How We Communicate Has Changed

Across the Fence #484

Once upon a time in the world of communications, a real person answered the phone when you made a telephone call. Some of you can remember the days when you cranked your wall phone and a local operator answered and connected you with the person you were trying to reach. If you were calling someone on your party line you just cranked the long and short number of rings of your party and they answered.

People still use telephones, but how we use them has changed. I still remember our number was three long rings. When the phone rang we had no idea who was calling, but we always answered it. Chances were, it was someone we knew. I don’t think the term telemarketer even existed back then. Now we avoid them like the plague.

Things have really changed since those days. Now you’re more likely to get an answering machine or voice mail than a real person answering the phone. If you’re calling a cell phone number, good luck. Unless you send a text message, you’ll probably wait a long time to get a call-back if you leave a voice mail. It seems to me that people don’t like talking to each other anymore. They’d rather type and send text messages to communicate.

Fast forward fifty plus years from those days when we had a wall phone that you cranked. Now we have all kinds of fancy, high-tech phones to communicate. We also have call waiting, voice mail, answering machines, and different ring tones to let us know we’ve received a call. We don’t want to miss an incoming call from someone. But, we also have Caller ID on our phones and televisions that allow us to see who’s calling. Then we can decide whether we want to answer that call or pretend we aren’t home and just let it ring. If it’s a number we don’t recognize, or what looks like a telemarketing call, we can let the call go to voice mail and they can leave a message. Life has certainly changed, hasn’t it?

That was residential calling. What about business calls? Isn’t it great when you call a business and a real person answers the phone, instead of a recording that asks you to press a bunch of numbers? I work in the communication business. When you call our office, a person answers the phone. If all the lines are occupied, you’re asked to wait until someone answers, or you can dial the extension of the person you’re trying to reach if you know their number.

I bet you’ve called a business and the first thing the automated voice tells you is “Press 1 for English.” I thought this was America where English is the first language. All my grandparents came from Norway. They spoke only Norwegian when they arrived, but they all learned how to speak English. Norwegian was spoken when they were with other Norwegians, but English was used outside the home. Our parents didn’t try to teach us the Norwegian language. My father told us, “We’re in America and you’ll speak American (English)!” I guess that statement sunk in because it still irks me when that automated voice asks me to select English.

This story came about when I tried to book a hotel room recently. The hotel is located in Middleton, Wisconsin. Here again, I like to talk to a real person, so I called the 800 number instead of booking the room online. An automated voice answered the phone. I guess I should have expected that. Then I was given the usual press the number quiz, and yes, I speak English. Unfortunately, the person who finally answered was very hard to understand. I knew from the accent I was connected to a call center in India. I explained that I wanted to book a room for two nights and told him the dates. He wanted to know what hotel I wanted. I won’t use the name of the hotel to protect the guilty, but I thought I was calling the hotel location, not India. I told him the name of the hotel. He gave me the address of a hotel in Middleton, Ohio. I told him no, it’s in Middleton, Wisconsin. After having him repeat questions several times because I couldn’t understand him, I finally got a room booked for two nights. Then I asked for my AARP discount since I knew they had one. Hey, there has to be some advantages for getting old. He didn’t know if it was available and told me he would check. Pretty soon the line went dead and the beep, beep, beep started. 

I hung up and began the whole process over again. This time a woman answered, also with a thick Indian accent. When we got to my senior discount she also had to check and I expected the line to go dead again. This time she came back and said the AARP discount wasn’t available that weekend. I was so exasperated at that point I just booked the room.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could talk to a person in this country, at the place we’re calling instead of a foreign call center? Maybe that would help our unemployment rate too! I guess it’s too much to wish we could bring back that friendly, local operator.

