Julebukking, A Dying Tradition

Across the Fence #528

Do you remember “Julebukking” or “Christmas Fooling” as some people called it? 

When I was young, a memorable, but scary event, was the arrival of the Julebukkers at our farm! You might call it Halloween trick or treating for grown-ups, and it usually took place between Christmas and New Years. Julebukkers would dress up in costumes and wear masks that might be made from feed sacks with a face painted on it and holes cut out for the eyes. Sometimes, large groups of men and women would come and they appeared very large and scary to us when we were young. 

Our grandmother had told us stories about the Bogeymen and Trolls found in Norway, who only came out at night, and would come and get us if we weren’t good. Julebukkers always came at night too. I watched out the window as these ugly creatures got out of cars and pickups and started trudging across our yard through the snow. The yard light cast long shadows that made them look even scarier. I thought for sure the Bogeymen and Trolls had arrived from Norway and were coming to get me! 

I heard them tromping across the floor in the entryway between our kitchen and the shanty, also called the summer kitchen. By this time our dog, Duke, was barking up a storm and trying to scare these monsters away. The Julebukkers knocked loudly on the door and then entered. I disappeared into the living room as they entered the kitchen. They disguised their voices, and our parents and Grandma Inga would try to guess who they were. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all and they had to try and guess who they were by their size or how they acted. Norwegian treats were always handed out before they left. Many of the Julebukkers carried shot glasses and they didn’t go away thirsty. A bottle of brandy would be retrieved from a brown paper sack, usually stored out of sight in a cupboard. Many Norwegians liked a drink once in a while, but they kept it out of sight in case the Lutheran minister made an unannounced visit. The more homes the Julebukkers visited, the more happy and boisterous they became. They were mostly nearby neighbors who were out enjoying an old Norwegian tradition. Some people never took their masks off and they’d leave you wondering, “Who was that masked man?” I waited for someone to holler, “Hi-oh Silver,” as they jumped in their cars and pickups and drove off into the night.  

The roots of Julebukk, or “Christmas buck,” lie deep in the cultural history of Norway. The earliest form of Julebukking was a pre-Christian, Pagan ritual. In Viking historical lore, Thor, the God of Thunder, roared through the heavens in a chariot drawn by two goats, Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr (roughly translated as “Toothgnasher” and “Toothgrinder”). The sound of the chariot and goats created the sound of thunder rumbling across the sky. According to the “Prose Edda,” Thor was known to kill the goats in order to have food, which he shared with others. After the meal was finished, Thor would use his powers to revive the goats as if nothing had happened. This led to a now-defunct Norwegian and Swedish winter tradition of having someone dress up as a goat, pretend to get sacrificed, and come back to life when Thor revived them. This return to life was a symbolic gesture of the natural world changing from the long, dark days of winter to days of the lengthening sun. 

With the introduction of Christianity to Norway in the 11th century, all references to Thor were stripped away, but Norwegians transformed Thor’s goats into a Yule Goat or “Julebukk” (roughly translated as “Christmas buck”). Later that custom was forbidden by the church and banned by the clergy. Yet, like many pagan holiday traditions, Julebukking persisted. The celebration of the Julebukk became an observance of the winter solstice. 

Julebukk in our home, along with Thor, the pagan God of Thunder with a goat on each side of him. This is where the Julebukk tradition came from.

When our Norwegian and Swedish ancestors came to America, they brought the Julebukking tradition with them. It was still carried out when I was young in the 1950s, but I think it’s pretty much relegated to memory now, among us older Norwegian-Americans. Holiday parties have replaced people going door to door to have some fun and get free drinks around Christmas and New Years. Times have changed too. Many people wouldn’t know their neighbors if they passed them on the street. Also, there’s the possibility of being greeted at the door with a shotgun staring you in the face if you and a bunch of other grown-ups in masks knocked on someone’s door at night. That’s a sad sign of the times. 

Julebukking is another old tradition that seems to have ended in most places. However, some symbols of those times still exist. Straw Yule Goats became popular Christmas ornaments among Scandinavian cultures, and you can still find Julebukks in some homes today, including ours.

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Strange Tracks In the Snow

Across the Fence #527w

A Kingdom of Driftless Beauty Christmas Story  

It’s almost Christmas and strange things have been happening in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. Someone turned the water on in Old McDonald’s barn one night. When he arrived to milk the cows he was greeted by a flooded mess. Old McDonald wasn’t happy and his cows weren’t in a very good mood either. Many of them had left the barn and were nowhere to be found.

The next evening there was trouble at the Peep farm. Farmer Peep reported that his daughter, Little Bo Peep, had lost her sheep. Farmer Peep called Driftless Kingdom Sheriff Moon and told him someone had opened the door to the sheep barn. All the sheep were missing and they didn’t know where to find them. Sheriff Moon said, “Leave them alone and they’ll come home dragging their tails behind them.”

Little Bo Peep didn’t want to wait for them to come home and wanted to go into the woods and find them.

Sheriff Moon thought it would be too dangerous for her to go wandering around the countryside alone. Whoever let the sheep out and flooded Old McDonald’s barn could be out there and harm her. He said, “I’ll call Little Boy Blue to come blow his horn. Maybe the sheep are in the meadow and the cows in the corn. When they hear the horn, they might come home.

That sounded like a good idea and everyone hoped whoever was causing trouble had left the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. This was a very tranquil, peaceful area and people weren’t used to acts of mischief and vandalism.

The next morning the Farmer in the Dell area called Sheriff Moon. He said, “When I went to my barn, the door stood open and the cow, dog, cat, and rat were gone, and the cheese stood alone in the milkhouse. I found their tracks in the snow heading to the woods. You better come down here and take a look at the other tracks I found. I’ve never seen tracks like these before.”

Sheriff Moon told Farmer Dell, “Don’t do anything until I get there. I’m leaving right now and we’ll get to the bottom of this.” While he was on his way to Dell, he received a call from Jack and Jill, who lived between Old McDonald’s farm and Farmer Dell. Jack said, “Jill and I were going up the hill this morning to fetch a pail of water, when we came across some strange tracks in the snow. I think you should take a look at them.”

