Three Snows On A Robin's Tail

Across the Fence #541

The Old Farmers says, “Spring will finally arrive after three snows on a robin’s tail.” I saw my first robin of the year last week. Along with temperatures in the 60s at the time, it gave me hope that spring was here. I should know better than to get too excited in March. I’ve lived in Wisconsin long enough to know that April snow showers often replace April showers.

Robin sightings and 60’s were last week. Today I’d have to dig through seven or more inches of snow to find a robin. I think we can safely count this snowfall as one snow on a robin’s tail. Only two more snows to go. I don’t think all those robins I saw last week are very happy with winter making a return engagement. Could we blame them if they up and fly south again? 

It’s been a busy week around our place with all the birds coming and going. The redwing blackbirds, grackles, and starlings all returned last week too. Large flocks have been occupying our lawn. They didn’t seem too happy this morning either, as they sat in the snow under our feeders and scratched in the snow trying to find the birdseed buried under drifts of new, white stuff. 

I also heard and saw many killdeers during my morning walks last week. I think all the migratory birds are wishing they’d spent a couple extra weeks down south. The arrival of all these migrating birds is a sign that spring is coming even if we can’t see or feel it. We just need a couple more snows on a poor robin’s tail. We’ll keep count and see if the Old Farmer is right.

There’s been no lack of feathered activity in Sherpeland. I spotted a bald eagle feasting on something in the field behind our house yesterday. A large crow was standing about three feet away and appeared to be rather irritated with the eagle. Three other crows circled overhead. I didn’t see what happened before I noticed them, but I suspect the eagle was an uninvited guest at the crow’s feast. The brave crow could only watch while the eagle dined alone. After several minutes the eagle lifted its great wings and flew off to the west. The crows then returned to see if any of their meal was left. They soon headed for our back yard feeders to see if there was anything to eat.

All the crow can do is watch and wait.

This is the time of year when activity around the bird feeders begins to change. The chickadees and white-breasted nuthatches have all but disappeared. Sparrows and a few juncos are still busy. Cardinals, blue jays, downy woodpeckers, northern flickers, and mourning doves have been our guests all winter. I love to hear the sound of the mourning doves as they talk to each other in the seclusion of the trees and brush. I hope everyone has had the pleasure of hearing the whistle made by their wings as they take flight. One day I counted 24 mourning doves dining on the ground under our feeders.

Mourning Doves visit us all year round.

This morning the birds couldn’t get at the seeds under all the snow until I was able to clear it away. I then spread fresh seed on the ground. Birds attacked the area like they hadn’t eaten in weeks. Flocks of grackles soon took over the area, strutting about in their shimmering coats of black, with purplish-blue iridescent heads and necks. They acted like they were royalty and owned the place. Sprinkled among the grackles were redwing blackbirds. The red and yellow patch on their wings made them stand out in a sea of black. There were also a few starlings among the invading army of birds. Many people lump the grackles and starlings together and refer to them all as starlings, but there are striking differences between the two. Starlings have a yellow bill, while grackles have a black bill. Starlings have an overall speckled appearance and a shorter tail. All three “black-colored” birds seem to travel together in large flocks when they migrate. Our yard seems to be a favorite stopover on their travel itinerary each spring and fall. They eat everything in sight. I think I should be allowed to claim them as dependents on my tax return each year. 

Spring migration. Notice all the birds on the lawn.

I almost forgot to mention the pair of ring-necked pheasants I’ve seen and heard many times, usually early in the morning. Red-tailed hawks also like to circle lazily over the field behind our house. They appear suspended on a column of invisible air as they slowly rise and fall so effortlessly as they search for mice and voles in the fields. When they perch in the large tree along the fence line, the woods suddenly become quiet as all the birds seek shelter. They don’t want to become a happy meal for a hungry hawk.

Winter giving way to spring is a transition time for our feathered friends. Our yard becomes like an airline terminal with new arrivals and departures each day. It’s a fun time to observe the comings and goings. Last week when the weather was still mild, I heard the wonderful sound of geese heading north. That’s a sure sign that spring can’t be far behind. Now we just need those two more snowfalls on a robin’s tail and we’re almost there.