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Drifting Snow Made Winters Tough

Across the Fence #483

We’ve had some huge drifts on Sherpe Road this winter. It’s reminiscent of past winters when I was young. At one time we were the only farm with access on this road. There wasn’t a lot of traffic traveling past our farm. Most days the mailman and milk hauler were the only people who used our road. It wasn’t exactly a place where you had to worry about traffic backups, unless you got behind our tractor pulling a wagon.

When we had big snowstorms, our road drifted shut and nobody came or went until the snowplow went through and opened it up. Arvid Harpestad was the snowplow operator in our area. He lived a couple of miles from our farm.

When Arvid arrived, he also plowed out our driveway and shoved the snow away from the machine shed so Dad could get the tractor out. He usually arrived around coffee time and Dad would invite him in to warm up and have some coffee. As anyone with Norwegian ancestry knows, coffee time was mid-morning and mid-afternoon. It wasn’t just a cup of coffee; it also included sandwiches, homemade cookies or cake, and sometimes even pie. I suspect Arvid timed it so he’d be plowing our road around coffee time. He knew my mother was a great cook and baker. If I had been operating a snowplow I’d have done the same.

The folks appreciated getting our road, driveway, and farmyard opened again so the mail could get to us and the milk hauler could pick up the milk and get it to the creamery. It also made it easier for us to get to school, which didn’t have the same degree of appreciation among us kids as it did our parents. Because Arvid was so good about giving us access to the outside world again, the least they could do was offer him some food and a chance to sit near the stove and warm up.

Arvid was a big man, built a lot like my father. I was in awe of him being able to operate that big snowplow. In the summertime he operated the road grader to smooth out our gravel road. I should mention, when I was young our road and most side roads were dirt or gravel, didn’t have names, and farms didn’t have fire numbers to designate their address. It wasn’t until later that names were assigned to all country roads and ours became Sherpe Road.

It makes you wonder how strangers ever found where someone lived. In our case we told people we lived on the side road west of Highway 14, located halfway between Tri-State Breeders and Smith School. Because we weren’t that far off the highway we weren’t very hard to find, except after a big snowstorm when huge drifts blocked our road. If a person came after coffee time, they had a much better chance of finding the road open after Arvid and his snowplow had arrived to dig us out.

David Sherpe and big drifts on Sherpe Road - 1959.

We also loved those big snow banks he left alongside the road. They were great to dig tunnels and snow caves in. Those big banks weren’t so great when the wind blew, which it did on a regular basis, and still does today, along Sherpe Road. Then the road filled back in and we were snowbound again until Arvid arrived to rescue us. The problem was, the bigger the snow banks became, the harder it was to keep them open because of the blowing and drifting snow. 

Winters were tough for farmers who lived on country roads, far from a main highway. When roads were drifted shut they had to wait until the snowplow arrived. If roads were blocked for several days, they ran out of cans and containers to put the milk in. If they lived close enough to a road that had been opened, they hauled the cans on sleds over the frozen fields. Tractors were useless because they could get through heavy drifts either. 

Several times Dad had to put the milk cans on a stone boat and physically pull it from the barn to the highway about a quarter mile away, where the milk hauler could pick up the cans. It was fairly easy going where the snow was drifted solid and he could walk on the top, but it was tough “sledding” where he kept breaking through the deep snow. Despite the hardships, farmers did whatever it required to get the milk to the creamery so they didn’t have to start dumping it in the snow. Dumping milk was a last resort because that was throwing hard-earned money away, although our many cats and dog loved it.

The huge March snowstorm in 1959 saw a lot of milk dumped when many farms were snowed in for a week. There was nothing else they could do. Everyone who remembers that storm has stories to tell. We spent several days at our grandparents who lived across from Smith School when we couldn’t get home because of the blizzard. It was a blizzard for the ages that people still talk about. 

Blizzards, snowdrifts, blocked roads, and cold weather are all a part of our life in the Midwest. As one friend told me, “Winter’s not for sissies.” How true that is.

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Make Love, Not War

Across the Fence #482

As I was searching through old notes and writings, looking for ideas for a Valentine’s Day column, I came across two items that seemed to go together. It was as if there was a story that I needed to tell.