Sheriff Moon told Jack he was on his way to Dell to look at some strange tracks and he’d stop at their place next. He wondered if anything was missing or disturbed at their place.

“Our water pail was missing,” Jack said, “We had to find another one to fetch the water in.”

As Sheriff Moon continued toward Dell, he decided to contact Fairy Princess Sonja on Sunshine Prairie. It looked like he was going to need her help. He got on his radio and put out a “Code Redhead” call. Every available officer was to head for Wolf Valley and find Carrot Top, the not-so-bald eagle, who lived there. He had red feathers on top of his head instead of white ones. There were rumors that his father was a Red-tailed Hawk, but that’s a taboo subject with Carrot Top’s mother. Carrot Top would know where to find Princess Sonja and he could fly her to Dell.

Meanwhile, back in Sherpeland, located near Three Rock Chimney on Sunshine Prairie, young Sean and his faithful dog, Sweeney, were playing in the snow that had fallen during the night. Sean was happy to see the new snow. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and the new snow would make it easier for Santa and his sleigh to deliver presents to all the good little girls and boys.

As they were running around in the snow, and building a snowman, Sweeney suddenly stopped and began sniffing the snow. She had discovered some tracks in the snow and began following them toward the old barn. Sean followed Sweeney. The tracks led them to the door of the old barn that was no longer used. Sweeney jumped up, put her paws on the door, and began barking. Sean unlatched the door. As it swung open, Sweeney rushed into the barn to see what was there. She stopped suddenly near a big pile of old straw in a corner. The hair stood up on her back as she barred her teeth and began growling. Sean stopped behind Sweeney, sensing that something was hiding in the straw.

“Come on Swee, lets get out of here,” Sean said, as he began backing up toward the door. But Sweeney held her ground. She was a tough, smart dog. Her father was a German Shepherd and her mother was a Collie. Something was hiding in the pile of straw and she wanted to know who the intruder was.

Back in Dell, Sheriff Moon was examining the strange tracks in the snow when he spotted a large, red-headed eagle approaching in the western sky. Fairy Princess Sonja was riding on his back. Carrot Top fanned his wings and settled gently into the snow near Sheriff Moon and Farmer Dell. Princess Sonja slid off his back and transformed herself back to her full size. “Good morning, gentlemen. Carrot Top told me we have some problems here in the Kingdom.”

“We sure do,” Sheriff Moon said. “Someone or something’s been breaking into barns and letting the animals out. Take a look at these tracks that Farmer Dell found. I’ve never seen anything quite like them. They’re very small and are pointed in the front. It seems to have the same pattern of walk as a human, but the footprints are close together. It must be a very small creature. What do you think, Princess Sonja?”

She bent down and examined the tracks. This looks a lot like the trail of a Nisse, but they’re only found in Scandinavian countries. They’re associated with the Winter Solstice and Christmas Season. They’re about three feet tall, have long, white beards, and wear a red, pointed hat. It’s their version of Santa Claus.”

“If this is a Nisse, what’s it doing here in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty,” Sheriff Moon asked, “and if it’s like Santa and brings gifts, why’s it causing so much trouble?”

“I don’t know how one could be here,” said Princess Sonja, “but Nisse are curious, very sensitive, and easily offended. They protect the farms in Norway and have great strength. They don’t like changes in the way things are done on the farm. If the family forgets to leave a big bowl of Rommegrot in the barn for them on Christmas Eve, they get mad and pull small pranks, like leaving doors open, but they’ve been known to burn barns down if they get really angry. I’ve heard the bite of a Nisse can be poisonous. When animals are found dead in the barns, people have blamed the Nisse.”

“Sounds like we have a serious problem on our hands,” said Sheriff Moon.

Back in Sherpeland, Sweeney knew something had invaded their barn, and she was going to protect Sean with her life if she had to. Sweeney continued to growl as she edged closer to the pile of straw. 

Suddenly, straw flew in every direction and a strange-looking, little, old man with a red, pointed hat, sprang from the pile and began running for the open door. Sweeney thought the creature was going to attack Sean and she sprang after the little man as Sean slammed the lower part of the door shut. Sweeney knocked the little man to the floor. He struggled to get up, but Sweeney had him pinned down. Her lips were curled back and her sharp, white teeth were inches from the man’s face. He finally quit struggling and said some words that were foreign to Sean, but Sweeney seemed to understand. She stepped back and let the little man sit up and dust himself off.

Just then, Princess Sonja’s White Owl flew into the barn and landed on Sean’s shoulder. The White Owl was able to communicate with humans and animals. “I could sense there was trouble in Sherpeland and flew right over. Are you all right?”

“We’re fine,” said Sean. “Sweeney just caught this strange creature hiding in our old barn. What is it?

“That’s a Norwegian Nisse,” said the White Owl. I’ll ask him what he’s doing here.” The White Owl then started a conversation with the Nisse in Norwegian-Owlish-English, so both the Nisse and Sean could understand the conversation.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“I’m Little Ole, the Nisse on the Ostrem farm in Norway. I’m lost and I just want to go home.”

“How did you get here?”

“I stowed away in the luggage when the Ostrem family came here to visit their relatives in Sherpeland. When they went back to Norway, I was so busy enjoying myself, I forgot to hide in their luggage again. Now it’s almost Christmas Eve and I need to get back to the Ostrem barn in time to deliver their presents. They also bring a big bowl of Rommegrot to the barn on Christmas Eve, for me to enjoy. Is there anyone who can help me get home?”

“Stay here while I fly off and get Princess Sonja. She’ll be able to help you.”

It wasn’t long before the White Owl was back, followed by Carrot Top, Princess Sonja, Sheriff Moon, Old McDonald, Little Bo Peep, Little Boy Blue, Jack and Jill, and the Farmer in the Dell. They made quite a commotion as they arrived and almost scared Little Ole back into hiding.

