Old Barns Live On In Us

Across the Fence #532

Beneath the cold, frozen ground, the remains of the old barn lie undisturbed. Time and nature will eventually finish what man began. The large, wood timbers, wood siding and roof, will begin to rot and crumble, and return to the earth. The old stanchions and piping, the manure carrier track, milk cooler, and battered cupola that stood atop the barn, will eventually rust and deteriorate too. Only the large stones from the foundation and the silo staves will live on. Perhaps one day in the distant future someone will be digging a foundation and come across the remains of the old barn. They’ll wonder what structure was once located on this spot and what it looked like. Will they also wonder what the people were like who occupied this area and what they did here?

Those thoughts crossed my mind this week as I walked by the final resting place of the old barn, as I do almost every day. The house of my childhood also rests peacefully below the frozen ground, but that’s a story for another day. As I thought about the old timber frame barn, I was hit with a wave of nostalgia for a way of life that is gone from this farm and from so many farms in the country.

I wrote about the passing of our old barn seven years ago. I said, “The Old Barn, exact age unknown (100+ years), of rural Westby, passed into obscurity on June 2, 2008. The end came after a long and courageous battle against all the elements Mother Nature could throw at it over the years. Obsolescence and lack of maintenance are the enemies of old barns. They’ve become an endangered species. This old barn finally succumbed to the infirmities of old age and modern farming technology. It had outlived its usefulness.” 

That was a sad day. It was like witnessing a death in the family. The death of every old barn is a sad occasion. As each one falls, an important part of the rural landscape disappears and can never be replaced. That old barn has been gone and silent for seven years now, but it was once the hub of this farm and filled with life and activity. Stop for a moment, listen quietly, and you may be able to hear it come to life again in the attic of your memory bank, just as I did earlier this week. I know many of you have these same sounds, images, and smells, stored away.

The old barn, silo, and milk house in its final days. 

   

A symphony of sights and sounds envelops the barn. I see cows in the stanchions waiting to be milked, their tails swishing at the pesky flies of summer. I hear the clanging of the stanchions as they stretch their necks trying to steal their neighbor’s feed or hay. I smell the sweet odor of fresh silage. I see the barn cats milling around the overturned milk can lid, waiting for the meal of warm, fresh milk they know is coming. I hear the noisy motor that provides the suction for the milking machines. I smell the disinfectant in the water used to clean the cow’s teats. I hear the soft mooing of a cow; the voices of hungry calves; the clanking of milk pails; the banging of a milk can lid against another lid to remove a cover that was on too tight. I see barn swallows darting in and out through the open doors as they bring food to their newborns, huddled safely in nests affixed to the ceiling beams. All this in accompaniment to country music from the local radio station playing in the background.

One thing that stands out in my memory is the warm intimacy I found in that small barn that held 22 cows. This was especially true on cold, winter nights when the wind was howling outside and snow was flying. The warmth from the cows as we milked them provided a safe haven from the harsh world outside the stone walls of the barn. The low-light conditions provided by one, exposed light bulb in the center of the barn, added to the intimacy.

I also smell cured tobacco when I think of the barn. That’s where we stripped our tobacco each winter. Along with the smell of tobacco is the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee when Ma would bring lunch to the strippers in the barn each day.

The haymow was a great place to spend a rainy day playing, as the rain beat upon the roof and tin cupola on top of the barn. I’ve mentioned in other stories the tunnels we built with the bales, how we pretended we were paratroopers and jumped off the cross beams into loose hay piles below, played Tarzan while swinging on the hay rope, and climbed up the rope to the cupola and crawled inside. In the evening the haymow was a spooky place where our only source of light was a flashlight. You never knew what creature waited in the shadows to jump out and grab you as you threw the hay bales down the chute.

The sights, sounds, and smells associated with old barns rekindle so many memories in us. As I pass by the final resting place of our old barn, it will always be alive in spirit as long as those of us, who spent time there, still walk upon this earth.