In past columns that have dealt with Valentine’s Day, I’ve written about experiences at our one-room country school and how hard it was to decipher those messages on Valentines Day cards that came from girls at school. I also told about those little heart-shaped candies that had words on them. I think we’re all familiar with those hearts. All those stories were warm and fuzzy with a little puppy love thrown in. It was an innocent time as we were all trying to find our way in this world and how to relate to the opposite sex. For me, that was back during the 1950s.

Then came the early 60s, the beginning of a very turbulent time in our history. It was an interesting time, to say the least! It was filled with freedom marches, rioting in the streets, assassinations, the Vietnam War, and anti-war protests. It was a very violent time. Out of the American counterculture of the 1960s came the slogan “Make love, not war.” Those words were associated with, and used primarily by, those who opposed the Vietnam War. Since that time, we haven’t seen the kind of anti-war sentiment and protests that were so widespread during the 1960s. There was a lot of hate instead of love being shown.

Valentine’s Day should be a time of telling and showing people that we love them and that they are important in our lives. The older I get, the more that anti-war slogan, that I once hated and felt was directed at me, has become near and dear to my heart. I came across it again as I was looking for ideas and then remembered a journal entry I made in 1967 during the Vietnam War. Following is that journal entry, along with comments I made a year later.

“Today I ran into Doc Lebitz, one of the guys I went through basic and medic training with. He’s with the 3rd/8th, 4th Infantry, same unit as Cousin Bob. He said they’d spent a lot of the time in the boonies since they got here. They’ve been operating farther south and just arrived here in the Central Highlands about a month ago. It was nice seeing him and catching up on how everyone else was doing. We were all such a close bunch when we went through medic training together. We’re hoping we can go out on some operations together.

“Doc (Steve) and I share a love of writing. He’s been writing some short stories and poetry and read some of the things he’s written to me. They were really good. One of the poems he read was “Let’s Make Love Instead of War ” that he wrote around Valentine’s Day for his wife. He wants to become a writer when he gets out of here. Said he thought he’d write the great American war novel about this stinkin’ war. I told him to make sure he makes me into a hero in his book. In his usual humorous way he looked at me and said with a smile on his face, ‘Hey, I didn’t say it was going to be a book of fiction!’ I don’t doubt for a minute that he’ll write about this place when we get out of here. He wrote some great stories about our medic training back at Fort Sam that had us all rolling on the floor laughing. It was great seeing Steve again. He’s become a good friend.”

4th Infantry medics at LA Airport after we graduated from advanced medical training. Doc Lebitz in center with glasses. 

A year later I wrote: “Doc Lebitz never got a chance to write that great American novel about the war. He was Killed in Action. The world is poorer for his loss and we’ll never know what great writing he may have done if he had lived. Those of us who were his friends suffered a great loss when he died. When I think of him I think of all the lost potential because of war. How many aspiring authors never authored a book? Who among the casualties may have become a great doctor or scientist and perhaps would have discovered the key to curing a disease? How many future teachers were lost and will never be able to help and influence a child? These are the thoughts I have every time I think back to that day as we sat in the aid station and I listened to him read his writings, and him telling me with excitement in his voice and fire in his eyes, how he wanted to become a writer. I feel like we were all cheated because he didn’t get a chance to write that great “American” novel. We’ll never have the opportunity to read his words.”

I can never hear those words, “Make love, not war,” without thinking of him and what a tragedy and waste his death was. I think of all my stories that would never have been written if I had been killed instead of him. On this Valentine’s Day lets remember to love one another and put hate, prejudice, and war aside. Let’s make love, not war.

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The Winter of My Discontent

Across the Fence #481

I hope by the time you read this, we’re all enjoying warmer temperatures, less snow, and less wind. As I sit here writing, I can hear the wind roaring outside. When I went out to feed the birds late this afternoon, it was approaching whiteout conditions around our place. This area is known as Coon Prairie, but there isn’t a coon in sight. I think they all hitched rides and headed south knowing it was going to be a mighty cold winter.