Everyone wanted to see a real Norwegian Nisse and find out what he’d done with their animals. Little Ole said, “They’re just fine. None had been hurt. If Little Boy Blue would blow his horn a few times, they’ll all come home, just like in the nursery rhymes.” But Little Ole was very worried. “How am I going to find my way home? Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. I need to get back to the Ostrem farm in Norway. The children are expecting me.”

“We’ll get you home,” Princess Sonja said. “I know a secret passageway through Middle Earth for emergencies like this. I’ll escort you there and the Trolls from Norway will take you the rest of the way. But first, everyone else can leave and go find your animals. Sorry, Sheriff Moon, the location of the secret passage must remain unknown to all, except those of us with magical powers.”

Everyone wished Little Ole good luck in getting back to Norway in time for Christmas. They left the farm and headed for the Uff da Bahn that would take them back to their farms.

When they were gone, Princess Sonja told Little Ole to follow her and they’d head for the secret passage.

Sean finally spoke up. “Can Sweeney and I come too? Please, we want to help Little Ole get home too.”

“Let them come along.” Little Ole said. “If they hadn’t found me, there’s no way I’d be heading back home now.”

Princess Sonja looked at the White Owl and Carrot Top to see what they thought. They both just shrugged their feathers. “It’s your call,” said Carrot Top, “but they did find Little Ole.” Sweeney stood up and wagged her tail. 

“Oh, all right,” Princess Sonja said, “but after Little Ole leaves, I’ll have to sprinkle some Forgetful Dust on both of you. It’s important that the secret passage remains a secret. The entrance isn’t far from here. The snow’s not that deep, so we’ll walk across the fields.”

“You can all walk,” said Carrot Top. “White Owl and I will fly on ahead and meet you there.”

Princess Sonja, Little Ole, Sean, and Sweeney headed south through the snow, across the rolling fields of Sunshine Prairie, toward Birch Hill. When they arrived, Princess Sonja led the way through the heavy underbrush until they came to a small clearing next to some large rocks. Carrot Top and the White Owl were waiting for them atop the rocks.

She walked up to one rock and sprinkled some fairy dust on it. The rock began to move and change shape. Legs, arms and a face took shape, and before them stood a very large Troll with a long nose. There was a dark hole in the ground where the rock had been. Sean and Sweeney got behind Princess Sonja and peered around her at the giant, ugly Troll. 

Little Ole, meet Harold. He’ll be your guide through Middle Earth, and will get you safely back to the Ostrem Mountains in Norway. As you know, Trolls turn to stone if sunlight hits them, so they’ll wait until dark to escort you from the secret passage entrance in Norway, to the Ostrem farm. 
Princess Sonja knelt down and hugged Little Ole. “Good luck and have a Merry Christmas.”

“I will, thanks to all of you.” Little Ole then went to Sean and Sweeney and gave them both a big hug. Sweeney licked Little Ole’s face. “Thank you both for helping me get back home. I won’t forget you.” He then turned and followed Troll Harold into the hole. He turned around, waved, and said, “Merry Christmas everyone.” There was a loud sucking sound and they disappeared.

Princess Sonja said, “We’ll wait here for a few minutes.” Quicker than you can say, “Holy Christmas, what just happened here?” The Troll reappeared holding Little Ole’s red, pointed hat. He gave it to Sean and said in a deep voice, “Little Ole wanted you to have this as a Christmas present. He’s safely back in the Ostrem barn and all is well.” Then the Troll slowly changed shape and became a large rock over the secret entrance again.

Princess Sonja took a bag from her pocket, opened it, and sprinkled some Forgetful Dust on Sean and Sweeney. “It’s time to go home,” she said.

When Sean woke up on Christmas Eve morning, he wondered where the little, red, pointed hat, next to his bed had come from. There was a note attached. “God Jul og mange tusen takk. Your friend, Little Ole.”

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Rudolph Is About Love and Acceptance

Across the Fence #527

I was five years old when Gene Autry recorded “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” in 1949. I imagine I heard the song on the radio, but I don’t remember much from those early years. That’s where I learned the other reindeer’s names. Can’t you just hear the voice of Gene Autry singing these words? “You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid and Donder and Blitzen. But do you recall, the most famous reindeer of all? Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer had a very shiny nose…” I still associate Gene Autry with that song, so it must be imbedded in my memory bank.

For people a bit younger than me, we only had a radio to listen to back then. This was before we had TVs, phonographs, computers, iPods, iPads, and all the other electronic gizmos we have now. When we heard the song on the radio, we had to use our imagination to picture what was going on, and what Rudolph looked like. I still love radio programs for that reason. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons Garrison Keillor and his Lake Wobegon has been so successful. It wasn’t until later that I saw illustrations in a book about Rudolph. 

In 1964, an animated TV special about Rudolph aired on NBC. It’s hard to believe this is the 50th anniversary of that show. Where did the time go? The animated story drastically altered the original Rudolph story written by Robert L. May and published by Montgomery Ward.

Our children watched Rudolph every Christmas season and now our grandson, Sean, is enjoying it. While we were with him over Thanksgiving, we watched it “several” times. He loves the program. Besides Santa, Rudolph, and the other reindeer, there are many new characters in the animated special that weren’t in the original book. 

As most of you know, Rudolph is made fun of and rejected by the other reindeer because of his shiny, red nose. In the cartoon special, he runs away from home with another outcast, an elf named Hermey, who wants to be a dentist instead of a toymaker. Along the way they meet a group of misfit toys that have defects and have been rejected too. There’s also Yukon Cornelius, a loud-mouth prospector and his sled dogs; Bumble, the scary Abominable Snow Monster; Clarice, Rudolph’s love interest; and the narrator, Sam the Snowman. The voice of Sam is Burl Ives, whose folk singing I loved.

Out of all those wonderful and colorful characters, which one do you think is Sean’s favorite? Not Santa, not Rudolph, but Bumble, the Abominable Snow Monster. At two and a half years old, you’d think it would be a scary character to him, but Tim, his father, made him a fun character when he’d put his hands up and go “Awrrrr!” in a playful way. Now when Bumble looses all his teeth, Sean goes, “Oh no, Bumble.” It got to the point where we had to fast forward to the point where they meet Bumble. Just in case you’ve never seen the animated special of Rudolph, it has a happy ending. When Bumble gets pushed over the cliff, along with Yukon Cornelius, they don’t get killed because Bumbles bounce. Bumble becomes a good Snow Monster and because he’s so tall, gets a job in Santa’s toy factory putting the star on top of Christmas trees.

