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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