I think most people have had enough of this winter and wish they’d followed the coons and gone south. It’s been a long time since we’ve had so many bitterly cold, below zero days. I’ll even use a line from Shakespeare, “Now is the winter of our discontent.” Spring can’t come fast enough. 

Even the grove of trees west of the house hasn’t afforded any protection this year. The wind comes swirling around the trees and keeps dumping more snow in our driveway. It’s been packed so hard its like cement. I could walk on top of the drifts yesterday and even my heavy-duty snowblower couldn’t budge it. I had to break up the snow with a shovel so the snowblower could handle it. From the sound of the wind, tomorrow morning will be more of the same. Our driveway is already drifted shut again. I’ve written before about how drifted Sherpe Road gets, especially back where we live. The road is most likely impassable now until a plow goes through. But, I’ll still need to get to work in the morning.

Drifts on Sherpe Road

Right now as I sit here in the winter of my discontent, I take back all the nice things I said about winter a few weeks ago. I’ve heard more than one person say, “Why the H are we living here instead of down south?” I’ve spent so much time snowblowing, shoveling, and breaking up the cement-like snow that by the time I’m finished, I’m too tired to go snowshoeing. I’m finding I’m not the spring chicken I still think I am. I should mention that the temperature is usually 12-15 below zero while I’m out there chipping away at the snow for an hour and a half, and the wind chill must be 35 or more below. 

Even with all my complaining, I’ve got it good compared to those who work outside in this weather. They deal with frozen water pipes, tractors and heavy equipment that won’t start, providing water and feed for cattle that are outside, plowing snow, delivering mail, helping when there’s an accident, fighting fires, constructing buildings, repairing cable and electrical lines, and the list goes on and on. I’m lucky, I have an inside job where it’s warm. My hat is off to all of you who work outside in this weather.  

Quoting the Bard again, “Blow, blow, thou winter wind, thou art not so unkind as man’s ingratitude.” Shakespeare is telling us that while nature may be difficult and harsh at times, it’s never evil or deliberately cruel, like man often is.

Those of us who live here in the upper Midwest know that winter is one of our seasons. We also know that it can be difficult and harsh living here at times. But we put up with the difficult times because there are so many glorious times. The rest of Shakespeare’s line is “Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer…” That’s what I try to remember when the wind is howling, the snow is blowing, and the temperature is plunging. Brighter, warmer, glorious days are coming. Even all that snow that’s piled in our driveway will be only a memory, as it gives way to green grass and flowers. Next time the temperature rises into the 90’s and the humidity is the same, and you start complaining about the heat, think back to this winter when you were freezing your buns off and the wind chill was 40 below zero. Maybe that hot weather isn’t so bad after all.

That subject came up a week ago as we were standing in foot deep snow, with the temperature at seven below, at the Coon Prairie Cemetery, waiting for Lincoln Stafslien’s funeral procession to arrive. I was part of the military honor guard and firing squad salute. It was cold and windy. Several of us were Vietnam veterans. We were talking among ourselves as we waited and said that we were glad we had served in the heat and humidity of Vietnam instead of the freezing cold and snow of Korea, or the Battle of the Bulge in World War II. 

Even though my fingers were so cold they hurt, I was glad to be there for Lincoln. I owed him this final sendoff, even if we were freezing. When I returned from Vietnam on July 4, 1967, I wouldn’t arrive in Minneapolis in time to get a connecting flight to La Crosse until the next morning. My mother said someone would drive to Minneapolis to get me. They called Lincoln and he gave up a family holiday to drive my father, my sister Janet, and brother Arden to Minneapolis to meet me. I will always be grateful. This may be the winter of our discontent, but I had a warm feeling as we saluted our friend Lincoln one last time.

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