 Sean holding his Bumble. Rudolph is about acceptance of everyone, 
even Bumble, a scary Abominable Snow Monster.

“Rudolph” also has a great message for, not just children, but for all of us, especially at this time of year. Rudolph was different and because of his appearance he was made fun of and called names by the other reindeer. They wouldn’t even let him play games with them. Rudolph felt alone and picked on. He became sad and depressed. Does that sound familiar? We hear a lot about bullying these days. 

Hermey, the elf, doesn’t want to be a toymaker like all the other elves. He wants to become a dentist. He has different ambitions and doesn’t fit in. How often do we put someone down or discourage them when they want to be something other than what we think they should be?

When Rudolph and Hermey run away, they find where the misfit toys have been discarded. These toys have something wrong with how they look or how they work. They have imperfections and defects. In the end, even the misfit toys find children who are thrilled to have them. The great thing about the Rudolph TV program is that it shows us we don’t have to be perfect to be special. You can be different and still be accepted. How many of you have felt like you didn’t fit in? Maybe you have physical traits that make you different. Maybe you didn’t think you were smart enough or good looking enough. Maybe you were too tall, too short, too heavy, or too thin. The list goes on and on. I know I have plenty of imperfections, but we are what we are, and that’s all right. 

Rudolph is much more than just a cartoon story during the Christmas season. It’s peace on earth and good will toward one another. It’s about accepting each other for who we are. Each and every one of you is special. From my side of the fence to yours, “Have a great Christmas season.”    

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I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas

Across the Fence #526

I think all of you are aware of the song “White Christmas,” written by Irving Berlin in 1940. At the time, he said to his secretary, “Grab your pen and take down this song. I just wrote the best song I’ve ever written – heck, I just wrote the best song that anybody’s ever written.” That’s a pretty bold statement.

The first performance of the song was by Bing Crosby on the Kraft Music Hall radio show on Christmas Day, 1941. In 1942 it was sung as a duet by Bing and Marjorie Reynolds (although her voice was dubbed by Martha Mears) in the musical Holiday Inn. It won an Oscar for the best song of the year. Hundreds of other singers have recorded it since that time, but its still associated with Bing Crosby by most people. When I hear him sing White Christmas, it brings back all kinds of images and memories of Christmas. His recording of White Christmas is listed as the best selling single of all time, with over 50 million records sold. It looks like Irving Berlin knew what he was talking about.

It was during World War II, and the song really resonated with service men and women, and also their families who were left at home. Those who found themselves far from home and fighting a war on two fronts, could only dream of how Christmas used to be. The same was true for those on the home front who were separated from their loved ones during Christmas. It must have been a lonely time for everyone. The lyrics say it all. “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know, where the treetops glisten, and children listen, to hear sleigh bells in the snow. I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, with every Christmas card I write. May your days be merry and bright, and may all your Christmases be white.” It’s a song about family, home, holidays, love, and longing for a more peaceful world than the one they found themselves involved in during World War II.

When troops were near a radio they could listen to Armed Forces Radio and hear Christmas songs, including White Christmas. Almost every week, Bob Hope broadcast his radio show from a different military base. For over 50 years he continued entertaining troops around the world with his annual Christmas show. Every show included someone singing White Christmas, and ending the show with Silent Night.

I was one of the lucky ones who got to see the Bob Hope Show in 1966, when they performed for us at the 4th Infantry Division’s base camp in the Central Highlands near Pleiku, Vietnam. I had just recovered from a slight case of Malaria, and was able to attend the show with several thousand other guys. Many of us from our unit sat on the side of a hill a long way from the stage. Not exactly ringside seats but at least we were there. That year Bob had Phyllis Diller, Vic Damone, Anita Bryant, Joey Heatherton, the Kim Sisters, Miss World, and of course, Les Brown and his band of renown. The show lasted about two hours. Seeing so many troops assembled in one place, we realized a few enemy rockets or mortar rounds could have been disastrous during the show. That morning before the show, two of our company trucks were blown up, and some people were wounded. I’ll give Bob Hope and the performers who accompanied him credit. They were definitely in harm’s way, especially in Vietnam, where there were no front lines. Every place they performed was surrounded by enemy territory.

As far as we could tell, Bob Hope was on stage. Not exactly ringside seats, but we did share a pair of binoculars to check out the women on stage.

Near the end of the show White Christmas was sung. I know I wasn’t the only person who felt sad and homesick listening to the song, as I thought of Christmas back on the farm with snow, a decorated Christmas tree, and our family all together, enjoying a peaceful holiday. As Anita Bryant sang Silent Night to close the show, I looked around me and saw a lot of battle-hardened young men with tears rolling down their cheeks, as they quietly sang along with her. I would bet the veterans of World War II and Korea felt the same way we did as they listened to those songs when they were far from home and family during Christmas.

Whenever I think of those two Christmases I spent in the army, I’m reminded how important home and family are, especially during the Christmas season. I think most of us don’t even mind a little snow to make it a white Christmas. If you live in the North Country like we do, it’s tradition. Snow is a part of who we are. 

After Thanksgiving is over and the last piece of turkey leftovers have been consumed, we get out the 1954 movie musical, White Christmas, starring Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, Rosemary Clooney, and Vera Ellen. The movie begins on Christmas Eve, 1944, somewhere on the European front during World War II. Needless to say, Bing Crosby sings White Christmas in the movie, and then our Christmas season begins. 

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas…

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It's Time To Speak My Piece

Across the Fence #525

If you have young children or grandchildren, you’ve probably heard this verse. “I am a snowflake as special as can be, there is nobody else exactly like me.” That comes from Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood, a cartoon adaption of Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. Just like Mr. Rogers always had a positive message for young children, Daniel Tiger also has positive stories for children. In this case, it’s time for the Christmas program, and Daniel Tiger gets to recite this “piece” to open up the program and welcome the people. 