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Recess Was Having Fun Playing

Across the Fence #540

While Linda and I were having lunch with her brother, Lon, in Madison recently, we started talking about games we used to play during recess in grade school. Lon is a retired 3rd grade teacher. 

We told him how we liked to drive around the Amish areas near us and watch the children out playing during noon recess. One day before the snow all melted we drove by the school on Pa’s Road near Bloomingdale to watch the children sledding and skiing. You could tell they were having so much fun as they slid down a long hill into the woods. There was constant activity as some kids were sliding down the hill and others were running back up, pulling their sleds behind them. It reminded me of our days in a small, one-room country school where one teacher taught all eight grades and the children created their own fun during recess.

Another day we watched children chasing each other around the school house at another school in the area. It was a cold day and our car’s temperature said it was seven degrees below zero. A little cold weather didn’t stop these children from having fun and getting lots of exercise. These same Amish children walk to and from school every day too, just like many of you did when you were in school. There are no buses to haul them door to door.

Now the weather is milder and spring is on the way. The sleds and skis are put away and have been replaced by balls, bats, and gloves. We enjoy seeing them playing ball on their small playgrounds too. Boys and girls of all ages play together, just like we did at Smith School. We didn’t need a teacher telling us what to do at recess. We always came up with some sort of game or activity to keep us busy.

Lon told us that things have changed on the playground since those days. Today, children have become accustomed to an adult leader telling them what to do, because children become involved in organized sports and activities at an early age. One day when he was on playground supervision duty during recess, the kids were standing around and not doing anything. They told him, “We’re bored.” “Then lets all get together and play a game,” he suggested. “What game?” they wanted to know. Lon told them about a game called “Pom Pom Pull Away” that he used to play in grade school. He showed them how it was played. Two goal lines were established. Then one person was chosen to be “It” and stood halfway between the two lines. Everyone else lined up on one line. When the “It” person yelled “Pom Pom Pull Away” everyone took off running and tried to cross the other line before they were touched by the “It” person. If you got caught you joined “It” as one of the catchers. The last person caught was “It” for the next game. Everyone thought it was a great game and they had fun playing during the remainder of the recess.

The next day Lon wasn’t on playground duty and when the kids returned from recess, he asked if they had played Pom Pom Pull Away again. “No,” they said, “We were bored.” He asked them why they didn’t play. “You weren’t there to tell us what to do,” they replied. “Why didn’t you just pick a person to be ‘It’ and play the game?” They didn’t seem to think they could do that without an adult in charge. We think those early, organized sports and activities don’t give kids a chance to just be kids, choose up sides, play a game, and have fun. They could even make up their own games and rules, just like we did.

Do you remember choosing up sides using a baseball bat? Two older kids would pick each team. They put one hand over the other on the bat. Whoever ended up holding the knob on the bat handle got to choose first. It was always tough to be chosen last, but even that person had a chance to score the winning run or make a big catch. In our small, country schools there weren’t always enough older kids to make two teams. We often had to play “Workup.” I think most people who attended a one-room school know what that is. You rotated positions every time there was an out. The person who was out, headed for the outfield and the catcher became a batter. In “Workup” you got to play every position. If you had at least 13 players you had four batters and nine fielders. If you only had 11 players, you had two batters. If one was on base they had to reach home during a hit or they were out. It made for some exciting games. Needless to say, there was no score and no one lost. Everyone was a winner because everyone got to play and have fun.

With the arrival of spring weather, the crack of the bat, and the excited voices of children having fun will be heard again, especially on the small playgrounds of the one-room schools in Amish Country. Those sights and sounds bring back a lot of memories to many of us.

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Searching for Spring and Memories

Across the Fence #539

In the Driftless Area, when the temperature climbs to 40 degrees, the long underwear comes off and the shorts go on. We’re a hardy bunch who are ready to welcome spring and say good riddance to winter for another year.