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Sledding and Other Hazards

Across the Fence #531

One by one, the games and activities of our younger days are being banned and outlawed by the playground police, city councils, school administrations, and every Tom, Dick, and Harry who’s afraid of being sued if Little Tommy stubs his toe while walking across the playground. We’ve become a sue-happy society and everyone is walking scared. No one dares to run scared anymore.

The latest winter activity to join the hit list is sledding. If any of you have paid attention to the news lately, you probably heard that the City of Dubuque City Council voted to ban sledding on all but two parks in the city. First time offenders will be given a warning. A repeat offender will face a $750 fine. That’s a major uff da. I think we let a lot of drunk drivers off easier than that, and drunk driving is a lot more deadly offense in my book. 

People who were injured while sledding or skiing on city-owned property have brought lawsuits against cities across the country. When you get lawsuits involved, people get nervous. The next thing you know, there’s a new law or ordinance on the books banning the activity. 

How many of you have jumped on a sled of some sort and sailed down a snow-covered hill? It was fun, wasn’t it? How many of you have crashed and burned, run into a tree or rocks, banged up your tailbone when you landed after sailing over a jump, or heaven forbid, run into a barbed wire fence or almost got hit by a car? 

Yes, people get hurt sledding. The majority of the time it’s because they are fooling around, showing off, or doing something careless. I’ve been banged up a few times too. I broke my tailbone while sledding with the kids when they were in grade school. There was a great sledding hill near us at Cherokee School when we lived in Madison. One evening we went sledding with friends and their kids. We had one of those flexible, plastic sleds that looked more like a toboggan. We decided to go to the highest and steepest point of the hill so we could go over a small jump. Bad decision. Erik and Amy sat in front of me on the sled. Down the hill we went, faster than I had anticipated. We hit the jump and went airborne. So far so good. We were all yelling and having a great time. Then we landed. Since I was heavier, the back end hit the snow with a thud, right on my tailbone. We went out of control and were all thrown off. I rolled in the snow, yelling in pain this time. That ended our “fun” for the evening. I still have pain in my tailbone at times because of that moment of indiscretion. I was just glad it was me instead of the kids who got hurt. Did I ever think about suing the City of Madison because it was on school property? Of course not. I was careless going over a jump with that type of sled. People need to take responsibility for their own actions. We should have had one of those inflatable rubber tires you can sit in and go sliding down the hill. Speaking of other types of sleds, have you ever gone down a hill on a shovel, on a garbage can lid, or in a canoe? There are all kinds of ways to have fun sledding without expensive sleds, although I wouldn’t recommend the canoe. I have that from a reliable source.

Do I think sledding should be banned because you could possibly get hurt? Of course not. I could get hurt walking down the sidewalk if I hit a patch of slick snow or ice. I don’t bounce as good as I used to. 

Ready to do some serious skiing. 

L-R: Cousin Wayne Hanson, my brother, David, and me.

I can think of many activities and games that we played that wouldn’t be allowed on a playground today. We had a swing set at Smith School. We would swing as high as we could and then jump out as it swung forward and see who could jump the farthest. Was it dangerous? You bet, but that was part of the fun of doing it.

We played Flip Stick, also known as Vippe Pinne in Norwegian. I’ve written about that game before. It involved a flying stick and was dangerous. I doubt it would be allowed on any playground today. 

We went sledding and ski-jumped at Birch Hill during our noon recess. It was about a quarter mile walk from school. Was it dangerous? Yes, and sometimes we got banged up, but it was all part of the adventure. A scrape or bump from bouncing off a tree or rock was worn as a badge of courage. Some people would probably call it a badge of reckless stupidity. I’ll admit it was probably a bit reckless, but I wouldn’t call it stupid. No one was forcing us to do any of these activities. We did them because we loved doing them. We loved playing outside, doing physical activities, in all kinds of weather, regardless of the temperature. I’m glad no one was banning our games and activities.

