Ellis Tobacco Planters Stir Memories

Across the Fence #548

“Summertime and the livin’ is easy.” Those words from an old song certainly didn’t apply to life on the farm. There was always work to do, especially if you had dairy cows and raised tobacco!

Recently at the Senior Meal site in Westby, we got talking about tobacco planting, and the subject of Ellis tobacco planters came up. Every farm that raised tobacco had one. 

When we lived in Madison, our neighbor across the street was Homer Ellis. One day I told him about an Ellis tobacco planter we had used. He informed me that HIS company in Verona manufactured those planters we had spent so many, long hours on! Orville Clark, who mentioned the Ellis planters during our meal, also knew Homer, because he used to drive to the Ellis plant in Verona to pick up planters and bring them back to the Westby area. 

Our discussion about Ellis tobacco planters got me to thinking about the process of raising tobacco and how what was once such a common practice, will soon be only a memory. There’s little or no tobacco raised around here now, but for many years tobacco was the major cash crop on many farms in Vernon County. It paid the taxes and many other bills, but was a very labor-intensive crop. It started in the spring when the tobacco beds were steamed and seeded and didn’t end until the tobacco had been stripped and sold, which usually occurred in January.

Before tobacco seeds were sown in plant beds, the soil was sterilized by steaming. This helped control diseases, weeds and insects. 

I remember the excitement as I watched Bernard Ostrem’s big steam engine lumbering slowly down our road with billows of black smoke belching from the smoke stack. The driver stood in back on a platform between two large, steel wheels. When he pulled on a cord, the whistle would erupt with a loud, piercing sound that could be heard throughout the countryside.

One year when I was very young, the steamer blew up. My cousin, Sandy, and I were so frightened by the explosion, we didn’t venture outside the house for days. This was just after the end of World War II and Sandy thought the Germans were coming and had bombed our farm!

To steam the soil, a rectangular pan on wheels, around 4’x16’, was dropped down where the tobacco beds would be located. A hose running from the steamer to the pan provided the steam. After about 30 minutes the pan was moved and the process repeated.

After the soil had been steamed, the tobacco seeds were sown in wood-framed beds and covered with a muslin-type cover for protection. The beds were watered every day and the plants soon filled the beds. When they were 6”-8” tall they were ready to be picked and transplanted in the field.

Even before we were old enough to plant, we helped water the beds and picked plants, placing them carefully in boxes and bushel baskets. 

When I was nine years old, I learned to “drop” tobacco. I was left handed, so my mother didn’t have to change sides and continued to drop right-handed. My father drove the John Deere B tractor that pulled the planter.  

The Ellis tobacco planter consisted of a large barrel filled with water, mounted on two large iron wheels. The two “droppers” sat on low iron seats just inches off the ground behind the barrel with their feet stretched out in front of them and resting on foot pegs under the barrel. It was not very comfortable. A board rested on our laps and the tobacco plants were piled on the boards. As the planter went slowly across the field, the shovel or “shoe,” as it was called, located between the two droppers, made a small furrow in the soil. With each click, water filled the hole, and the dropper inserted a plant. The furrow then closed around the plant and the process was repeated for the other dropper. If you inserted the plant too deep, the stem would break, if planted too shallow, it would also die. There was an “art” to dropping tobacco! The droppers would get into the rhythm of the clicks, with never a moment to even scratch an itchy nose for fear of missing a plant. This went on for row after row, hour after hour, day after day, until all ten acres of our tobacco had been planted.

It was hot, dirty work with little time to talk, especially when learning to drop. Ma often took my turn also, when I became confused and was about to miss. Dad didn’t look kindly on missing plants and would stop when he saw a blank space in another row. He’d make me get off and plant it by hand and give me “H” if too many plants were missing.

David and Howard planting on the old Ellis planter.

Hans Sherpe on the John Deere B.

My brother, David, began dropping a couple years later and we planted many acres together over the next years. We were quite a team and hardly ever missed a plant. I think that came from our fear of catching it if we did! Janet and Arden took over the planting duties after we left for college.        