The temperature has reached the 50s this week, the snow is disappearing fast, and the water is running. That’s a sign that spring has arrived, at least for the moment. Every spring, the little valley behind our house transforms into a flowing stream as melted snow converges from all directions. It forms one large stream in the lower part of our back forty and then continues its westward journey.

Today I set the snowshoes aside and broke out my knee-high rubber boots. I knew I’d need them if I wanted to hike around the back forty and watch the water flow. It’s something I did when I was young, and have done every spring since we moved back on the farm. For me it’s a rite of passage from the long, cold days of winter to the promise of spring and the emergence of new life.

It was in search of spring that I began my hike today. The warmth of the sun felt good. The temperature reached the mid-50s as I walked down the lane, along the fence line, where large drifts of snow still held their ground. I tried walking through the snow but sank in almost to the top of my rubber boots. I decided walking at the edge of the field would be easier. I quickly found that wherever I walked would be a challenge on this day. My boots sank into the soft, muddy earth and corn stubble. There was also a heavy layer of manure on the field…liquid manure. Every step I took was an effort as I sank deeper into the muck the farther down the field I went. After all, water and manure flow downhill. The smell was enough to gag a maggot, but I struggled on, determined not to let a manure quagmire stop me. My mind wandered back to the cartoonist I wrote about recently, who made fun of rubes down on the farm smelling like manure. There I was, an old farm boy, standing in a field of manure. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hard on him in the letter I wrote. He never did respond.

Sunlight shimmers on the water running through the back forty.

I finally reached the area where the water was flowing along through the lowest part of the valley. It created a marsh that was too deep and wide to cross. I backtracked along the old fence line that ran alongside the pond. At one time it was an electric fence to keep the heifers that we kept there all summer, from getting into the corn and hay. 

I always like to observe and examine things I find during my hikes. Most of the fence line was now gone but a few posts and wire remained. I looked at the old wood post with green fungus growing on it. I could still picture my father bending down on one knee next to the post, pounding the insulator on. Then stringing the wire across it and twisting another piece of wire around it to secure it to the insulator. So many years ago, and yet the work he did with his large, powerful hands is still there. I spotted some milkweed pods peeking out of the snow near the post. Most were empty, but two still had seeds in them. I stuck them in my pocket and will see if I can get them to germinate. I’ll plant them near our house to provide food for the Monarchs. My father always left weeds and brush along fence lines. He said the wildlife needed it for habitat. Maybe those seeds are descendants of plants he let live along that fence many years ago.

I continued my walk, past the pond that was overflowing. There was still evidence in the snow alongside the pond of a well-used deer trail. I kept going, but the melting snow and water became deeper. This is the point where water from the south joins the streams coming from the north and east. As I stood there watching the water rush by, with sunlight sparkling and shimmering on it, I was reminded of a time when I was young and standing in the same general area. I took a photo at that time of our dog, Duke, who loved to go exploring and searching for spring with my brother, David, and me. He was half German Shepherd and half Norwegian Elkhound, a big, powerful dog who protected his territory and us. He loved wading through the water and getting wet. 

Duke, taken around 1960 in the back forty.

This was also near the spot where David and I buried a box full of Dad’s old Indian head pennies while playing pirates. We made a great treasure map that fell down between the walls of our house when I tried hiding it in the attic. We never found where we buried the box and Dad was not a happy camper. One day we ran into a skunk near the pond and it chased David and me. But that’s a story for another day.

As I stood there, so many memories flowed by, along with the water. When I finally arrived home, I was muddy and tired, but felt renewed. I had created new memories for another day.

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Celebrating My Irish Roots

Across the Fence #538

Linda and I had our first “real” date 50 years ago on St. Patrick’s Day, March 17, 1965. Perhaps I should explain why I say it was a real date. We were both going to school at MATC in Madison. She was in the Dental Assisting program and I was in the Commercial Art program. 