I know people need to be careful, but lets not become a nation of wimps, sitting inside all day watching TV, playing computer games, and living in a sterile, fantasy world.

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The Wolf Moon Is Calling

Across the Fence #530

I sit quietly listening for the howl that never comes. Only the rushing of the cold north wind can be heard as it weaves its way through the naked branches of the trees. The limbs scrape against each other, creating ghostly sounds. The sky is overcast, blocking out the full moon of January that should make an appearance tonight. Snow has begun to arrive and will soon blanket the ground in a sea of white. It will muffle the howls, if there were any, but, there have been no wolves howling around this area during my lifetime. The wolves are howling someplace tonight, but not around our house. 

This January moon was called the Wolf Moon by the Native Americans who occupied this land before any of my ancestors set foot on it. It was wild, open land, with no fences or property lines to separate people. Trails through the wilderness connected villages and the people who lived in them. They had lived on this land for thousands of years before our ancestors displaced them and took over the land. Along the way we destroyed most of the buffalo and other food sources they had depended on. Another animal that was very important to them was also brought to the edge of extinction, the wolf. 

In the dark, sub-zero days and nights of January, winds and drifting snow made life a constant struggle for survival for the Native Americans and the early settlers. It was also a hard time for the birds and animals. They needed food to survive too. As the hungry wolves prowled the perimeters of their villages searching for food, the Native Americans who were huddled in their winter shelters, could hear the howling of the wolves. Perhaps they could see them sitting on a hilltop, silhouetted against the full moon sky and howling back and forth to each other. It must have been quite a sight and sound to a people who looked upon the wolf as a sacred animal. It seems only natural that they would call it the Wolf Moon. The wolf was revered and sacred among Native Americans, along with the buffalo and eagle. 

Many Native Americans credit the wolves for teaching them about the importance of family, of working together to hunt and gather food, and with protecting the family. Where wolves are revered and honored by Native Americans, they have become demonized and feared in other cultures. From the time we were young children we’ve been conditioned to fear them as the bad guy who is out to hurt us. Think of the stories, “Little Red Riding Hood” and “The Three Little Pigs.” Who’s the villain in those early childhood stories? The wolf, of course.

There’s a quote by Chief Dan George that I like. It can be applied to our interaction with animals or people. “If you talk to the animals they will talk to you and you will know each other. If you do not talk to them you will not know them, and what you do not know you will fear. What one fears, one destroys.”

Many years ago, I attended a veteran’s pow-wow in Hayward with a good friend who lived close to us in Madison. He was a member of the Lac Courte Oreilles Band of Lake Superior Chippewa. During the pow wow, they gave me an honorary Indian name, Lone Wolf, and a small eagle feather. Only Native American warrior veterans are allowed to possess and wear full size eagle feathers. I considered it a real honor to be given the name Lone Wolf. He said they had discussed it, and thought the name best fit my personality. I won’t bore you with their explanation, but if you really want to know, ask me sometime. After that, he always introduced me when we met people, including other Native Americans, as his brother, Ole (because I have Norwegian heritage). No one ever questioned whether I was a Native American. It probably helps that I have a dark complexion. Although a couple people looked at me with a quizzical look and said, “Ole… that’s a strange name for an Indian!”

See all the strange thoughts that come out of hiding during the full Wolf Moon of January. It’s mighty cold out there, just like the January’s of long ago when wolves still roamed the Coon Prairie. They’re all gone from around here, as far as I know. The only howling I’ll hear are echoes from the long-ago past. Maybe just for old time’s sake, I’ll raise my voice and howl at the full Wolf Moon. We’ll see if anyone answers. 

The last time I took the side of the wolf in a column, I received some interesting feedback. One anonymous individual wrote, “The only good wolf is a dead wolf.” Another wrote, “I hope the last sound you hear is the howl of a wolf before it kills you.” I thought that was a bit harsh, but people are very passionate when it comes to the subject of wolves. I imagine I’ll receive a bunch of negative comments again this time, but that’s all right, Brother Wolf and Ole, the old Lone Wolf, can take it.