Arden and Janet planting on the new Ellis planter.

Hans Sherpe still driving the John Deere B.

By then Dad had a newer version of the Ellis planter. I wonder if Orville delivered that planter to our farm from Verona?

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Name Your Great Grandparents

Across the Fence #547

I once read a statement that said, “100 years from now, even our direct  descendants won’t remember our name.” I’ve been involved with genealogy and researching our family history for many years, so that seemed like a rather harsh statement to me. 100 years ago some of my great grandparents were still alive. I know their names. Then I started asking people to tell me the names of their great grandparents. Very few people could give me an answer. I didn’t ask them to tell me any details about their lives, not even when or where they were born and died. I didn’t ask if they knew where they were buried. I just wanted them to tell me their names. Most people couldn’t even name one.

How quickly we are forgotten, once our journey on planet Earth is over. I was wrong. That statement wasn’t being overly harsh. It was true. I guess if I wasn’t involved in family history research, I’d be clueless too.

During this season of Syttende Mai, when those of us with Norwegian roots celebrate those roots and our Norwegian heritage, lets take some time to look back and discover who our great grandparents were. At least try to find out what their names were. Even if you don’t have Norwegian roots, it’s still a good time to discover where your roots are and who the people are who had an important part in your being here today. 

When we talk about great grandparents we’re only dealing with eight people. We should be able to remember eight names. On my father’s side I have Hans Hanson Sherpe who married Lisa Larsdatter Tomtingen, and Jonas Tonneson Ostrem who married Ane Jensdatter Mageland. On my mother’s side I have Ole Hanson Rustaden who married Anna Christiansdatter Gulseth, and Christian Evenson Borgen who married Lene Evensdatter Vang (Wang).

Granted, Norwegian ancestry can be a bit confusing until you understand the Norwegian naming system. Then it all makes sense. I know the names of my great grandparents, when and where they were born, and when they died. They were all born in Norway and I know where each of them is buried in Vernon County, Wisconsin. What I regret is that I know so little about their lives between their birth and death dates. That – (dash) between the birth and death dates contains the story of their lives. It’s the dash that we know so little about.

What will people know about the dash in your life 100 years from now? Or doesn’t it matter? 

So many times I’ve read the obituary of someone I knew and discovered things about them that I never knew. If only I had known while they were alive, I could have asked them questions about it. We all know, and have known, a lot of people, but did we really know them? When I realize how little I really knew about someone after reading their obituary, “I can’t help but ask myself “Why didn’t I know?” Was I too busy talking about myself instead of asking questions and listening to what they were saying? We can learn more with an open mind and ears, than we can with an open mouth.

This Syttende Mai, start a journey in search of your roots by learning the names of your great grandparents. Then find out when they were born and when they died. Find out where they were buried and take a road trip in search of their graves. Bring a flower and place it on their grave. Chances are; no one has remembered them with a flower for many years. They aren’t just names on a tombstone. They are part of who you are. I think it’s important that we take a few minutes out of our lives to remember our ancestors and families who are no longer with us.

About 20 years ago we found the grave of my great, great grandfather, Hans Hanson Skjerpe, who came to America with his second wife and family in 1864. We were exited to find the original Norwegian spelling of the Sherpe name on his tombstone. I don’t know how long it had been since anyone had paused for a second at his stone to reflect on the life of this man, but no one could even remember hearing his name mentioned, including my father, who was still alive at the time. This was my father’s great grandfather, and he had never heard of him. No one even knew his final resting place was at Bethel Cemetery between Westby and Viroqua, let alone that he had once existed. This was another case of “100 years from now, even our direct descendants won’t remember our name.”  He‘s no longer forgotten. Several years ago, my brother, Arden Sherpe, our cousin, David Ostrem, and myself, with our father doing the supervising, straightened up his tombstone, which had tilted and was in danger of falling over. It still looks great. We have also remembered him with a flower at his grave. 