I think most of us have had to get up in front of family, friends, and strangers at some point in our life and recite a piece. It can be a terrifying experience, not just for young children, but for grownups too. It can also be a great confidence booster when you recite your lines, even though you’re terrified, and deliver them like you’d practiced them a hundred times. When the audience claps, you walk off the stage feeling on cloud nine.

Author Jerry Apps tells the story about his first piece when his one-room school held their Christmas program. He didn’t want to do it. He felt like the majority of us do when we’re faced with the prospect of standing in front of an audience and reciting our piece. His teacher told him to look at the damper on the stove pipe in the back of the room. That way, everyone would think he was looking at them, but he was really concentrating on the damper. It worked and he delivered his lines with no problems. Jerry is now a wonderful speaker and storyteller. He told that story at a recent talk at the Weber Center in La Crosse. He then jokingly said, you thought I was looking at you, but I was looking at the back of the room. All of us could have listened to Jerry talk for hours!

My relative, Marjorie Haugen, could still recite her first piece seventy years after she delivered her lines at Smith School. The year was 1931 and they were living on a farm my great grandfather Sherpe owned on Hove Hill, just south of Westby, where Sherpe Road now joins Highway 14.

Marjorie said she was almost four years old and would start school the next fall. The teacher, Sadie Roiland, another of our relatives, sent a note to her parents asking if she would take part in the Christmas program, along with a “piece” that she wanted her to memorize. Marjorie said her mother (Agnes Steenberg) and her recited that “piece” over and over. Her mother must have done a good job, because Marjorie remembered it until the day she died!

“Of all the Santa Claus pictures that I have seen in my young days – there is one thing about them that I would really like to know! Does he travel with a wagon when there ain’t no snow?”

Just like Daniel Tiger, Marjorie was the first one on the program, so she didn’t know where to stand, because not being in school yet, she hadn’t rehearsed with the rest of the students. She walked up on the stage and stood way over in the corner. Sadie didn’t correct her, she was just happy that Marjorie was brave enough to say her “piece.” The part Marjorie remembered most about that evening was Santa coming with a bag of candy for them, and she wondered why Santa wore a barn jacket instead of a red one? I told Marjorie that Santa was getting older and may have forgotten where he left his jacket, and borrowed a barn jacket from a farmer near Smith School.

I don't have any photos of our Christmas programs, but this is a photo of Smith School students in 1955 standing in the front of the room that became the stage during our programs. I'm standing 4th from the left. My brother, David, is seated, second from the right. Our teacher was Katheryn Navrestad, standing at right. There were only 20 students in all eight grades that year. Four students are missing from the photo.

Twenty years after Marjorie stood on the stage at Smith School, I found myself in front of a packed schoolroom on the same stage, and had to recite my piece. I have no memory of what I said or if I was able to deliver my lines. All I can tell you is that I was petrified, not just terrified. All those faces staring at me. Unlike Jerry App’s teacher, mine didn’t tell me to look past the audience. All I saw were “thousands” of people. OK, it wasn’t thousands. I don’t think Smith School could have held a hundred people if they were packed in shoulder to shoulder, but to a young, petrified child who was afraid he’d become tongue-tied and forget his piece, it was a traumatic experience. I must have survived because I’m still here.

Eventually, the Christmas program became a highlight of our days at Smith School. As we got older we graduated from just saying a piece to having parts in the short Christmas plays we performed. Because we didn’t have an abundance of students, we often had more than one part in a play. One year I had two parts in A Christmas Carol. I ended up also playing the father, when Joel Thompson came down with the measles the day before the program. Luckily, we all knew each other’s lines because we’d been practicing our “pieces” for weeks.

The Christmas program was an important part of our education and the life of our rural community. As we learned “how to speak our piece,” we learned memorization, public speaking, and how to confront and overcome our fears. That’s a pretty good education.

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It's Time To Talk About Spam

Across the Fence #524

No, I’m not talking about those irritating messages that fill up your e-mail inbox every morning. If you have e-mail I imagine you’re as sick of Spam mail as I am. So we won’t talk about Spam. Let’s talk about the “real” Spam instead.

Now that Thanksgiving is behind us, and many people are still as stuffed as the turkey, it’s probably not the best time to talk about food. I’m not talking about just any old food, I’m talking about Spam… that mysterious meat that comes in a tin and is the staple of every household’s menu. OK, it’s safe to say it wouldn’t be found on the pantry shelf of everyone who reads Across the Fence.

Lets see a show of hands. How many of you know what Spam is? How many of you have eaten it? How many of you can honestly say you like it? Just so you know, my hand was raised for all three questions.

For those of you who have led a sheltered life and not been exposed to Spam, let me give you a brief history so you won’t be in the dark when it comes to this icon of a product. Spam is a pre-cooked meat product made by Hormel Foods Corporation, headquartered in Austin, Minnesota (also known as “Spam Town USA”). It was first introduced in 1937.

The ingredients in the classic Spam product are chopped pork shoulder meat, with ham meat added. There’s also salt, water, modified potato starch for a binder, sugar, and sodium nitrite as a preservative. That gelatinous glaze you see when you open a tin of Spam, forms when the meat stock is cooled. It has a pink color that turns to brownish-red when fried.

I remember eating Spam quite often when I was young. It was just another type of meat and I never gave it a second thought. It didn’t look that appetizing when it came out of the tin, but after Ma sliced it up and cooked it in a frying pan, I liked it and still do. I think the main reason we often had Spam was because of its affordability. Spam was often stigmatized as “poor people’s food.” Because of that, many people wouldn’t buy it because they didn’t want to be perceived as poor. I have no problem putting it in our shopping cart. It was good enough for our family when I was young and it’s still good enough for me now.

Spam became popular during World War II because fresh meat was hard to get to the soldiers on the front lines. Spam didn’t spoil in the heat and it was easier to get the tins delivered to remote areas than perishable items. Soldiers often had Spam for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Some soldiers referred to Spam as “ham that didn’t pass the physical,” and “meatloaf without basic training.” They referred to Spam as “Special Army Meat.” That’s like we later called dried beef on toast, SOS, “S--- On Shingle” when I was in the army. SOS must have replaced Spam in the Army diet.