She lived in an apartment building where she shared an apartment with three of her friends from Platteville who were also MATC students. I lived alone in a tiny room on the third floor of an old house on Gorham Street where twelve or more students lived. The owners occupied the first floor and kept a watchful eye on the comings and goings in the house. No females were allowed beyond the first floor hallway. A guy from Fennimore, who became a life-long friend, lived on the second floor, and was going with one of Linda’s roommates. We all knew each other from school activities and hung out together. I had even taken out one of Linda’s roommates a couple of times and I was trying to fix Linda up with a guy who lived in the room next to me. Rather complicated, isn’t it?

The Saturday night before St. Patrick’s Day, all of us were at a State Street “watering hole” where many of the students hung out. My friend and Linda’s friend, who were going together, were having an argument that night. Linda and I started talking while they were arguing. We talked for a long time. When it was time to leave, I asked if I could walk her home. On the way, I asked if I could take her to the St. Patrick’s Day dance at Turner Hall. Many of our friends were going. She said “yes” and we’ve been together ever since. I should mention that our friends, who were arguing, are still together after 50 years too. That St. Patrick’s Day dance was our first “real” date. We probably had a bit of green beer that evening too. 

So St. Patrick’s Day, and especially this year, has a special significance to us. I’ll rummage through the dark corners of our closet in search of something green to wear. I’ll probably have to resort to my Green Bay Packer sweatshirt. We’ll have some corn beef and cabbage, but I don’t think we’ll be drinking any green beer. We gave that up a long time ago.

You can see why we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, but you may be wondering, “How can Howard be celebrating his Irish roots, when all his grandparents came from Norway?” Perhaps a little history lesson is in order here.

As you know, the Vikings did a lot of exploring. My ancestors back in the Viking Age, used to go on “tours” to Ireland. I doubt if the Irish looked too kindly on the Norwegian “tour groups” who visited their country. My ancestors have been portrayed as fierce, bloodthirsty invaders who plundered and pillaged other countries. I prefer to call them tourists with an attitude.

Back in the 700’s A.D., Vikings from Norway were visiting the coasts of many countries, including England, Scotland, and Ireland. The first tour group arrived in Ireland in 795. In 841 Vikings built a fortified enclosure in Ireland to protect their ships and to act as a raiding base. This Viking settlement would become known as Dublin, the first true town in Ireland.

By the early 900’s, the Vikings were well established in settlements at Wexford, Waterford, and Limerick. They also raided (I mean toured) deep inland on rivers and shallow waterways with their sleek Viking ships.

By the 1100’s the Irish-Norse were beginning to lose their Viking identity through conversion to Christianity, intermarriage with the Irish, and adoption of the Gaelic language. The Irish called these Vikings the “Ostmen” (men of the east) to distinguish them from the Scandinavian Vikings who were still making occasional “tours” to Ireland.

As you might imagine, many Irish men and women have a lot of Norwegian blood in their ancestry, just as many Norwegians have Irish blood. My ancestors weren’t the only ones who returned to Norway with an Irish mistress. Now lest you start to wag a righteous finger at me, and my ancestry, let’s not forget that life was very different 900 years ago. Warrior life was the norm and bringing home the spoils of war, including material goods, slaves, and mistresses was accepted. Today people still bring souvenirs back from their trips to foreign lands, but we have more restrictions on what we can bring back through customs. The Vikings didn’t worry about someone checking their luggage, except maybe their wife, who had been busy running the farm while they were off having fun fighting and touring other countries! 

When I did my DNA test last year, I found out I’m 5.2% Irish and British. Linda is 34% Irish. Her mother’s ancestors came from Ireland, but I always told her if we could trace her family back far enough, we’d find some Norskies in her family tree too. Her DNA says she’s 4% Scandinavian. Maybe we’re related!

So there you have it, I’ve let my Irish roots out of the closet. Now it’s almost time to celebrate. Happy St. Pat’s Day everyone! 

