we were young. I had forgotten about that mini-zoo until he reminded me. Perhaps some of you remember when Esofea Park had a ball field, complete with a wire backstop and even a dugout area with benches. They also had a bunch of birds and animals in large, wire pens in an area near the ball field. I don’t recall what all the animals were, but who can forget a peacock when it fans its tail feathers? Apparently I did, but I’m glad David remembered. 

Esofea was the closest place to us that ever had peacocks that I know of. I knew it couldn’t be a descendent of those peacocks that had been roaming the hills and coulees until it finally ended up on Coon Prairie almost 60 years later. But where did it come from?

A friend in Madison wrote and told me, “European Royalty considered having peacocks gracing their lawns as the height of sophistication… apparently she thinks you’re a class act (or royalty).” Well, the closest I’ve come to royalty is watching Queen Elizabeth on television. I suspect this peacock is delusional if she thinks we’re royalty. I know peacock feathers have been found buried with Viking warriors. Maybe she heard I have Viking ancestry.

People at restaurants, the grocery store, and at church asked if the peacock was still hanging around our place. At least no one accused me of being delusional, although after the story ran, my brother said, “Now I know you’re crazy.” 

“So, what happened to the peacock?” you ask. I’m getting to that. One day I stopped at Premier Co-op in Westby and saw one of our neighbors. I asked him if he knew anyone that raised peacocks. He told me another neighbor on his road used to have some. He called them and asked if they still had peacocks. They did, but the peahen was missing. He told them she was hanging around our place. You just have to ask the right people to get answers to a peacock mystery.

That evening as it was getting dark, I looked out the window and there she was, eating flowers in our back yard. I couldn’t reach the neighbors by phone, so I jumped in the car and drove to their farm. They were in the field. I let them know the peacock had returned. I headed back home to keep an eye on it. Unfortunately, Linda said it had started down the road toward brother Arden’s place. It was getting dark as I hustled down the road on foot, trying to get ahead of her. I spotted her in a field on the other side of the road. I joined her in the field and was finally able to turn her back toward our place. She tried hiding in tall weeds a couple times, but as soon as I got close to her she took off again. I herded her, as much as you can herd a wandering peacock, back across the road toward our house. Then she took to the air and flew into the grove of trees next to the house. It was dark by that time.

The neighbors arrived and had a large net attached to a long pole. We spotted her in a tree, but she flew off into the hayfield as we approached. He followed her across the field and finally got close enough to capture her with the net. He came back, carrying the wayward peacock under his arm.

I found out they’ve had several peacocks roaming free on their farm for two years and I’ve never seen them. This was the first time one strayed off the farm. It was nice knowing Mrs. Peacock had a home and that she’d have the company of other peacocks when she got back. I’m glad she’s not alone.

So now you know the rest of the story. There really was a peacock. I wasn’t hallucinating or making stories up. I guess you never know what you’ll find in Sherpeland. 

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Tobacco Planting, Not Just A Memory

Across the Fence #452

I was wrong. Last week I said that dry land was as scarce to find as a tobacco plant in Vernon Country. I was led to believe that no one was raising tobacco anymore in this part of the state.

Imagine my surprise over the weekend as we were driving around on the country roads. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There it was, slowly moving across a large field, a two-row tobacco planter. Thousands of small plants stood in long rows in the field. I didn’t think anyone still had a tobacco allotment. I guess I was wrong again. I didn’t trust my eyes, so I had to stop and take pictures, and get a close-up look at the plants. They were tobacco plants. I’ve seen enough tobacco plants in my time to know one when I see one.

Seeing a large field of tobacco soon had memories of tobacco planting bubbling to the surface. The first week of July is quite late to be planting tobacco, just like a lot of the corn crop was just planted. I know we usually planted tobacco the first part of June. Lets hope we don’t have an early frost this year or this tobacco crop will be in trouble. I’ll be keeping an eye on this field as it grows and see what happens.

Tobacco was the major cash crop on farms in Vernon County for many years and paid the taxes and many other bills. It goes all the way back to the 1800s when my great grandfathers raised a lot of tobacco. It was, and still is, a very labor-intensive crop. It started in the spring when the tobacco beds were steamed and seeded and didn’t end until the tobacco had been stripped and sold, which usually occurred in January. 

The area where the tobacco beds would be located was steamed to sterilize the soil and help control diseases, weeds, and insects. To steam the soil, a rectangular pan on wheels, around 4’x16’, was dropped down where the tobacco beds would be located. A hose running from the steamer to the pan provided the steam. After about 30 minutes the pan was moved and the process repeated. After the soil had been steamed, the tobacco seeds were sown in wood-framed beds and covered with a white, muslin-type cover for protection. The beds were watered every day and the plants soon filled the beds. When they were 6”-8” tall they were ready to be picked and transplanted in the field.

Even before we were old enough to plant, we helped water the beds each day and picked plants, placing them carefully in boxes and bushel baskets. These were then carried to the field where the plants were removed from the boxes and placed on the planter.  