We could have used some care packages of Spam in Vietnam. When we were out on long operations, our diet consisted of C-rations and anything else we could scrounge up to eat. Sometimes we combined several C-rations and dumped the contents of each can in a steel pot (helmet). We’d cut up vegetables borrowed from Montegnard gardens we found in the remote countryside. We mixed the whole concoction together and placed the helmet over a heat source to warm it up. Sometimes we used C-4 explosives. Our demolition guys knew how much to use without blowing up our food. Then we all dipped our empty C-ration cans into the wonderful conglomeration and had a hot meal while sitting out in the boonies. If only we’d had some Spam to slice and dice and add to the mix, what a glorious meal we could have enjoyed.

Cooking up a meal in a steel pot. May, 1967

I still like it. I like it fried, but you can microwave it too if you’re in a hurry. You can have Spam and eggs or a Spam sandwich. Put a couple slices in a bun or sandwich, add some catsup, and enjoy your meal. You can also slice and dice it, brown it up and throw it in with some beans or rice. You can even make a Spam taco or sub sandwich. My mouth starts to water just thinking about all the possibilities.

Spam is more than just another form of meat. It’s become part of many jokes and urban legends, and become a part of pop culture and folklore. And of course the name “Spam” was given to unwanted e-mail. That’s what most people think of now when they hear the word. How many other foods have their own museum? You can visit the Spam Museum next time you’re in Austin, Minnesota. If you’re in Waikiki, Hawaii the last weekend in April you can attend the Spam Jam. There’s the annual Spam Parade and Festival in Shady Cove, Oregon, and the yearly Spamarama Festival in Austin, Texas. There are also numerous Spam cook-offs around the world. Maybe we need a Spam-cook-off along with our Chili cook-offs.

Think of all the possibilities that Spam presents. I better alert the grocery stores. There may be a run on Spam products in the coming weeks!


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There's Much To Be Thankful For

Across the Fence #523

Thanksgiving week begins the eleventh year of “Across the Fence,” and I’m thankful for all of you who read it every week. My thanks also to all the newspapers that run my column. Thanks to the publishers and editors who have provided the opportunity for us to visit across the fence each week. I’m very grateful. If you like reading “Across the Fence” be sure to thank those publishers and editors for including it in their papers.

During Thanksgiving there’s one song that I’ll always associate with the season. “Over the River and Through the Woods” is a song about taking a trip to visit grandparents and other family members on Thanksgiving Day. The new snow and cold weather that descended upon us, fits right in with this old song that we learned and sang in our one-room country school many years ago. “Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go; the horse knows the way to carry the sleigh through the white and drifted snow. Over the river and through the wood, oh, how the wind does blow! It stings the toes and bites the nose, as over the ground we go.” 

Things have changed a lot since those days, but I still love that song. Truth be told, a lot of things have changed. Now WE are the grandparents in our family. Our grandparents are gone and our parents and our children’s grandparents are gone. Except for my Amish friends, I don’t know anyone else that travels by horse and sleigh to grandmother’s house. This grandpa and grandma will be traveling by car to our daughter and son-in-law’s house for Thanksgiving. Our grandson and granddog will be there to greet us at the door. We’ll travel over some rivers and through some woods, and if this snow keeps up, we’ll be going through the white and drifted snow. The wind may blow, but it won’t sting our toes or bite our nose because we’ll travel in the heated comfort of our car. Travel was much more challenging for our ancestors when they made those Thanksgiving trips in an unheated sleigh. 

Our families are now spread out across the country, from coast to coast. At our Hanson cousin’s reunion last summer, we reminisced about the days when everyone got together at our grandparent’s or one of the aunt and uncle’s places for Thanksgiving when we were young. Things have changed a lot since those days when most of us lived within walking distance of each other, except for our Indianapolis cousins.

When our kids were young, we lived in Madison. We alternated Thanksgivings, going to Linda’s folks in Platteville one year, and my folks in Westby the next year. It was usually case weather when we went to Westby, and we had to help take down tobacco. That’s when there’s heavy fog and the cured tobacco leaves get pliable enough to take it down from the shed without ruining the leaves. Seems like there was case weather every Thanksgiving we spent in Westby. Now that tobacco isn’t raised here anymore, it’s always cold and snowy during Thanksgiving. It got harder to climb up in the shed every year. I liked doing that when I was young, but I’m thankful this Thanksgiving that I don’t have to do it anymore.

This winter weather gets tougher to endure as I get older. When I was young, we could hardly wait to get out and play in the snow. When I was cross country ski racing, I couldn’t wait for the first snow to arrive so I could strap my skis on and hit the trails. Today I looked outside and it was snowing again. At first I was thinking what a long winter this was going to be. It was 3 degrees in Sherpeland last night. Then as I sat and watched the snowflakes gently falling against the backdrop of the pine trees west of the house, the beauty of winter came back to me. I decided to go for a hike in the falling snow. I have two arthritic hips and my “good” hip has been bothering me lately. It would have been much easier to just sit on my butt inside where it’s warm, but life’s too short to let some minor problems hold us down.

As Norwegians say, “There’s no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes.” I dressed appropriately and out into the cold and falling snow I went. I walked around the back forty, over to Birch Hill, and back around the fields of the farm. I examined animal tracks in the snow, followed deer and coyote trails to see where they went, listened to birds singing, and enjoyed the beauty of the the falling snow and the winter wonderland it was creating. It was exhilarating and therapeutic. My arthritic hips didn’t even complain about the workout they received.

I find a special joy while exploring and enjoying the solitude of nature. It lifts my spirits. John Burroughs said, “I go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order.”

We have much to be thankful for. This Thanksgiving, may your stuffing be tasty, your turkey plump, and may your potatoes and gravy have nary a lump. Have a great Thanksgiving.