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Searching for Warm Weather

Across the Fence #537

A few weeks ago I wrote about our lack of snow this winter. The snow gods heard me, and it began to snow. Now we’ve been “blessed” with lots of cold, sub-zero weather when most of us are ready for spring and warmer weather. It never hurts to try a little reverse psychology, so I thought I’d write about how much I like these cold temperatures. The cold winds we’ve experienced are really refreshing and stimulating. I’m hoping the warm weather gods will hear how much I love cold weather and send some warm temperatures to make me miserable. Hopefully by the time you read this a week from now, we’ll all be basking in sunshine and warm weather, compared to what we’ve had.

The wind has really been howling here on the prairie, rattling the windows, and sending the wind chill readings into the 30 below range and even lower. That’s even a bit chilly for those of us with Scandinavian blood running through our veins.

The other morning it was 17 below zero on our thermometer when I went out to feed the birds and clear a snowdrift from our driveway. It didn’t feel that bad because the wind had calmed down during the night and the sun was shining. We’ve had a lot of overcast, gray days. Because of all the wind we’ve had lately I’ve given up trying to keep a path open to where I feed the birds in the grove of trees west of the house. I strapped on my snowshoes to walk over the drifts and feed the hungry birds. When I stand real still with bird seed in my hand, the chickadees will land on my fingers and feed out of my open hand. A person can really feel one with nature when that happens.

A Chickadee eats out of my hand.

When I finished feeding the birds, I decided to do some exploring on my snowshoes, as long as I had them on. The sunshine and lack of wind made the frigid world around me seem warmer and inviting. I headed out along the fenceline, examining new animal and bird tracks in the snow. The wind had quit around midnight, so most of the tracks I came across were made after that time and during early morning. I came across what looked like pheasant tracks heading back toward the grove of trees I’d just left. I’ve heard and seen pheasants feeding on the ground under the bird feeders and figured that’s where they were headed. They know where they can always find a morning meal to get them going. 

Farther along I came across coyote tracks, also headed for the trees. Were they following the pheasants? At least I hadn’t noticed any feathers or blood around. There were numerous rabbit trails among the trees and brush piles. The coyotes may have been looking for them too. Winter weather makes it tougher on all the wildlife when it comes to survival and finding enough to eat. Some will perish so others may live. I often hear the call of an owl somewhere among the trees at night. The owls are also looking for a meal. I sometimes find tracks in the snow that come to an abrupt end. There might be signs of a brief struggle or just the whisper of wing prints in the snow. One of the great joys of winter is following tracks in the snow and trying to interpret them. I’d recommend you use snowshoes because you never know where you might end up.

Meanwhile, back in the house, Linda was getting worried. I hadn’t come back from feeding the birds. She had looked out the windows on all sides of the house and couldn’t see me anyplace. She had visions of me lying in the snow in the sub-zero temperatures, freezing to death. Had I fallen and hurt myself? Did I have a heart attack? Needless to say, I neglected to tell her I’d decided to go wandering around the countryside on my snowshoes in frigid temperatures. I don’t think she’d have thought that was a good idea! Who in their right mind would go for a hike in this kind of weather?

I’ll admit it was a bit cool, but I was bundled up for cold weather and had my face covered. Frostbite can happen to exposed skin in a matter of minutes. I felt very comfortable except for my fingers that are always affected by extreme cold. If the wind had been blowing, I wouldn’t have gone exploring on the open prairie, where it feels like someone stabbed you in the forehead when the wind hits your exposed face. That’s how cold it gets around here. It’s been cold for so long, I had to take advantage of the sunshine and lack of wind, and go for a short hike.

When I got back to the house, I decided to shovel the drift out of the driveway instead of firing up the snowblower. That’s when Linda came out of the house, all bundled up, ready to go look for my body. I told her, “If I depart this world while out hiking and exploring nature and the world around us, at least you’ll know I went with a smile on my face.” 

Besides that, I’ve got Norwegian blood in my veins and 2.6% Neanderthal DNA. It’s only natural that I’d be wandering around, exploring nature, in sub-zero temperatures.

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