When I was nine years old, I learned to “drop” tobacco. I was left handed, so my mother didn’t have to change sides and continued to drop right-handed. My father drove the John Deere B tractor that pulled the planter.  

The Ellis tobacco planter consisted of a large barrel filled with water, mounted on two large iron wheels. The two “droppers” sat on low iron seats, just inches off the ground behind the barrel, with their feet stretched out in front of them and resting on foot pegs under the barrel. It was not very comfortable. A board rested on our laps and the tobacco plants that had been removed from the boxes were piled on the boards. As the planter went slowly across the field, the shovel or “shoe,” as it was called, located between the two droppers, made a small furrow in the soil. With each click, water filled the hole, and the dropper inserted a plant. The furrow then closed around the plant and the process was repeated for the other dropper. If you inserted the plant too deep, the stem would break, if planted too shallow, it would also die. There was an “art” to dropping tobacco! The droppers would get into the rhythm of the clicks, with never a moment to even scratch an itchy nose for fear of missing a plant. This went on for row after row, hour after hour, day after day, until all ten acres of our tobacco had been planted.

It was hot, dirty work with little time to talk, especially when learning to drop. Ma often took my turn also, when I became confused and was about to miss. Dad didn’t look kindly on missing plants and would stop when he saw a blank space in another row. He’d make me get off and plant it by hand and give me “H” if too many plants were missing.

When my brother, David, became old enough to drop, my mother went back to pulling plants, along with my grandmother, Inga. David and I planted many acres together over the next years. We were quite a team and hardly ever missed a plant. I think we could still plant tobacco if we had to! My sister, Janet, took my place when I left for college. 

I thought tobacco planting was just a distant memory for most of us. Now I know a drive down some country roads can still catch us a glimpse of what was once a big part of our lives.

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Rain, Viking Ship, and A Peacock

Across the Fence #451

You don’t want to say to anyone around these parts, “We need some rain.” You just might end up in the emergency room after being beaten with water-logged umbrellas. Rain has become a four-letter word. It seems like it’s been raining for two months. 

As I write this a couple days before the 4th of July, very little, if any, corn is going to be knee high by the 4th. Much of the corn crop still hasn’t been planted. Many fields haven’t dried out enough to get equipment in them. This is not a good year to be a farmer or contractor. People who have basements that like to collect water aren’t very happy either. 

This is like the weather we had when we were trying to build our house. It was a real challenge with all the rain and water that collected in the swimming hole that was supposed to be our basement. At that time I wrote: “To heck with building a house. I’m calling our builder tomorrow and tell him to pour the floor in the basement as soon as he can get a cement truck in there without burying it in the mud. Then we’ll call it done. I’ll fill the basement with water, which shouldn’t be too hard to accomplish around here. We’ll do a little landscaping, haul in a few loads of sand to spread around the hole, and quicker than you can say, “Head for cover, here comes another rain shower,” we’ll have a great outdoor swimming pool… complete with a sandy beach. The price of our land just skyrocketed. Now we have waterfront property.”

I wonder if all this rain has something to do with Sherpe’s trying to build. Ever since my brother, Arden, and his family started to put an addition on their house it’s been raining. They’ve had to endure a mud hole around their house just like we did. If you ever hear that a Sherpe is planning to build something, call all the contractors you know and tell them to say they’re too busy to take on any new jobs. If not, you might as well get ready for another 40 days of rain.

Someone asked me if I’d started building an ark. I told them no. I’ve never seen a real ark and still don’t understand what a cubit is, so it would be hard to build one. I did tell them I’ve been thinking of building a Viking ship. Those ships are in my ancestry and I’ve even seen real ones at the Viking Ship Museum in Oslo. The way I figure, if someone’s building an ark, they’re never going to take me with. They’d say I’m too old and not a good candidate to repopulate the world after the water recedes. They’d let me drown with all the other people and animals they didn’t want on the ark. 

That’s why I need to start building a Viking ship and be prepared. Then when the Mississippi, Wisconsin, and Kickapoo Rivers begin overflowing and flooding everything, I’ll jump in my ship and sail off to Valhalla or wherever you sail to in a Viking ship when a major flood makes dry land as scarce to find as a tobacco plant in Vernon County. Who knows, maybe I’ll end up in Norway. The area where my Østrem ancestors came from is high up in the mountains. Maybe the water won’t reach them. I’ll drop anchor there and live with them until the water recedes. It’s good to have a plan.

Maybe all this rain is why we now have a female Peacock hanging out around our place. It was probably rejected by whoever’s building an ark because they had already booked a pair of Peacocks. She may have heard through the birdvine that I’m thinking of building a Viking ship. The poor bird wants to have a ride if the big flood comes. 