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Ten Years and Still Counting

Across the Fence #522

This column brings the curtain down on the tenth year of writing “Across the Fence.” I hope the honeymoon isn’t over and you’re still taking time to visit with me each week. I read a statistic that the average American marriage lasts around eight years these days. Thanksgiving week will begin our eleventh year and thanks to all of you, we’ve got that average beat.

I want to welcome the readers of the Spring Grove Herald in Spring Grove, Minnesota to Across the Fence. I’ve been in correspondence with Beth Peterson, Editor and General Manager, and they ran my introductory column last week. Spring Grove is another community with deep Norwegian roots and I appreciate the opportunity to visit with you each week.

During Halloween, the Peanut’s classic, “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” was shown on TV again. This was the first year our grandson, Sean, saw the story and really liked when Snoopy rides atop his dog house and battles the Red Baron. We had to watch it with him a couple times when we visited last weekend. I was glad to see how he reacted to the show because I’ve always been a Charles Schulz fan.

"It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" bobbleheads.

Growing up, I loved the Peanuts cartoon strip. I loved the way it told a story using a simple cartoon style and great writing. I drew cartoons in my spare time when I was young. I thought they were great and sent some off to magazines. After many rejection letters, I, just like Charlie Brown, was afraid to look in the mailbox for fear of another rejection. As I struggled to become a famous cartoonist, my ideas, and even my characters, often mirrored Charles Schulz. I still have those old cartoons and cringe when I look at them now. 

I developed a strip and took it to the newspaper in Viroqua, thinking they’d be thrilled to run it. They took the time to politely look at them, but weren’t interested. More rejection. I was beginning to feel more and more like good ole’ Charlie Brown. I drew more strips called “Coon Prairie,” and took them to my hometown paper, the Westby Times. The publishers at the time had known me since I was a little kid. I think they took pity on me and said they’d publish them… for nothing of course. I was thrilled.

A couple months later I started commercial art school in Madison. One day I showed my “Coon Prairie” cartoon strip to an instructor. I thought they were pretty good. He didn’t see things the same way. He asked how much the newspaper was paying me per week for them. I told him I wasn’t getting paid. He just shook his head and said, “Howard, your art and writing is worth nothing if you give it away. Are you here to learn how to make a living with your art and writing, or are you just taking up a space that someone who’s serious about this could have?” He then said, “Instead of giving your work away, at least charge a dollar. Then it’s worth something. If they aren’t willing to pay one dollar, maybe it IS worth nothing.” 

   

When I sent the next cartoon to the paper, I asked if I could get a dollar a week for them. (A dollar in 1964 is worth around $7.50 in 2014 money.) I never heard a word back from them, and they didn’t publish any more of my cartoons. And Charlie Brown thought he felt rejected! I learned a valuable lesson from my professor. That was the end of my highly unpaid, cartooning career. 

I’ve found that writing and cartooning have their similarities. In cartooning, you’re trying to tell a story using words and pictures. In writing, you’re trying to tell a story using words to paint a picture in the reader’s mind. It’s always a challenge. As Ben Logan said, “Writing’s a lot of work. A lot of time is spent rewriting and editing.” I agree. I spend about one third of my time writing a story and two-thirds rewriting and editing. Once the story’s in print, I’ll still see things I wish I’d said differently. Due to newspaper deadlines and printing schedules, I’m always working eight days ahead of when the story appears in the paper. If I talk about the weather, it’s probably changed completely by the time you read it. For those of you in the Midwest, winter has arrived in full force as I write this story. I hope it’s all melted by the time you read this. It’s too early and I’m not ready.

Speaking of winter, congratulations to my friend, Jerry Apps. He just won an Emmy Award for the PBS special, “A Farm Winter with Jerry Apps.” If you haven’t seen this hour-long special and it’s companion PBS special, “Jerry Apps: A Farm Story,” I highly recommend them. It’s a trip back in time to the way things were when many of us grew up, told only as Jerry Apps can tell a story. Put the DVDs on your Christmas wish list for Santa Claus.

As we approach Thanksgiving, be sure to thank the publisher and editor who run “Across the Fence” in your newspaper. Now let’s begin year eleven!

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Thank A World War II Veteran

Across the Fence #521

This week we celebrate Veteran’s Day. It honors all veterans who served at any time in any capacity. Peacetime or wartime, everyone who served did their part. They were ready to step forward if called upon to defend our country or a foreign country. I would like to focus on World War II veterans in this column.

Do you know what D-Day was and where it took place? One day I was having a conversation with a young man in his 20’s. He wanted to know if I was a member of the Baby Boomer generation. I told him, no, I was even older, I was part of the Silent Generation. I said I was born during World War II, a month before D-Day. That’s when he asked me what D-Day was. You could have heard my jaw hit the floor.

I guess we should never take anything for granted. Never assume that everybody knows about scientific facts or some major event from history, just because we do. At an age that many would consider elderly, I’m beginning to wonder what kind of science and history are being taught in schools and colleges. First I read in a Gallup poll, that 4 in 10 Americans believe the earth was created less than 10,000 years ago. Then I find out that a major event during my lifetime, D-Day, isn’t even known about. I realize some schools teach different versions of science and creation, but I thought they all covered historical events, especially an important one like D-Day that changed the course of World War II.

I thought maybe it was just that this young man hadn’t been paying attention in history class the day they talked about World War II. Maybe there was a big football game that evening and his mind was on the game. I decided to ask a second young, college graduate if they knew what D-Day was. They didn’t know either. 

That’s when I decided to see if this lack of knowledge was widespread. I started doing some research and read a column by American journalist, Cal Thomas, who also bemoaned the loss of knowledge about American history in a D-Day, 70th anniversary column that he titled, “D-Day=Dumb Day for Too Many.” He cited statistics in a study by the American Council of Trustees and Alumni (ACTA). Only 40% of Americans know what D-Day is and that it took place on June 6, 1944. Also, only 70% of recent college graduates knew that D-Day occurred during World War II, and 10% of them thought the beach where the invasion took place was Pearl Harbor. Mr. Thomas then remarked about the World War II veterans visiting the beaches of Normandy, probably for the last time in their lives, “if they could have foreseen what America would become and how little their descendants know, or care, about their sacrifices, would they have done what they did? They probably would because of their character.”