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The Sun Rises On A New Year

Across the Fence #529

By the time you read these words, the sun will be shining on a new day and a new year. Life’s a mystery and we never know what adventures and challenges we’ll have as the sun rises on this new year. 

This past year saw major changes in my life when I retired after reaching 70 years of age. It was time. When I say I retired, I use that term loosely. I still write every week, still have my book publishing and advertising business, and now that I don’t have a “real” job, I can do more wood carving.

Retired people always say they’re so busy, they don’t know how they had time to work. I understand that remark now. The days fly by so quickly and I don’t accomplish half of what I’d intended to do. I don’t understand people who say they’re bored and there’s nothing to do. As long as we have our health and our mind, there are many things we can do, regardless of our age.

I’ll be the first to admit, I can’t do a lot of things like I did 50 years ago. I can’t even do them like I did 10 years ago. I used to do a lot of running. Now I walk instead of run. There’s less stress on my arthritic hips, and I can still go out and wander around the countryside. I’ll keep doing that as long as I possibly can. It’s good for the spirit to experience sunrises and sunsets. It lets you know you’re still alive and a small part of this tremendous universe.

We all have the power of choice. We can sit on our butt inside or we can get up, walk out the door, and experience the wonders of nature that surrounds us. When I think about running and making choices, it reminds me of an incident that took place 30 years ago. I ran in a lot of races over the years. Other than the annual 20-mile Syttende Mai run from Madison to Stoughton, Wisconsin, only one other race stands out in my mind. It was a hot, humid, summer race that took place in Verona, Wisconsin.

About the only photo of me running. Syttende Mai 20-mile run from Madison to Stoughton. Me at left (#880) and friend, Al Swain (#948).

Sometimes in life we’re presented with a choice, to either help someone or turn away. We may even have to put our goals aside in order to help someone.

I found myself in this type of situation in that Verona 10K race. That’s 6.2 miles for those of you who aren’t into the pain of running. At around the 4-mile mark I was running the fastest 10K race I’d ever run. I knew if I could just maintain my pace I’d have a personal best time for me. I was 40 years of age at the time and I mainly ran against myself and wasn’t trying to beat anyone. I just wanted to better my own time, but in this race I finished dead last!

It was very hot and I could tell some people were starting to struggle because of the heat. Just past that 4-mile mark, a girl running ahead of me was overcome by the heat and collapsed on the side of the road. When I saw her go down, I knew I had to stop and try to help. As a medic in the army, I’d treated a lot of heat related cases. A group of people were watching the race at a nearby farm. I yelled for them to bring me lots of cold water or ice. We took care of her until the Rescue Squad arrived and took her to the hospital. By that time all the runners had gone by. I declined an offer to ride to the finish line in the trailing ambulance. I wanted to finish the race.

With about 1 mile to go I caught up with the last runner. I could see she was really struggling so I decided to run along with her. I told her it’s much easier to take your mind off the pain when you have someone to talk with. That applies to a lot of situations, not just running. She told me she’d been running for about a year, and this was her first race. All she wanted to do was finish the race and get the T-shirt. We runners will endure a lot of pain for a T-shirt. That last mile was tough for her, but she finished the race. We even sprinted to the finish. It wasn’t exactly a classic sprint, more like a turkey trot. I let her cross the line first and I finished dead last! It was the first time I’d ever finished last in a race. But I’ve never felt better after a race! I think that’s why I still remember it.

I don’t know the name of the girl who collapsed or the girl I ran with for the last mile, and they don’t know who I am. That’s not important. What’s important is that when I had a chance, I put my personal goals aside and made the choice to reach out and help people.

The Dalai Lama said, “Our purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can’t help them, at least don’t hurt them.” As the sun rises on this New Year, that would be a good resolution for all of us to try and follow every day of the year.

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