You probably think I’m joking about having a Peacock hanging around our place. I wish I was joking, but no, it’s been here for close to a week now. Linda first noticed this big bird peeking in the sidelight window of our front door. Needless to say, it freaked her out. The next day I was startled to see it as I came around the back corner of our house. It was in the window well, looking in our basement window. It headed under the deck when it saw me. I got my camera and took pictures to prove we had a Peacock in the area. I called the Sheriff’s Department to see if they had any missing Peacock reports. There were none.

The next evening it flew up on our back deck. I chased it off and it ran into the wooded area next to the house. Two days later it was back looking in the front window again. We shooed it away. Then Linda saw a huge bird fly up toward our roof. I went out and there she stood, proud as a Peacock, on our roof. I waved my arms and shouted at her to get lost. She suddenly took off and flew right over my head and disappeared into the wooded area again. I didn’t realize they could fly like that. I’ve only seen Peacocks penned up in zoos before.

I’m sure that isn’t the end of this story. I suspect she’ll be back tonight, rain or shine, to see if I’ve started building that Viking ship.

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Firecrackers and Gettysburg

Across the Fence #450

When I was young, firecrackers, cherry bombs, and other assorted “things that go boom in the night,” were still legal. We always enjoyed exploding a few of them as we celebrated the 4th of July.

Many of you who were raised on a farm, probably experienced the old firecracker or cherry bomb in a cow pie explosion! It didn’t take much to entertain us. For those of you who’ve never tried to outrun an exploding “meadow muffin,” let me instruct you in the finer points of cow pie demolition.

The cow pen provided plenty of objects waiting to be blown apart. Some people liked fresh pies, but we preferred ones that had crusted over in the hot sun but were still soft on the inside. The firecracker was inserted in the middle of the pie with the top portion and fuse exposed. The fuse was then lit. We made sure it was burning and then turned and ran like an irritated skunk was chasing us. Ka-Boom! The pie hit the fan, so to speak, as pieces flew in all directions.

That’s all pretty harmless fun when you consider what happened from July 1–3, 1863. This is the 150th anniversary of that Civil War battle at Gettysburg. The explosions at Gettysburg were deadly, not little firecrackers. I think it’s important that we take a moment to reflect on that momentous battle that changed the course of the war and probably saved the Union. This would in all likelihood be a different country if General Lee’s southern forces had won the battle at Gettysburg. 

Between 46,000 and 51,000 soldiers from both sides were casualties in the three-day battle. One third of those who fought were killed or wounded. My mind can’t even imagine what those soldiers went through. All war is insane and mentally challenging, but this must have been like walking into a nightmare, far worse than anything we could ever imagine. 

Many veterans of other wars since that time know what it’s like to move into position for a fight, being shot at, and having explosions impact around you. But I can’t begin to imagine the fright those Civil War soldiers must have felt and the bravery it must have taken to line up shoulder to shoulder and begin marching across an open field into the withering fire of thousands of muskets and exploding cannon fire. They were mowed down, like a scythe cutting wheat. We look upon it now as a stupid way to fight, but during the Civil War it was the way you fought. If you were in the front ranks, your chance of survival was slim and none.

I’ve always had a fascination with the Civil War, especially the battle of Little Round Top at Gettysburg. I had a friend who was also a Vietnam veteran. We felt like we had known each other forever. One day while talking, we found out we both had a special feeling for Little Round Top and felt we needed to visit there together. Unfortunately, he died before we could go. Neither of us had ancestors who fought in the Civil War, so we knew it couldn’t be some wandering DNA calling to us. My friend said, I think we were there, fighting together as friends in another life. I think he was joking, but... I have a feeling he wasn’t. 

I had a great grandfather who had a chance to be in the Civil War. Hans O. Hanson Sherpe arrived from Norway a few months after the start of the war in 1861. He was 21 and began working as a hired man on a farm near the Country Coon Prairie Church. A man who didn’t want to go to war, offered Hans $1,200 to take his place. Great grandfather turned down the offer. That was a tremendous amount of money back in the 1860’s. He could have bought many farms with that money. Hans was either really smart or really dumb to turn down that much money. I have to thank him for not taking it. If he had been killed in the war, I and so many other Sherpe descendants wouldn’t be here. 

I think of all the men who did lose their lives at Gettysburg. They didn’t have a chance to be a father and grandfather. My great grandfather was lucky. Is it just luck that determines who lives and who dies? That doesn’t seem fair. I think of all the souls that never had a chance at life because war took the life of those who would have been their fathers.

I know most people will be thinking only of parades, brats, beer, picnics, exploding meadow muffins, and fireworks this 4th of July. But it’s important to take a moment to remember the many sacrifices that people made to make this a free country. The signers of the Declaration of Independence understood that as soon as they affixed their names to that document, it was like putting a noose around their necks. They had the courage to sign their names anyway. Soldiers at Gettysburg knew that many of them were going to die. They had the courage to keep going anyway. 

For me the 4th of July symbolizes freedom, courage, the luck of survival, and even homecoming–it was the day I returned home from Vietnam.

Enjoy the 4th, but also remember why we’re celebrating.

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