The anticipation just before hitting the beach.

I agree with Mr. Thomas. I think they would still have done what they did because they were part of what’s been called “the greatest generation.” That’s why those statistics sadden and bother me. For anyone who may not know what D-Day is, let me give you a brief history lesson. On June 6, 1944, more than 160,000 Allied forces landed on the beaches of Normandy, France, along a 50-mile stretch of heavily-fortified coastline.This initiated the effort to liberate mainland Europe from Hitler’s Nazi occupation during World War II. It was the largest airborne and seaborne invasion in history. More than 5,000 naval vessels and 13,000 aircraft took part in the D-Day invasion. There were over 10,000 allied casualties, with 4,414 confirmed dead. The exact number of casualties may never be known. Many of the men killed on the beaches of Normandy had never heard of it until a few weeks before they landed. We can’t even imagine the horrors those men endured during that invasion. Their actions changed the course of the war. The foothold they gained on D-Day, gradually expanded as they gained more ground and led to the allied victory over Germany in Europe. People alive today, need to remember those veterans.

Hundreds of books have been written about D-Day and movies have been made about it. The Longest Day, Band of Brothers, and Saving Private Ryan, are three of the more famous ones.  

There were 16,112,566 members of the United States Armed Forces during World War II. As of September 9, 2014, the Department of Veterans Affairs estimated that 1,017,208 American veterans from that war were still alive. They are dying at the rate of 555 per day. By the end of 2014, there could be less than one million World War II veterans left. If you know a World War II veteran, thank them for their service and the many sacrifices they made. If you know a D-Day veteran, let them know that you remember and appreciate what they did to help bring about the defeat of Hitler’s forces, liberate Europe, and keep freedom in the world alive.

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Were We Born Too Soon?

Across the Fence #520

My brother, Arden, wondered if we had been born too soon. The headline of a story in the La Crosse Tribune on October 22, 2014, said “Renewed efforts to ban child labor on tobacco farms.” The story says the Human Rights Watch is pushing tobacco companies to adopt stronger child labor policies, by introducing legislation and urging the Department of Labor to take action. They are looking for legislation to ban kids under 18 from working on farms that raise tobacco. 

I guess we were born too soon. We worked in the tobacco fields from the time we were old enough to carry a hoe and chop out weeds. I must have been pretty young, because we were hoeing tobacco when my cousin Sandy, informed me that Santa Claus wasn’t real, it was just my folks. My world came crashing down around me. I threw down my hoe and went running to the house, hoping my mother would tell me it wasn’t so. You always remember those traumatic experiences, especially when hoeing tobacco. 

By the time I was ten years old I was planting tobacco. We raised 10-12 acres every year. Arden reminded me how Dad would pour a chemical poison into the water barrel on the tobacco planter. I think it was to kill cutworms that destroyed the plants. We got a lot of that poisoned water on our hands as we “dropped” plants. At coffee time we sat down and ate our food with our dirty, chemically-treated fingers. We never thought twice about poison being on our hands and getting into our system. We never got sick, and I’m happy to report I never had cutworms, so it must have worked. Worms from eating dirt is another story.

Piling tobacco: L-R: Cousin Sandy, Aunt Juna, Howard and David.

The tobacco was bigger than we were. Photo-1951 or 52.

Helping with tobacco and other farm chores was our way of life. If there were any child labor laws at that time, we certainly didn’t know about them. I don’t think government laws tried to dictate our every move in those days. If someone had come around and told my Dad his kids couldn’t do any kind of work with tobacco until they were 18, I think he’d have shown them where the carpenter made the door, and “Don’t let it hit you in the butt on the way out.”

By the time we were 18, we’d been doing every job associated with tobacco for many years. We watered tobacco beds, picked tobacco plants, planted tobacco, replanted tobacco by hand, hoed weeds, cultivated tobacco, topped tobacco, suckered tobacco, sprayed sucker-control chemicals on tobacco, cut tobacco, piled tobacco, speared tobacco, hauled tobacco, hung tobacco in the shed, took down tobacco during case weather, stripped tobacco, and spread tobacco stalks on the field using the manure spreader. Did I leave anything out? 

Tobacco was a lot of hand labor and back-breaking work. It included kids doing child labor if that’s what you want to call it. That was life on the farm, and everyone who grew up on a farm helped with the work from the time they were old enough to do a job. We complained about having to work all the time, but I don’t think it hurt us. We learned early in life how to work. 

I’ll admit we ate a lot of food using tobacco-stained hands. It was hard to wash off. We used Lava soap that also took your skin off if you rubbed too hard. Gary, who also grew up with tobacco, said they used green tomatoes to get the tobacco juice off. We never tried that. We also drank water from a clear Mason jar when we were in the field. Sometimes the water had tobacco juice swirling around in it if a tobacco chewer had been drinking from it. Personal water bottles, bought in a store, were unheard of in those days.

We chopped down tobacco with a light weight axe that was so sharp it could slice through a leather shoe and sever a toe if you got careless. Spearing plants onto a tobacco lath held it’s dangers too, as you grabbed a plant, held it against the spearpoint and pulled. A misplaced hand on the stalk could put the spearpoint into your hand.

We hauled tobacco, lifting heavy laths onto the wagon, then crawled up in the shed and balanced on thin, round poles. Poles would sometimes roll or break. If you were lucky, you managed to grab other poles to help break your fall. Sometimes people got seriously hurt or killed falling out of a shed.

Farming is not sitting at a desk, like I did for many years, and maybe suffering a paper cut! Farming is a dangerous job, and sometimes people get hurt, even if they follow all the safety rules. On our farm, no one ever got seriously hurt. Somehow, we survived all the dirt, poisons, and chemicals. We even drank raw milk every day and I don’t remember anyone getting sick. I think we try to protect people too much these days. I read that our upbringing heavily influences who we are and what we do. 

Maybe all of us farm kids were born too soon, but we learned how to work at an early age, and I think that served us well no matter what type of work we went into later.

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