Three Sherpe descendants at the grave of their Great, Great, Great Grandfather, Hans Hanson Skjerpe in the Bethel Cemetery. Kneeling in Front: Katelyn Sherpe, standing: Amy Sherpe Davis, on right: Erik Hans Sherpe. They remembered their ancestor by helping plant flowers.

Memorial Day will soon be here. It’s a good time to remember your ancestors by leaving a flower on their grave. It’s a small gesture, but an   important one.

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The Importance of the Kitchen Table

Across the Fence #546

The kitchen table was the central point of the family universe in almost every home. It was the heartbeat of a family. Think of the importance that simple kitchen table played in your life. Think of all the activities that took place around it. It wasn’t just a place to eat your meals; it was where news was shared, where you talked about what was going on in the world and in your lives, where the day’s activities were discussed, and yes, where arguments sometimes took place.

The thing that put this story idea about kitchen tables in my mind, was a video I watched on the Internet. It showed a family sitting around a table and eating. I should say; the mother and father were eating. The two teenage children were checking their cell phones, busy receiving and sending text messages. The father couldn’t get their attention to pass the salt. The next scene shows the father sitting at the table with an old-fashioned typewriter in front of him. He’s busy pounding away at the keys and hitting the return bar. It makes a lot of noise, as anyone who’s used a typewriter knows. The two kids look at their father like he has gone nuts. ”What are you doing?” He doesn’t answer. He keeps pounding the keys. Suddenly a light bulb seems to go on for the kids. They both take their cell phones and put them in their pockets. The father then asks once more, “Could you please pass the salt?” They pass the salt and everyone resumes eating. How many households can say, ”That’s mealtime in our home.” I guess times have changed. We didn’t have cell phones when we were young, or we would probably have been on them too. We also didn’t have a TV to distract us during mealtime. We did have a radio, but I don’t remember it being on while we ate, unless Dad was trying to hear what the weather forecast was for the next few days. Was it safe to cut hay or was it going to rain?

The kitchen table. Ma, Janet, Dad, Linda, Frank Servais.

Three meals a day were eaten at that simple kitchen table. There were seven of us most of the time, Ma, Dad, Grandma Inga, who lived with us, David, Janet, Arden, and me. During the summers when I was young, Cousin Sandy also lived with us. The table wasn’t very big, but it never felt crowded. Ours wasn’t fancy. It was functional. It was oval-shaped and had a Formica top. The legs were round, stainless steel, tapered at the bottom. It was often covered with an oil cloth that could be easily wiped clean. So many family gathering photos we have, were taken with people sitting around the table, eating, drinking coffee, and visiting. It’s where we sat and did our homework. We didn‘t have individual rooms where we could go, shut the door, and sit at a desk. David, Arden, and I shared a bedroom upstairs. In the summer it was beastly hot and in the winter it was cold enough to have a thick coat of frost on the windows. It wasn’t a good place to sit and do homework. The kitchen table next to the wood-burning kitchen stove was much more comfortable.

We played card games like Whist and Dirty Clubs at the kitchen table, especially when company came. It was a great place to lay out the pieces of a picture puzzle and try to put it together, but you had to work fast because the table would be needed for the next meal. New Years Eve saw some marathon Monopoly games played there as we tried to stay awake to see the New Year arrive. Over the years many birthday cakes took center stage on that table as we turned another year older. During the “pesky” fly season, a curled fly strip hung over the center of that kitchen table. We thought nothing of it. I think most farm kitchens had fly strips as summer accessories. Better to have them stuck to the strip than walking through your food. That kitchen table was usually piled full of wonderful things to eat. During big family gatherings, the men would dish up a plateful and go in the living room where the lucky ones would sit at a card table and the rest would balance the plate in their lap while they ate. Conversation continued as they ate. The children would sit on the floor or go outside and sit at the picnic table or on the ground in the summertime. The women would sit at the kitchen table, where conversations would continue.

The advent of television changed the dynamics around the kitchen table. Instead of conversations, people started watching sports events as they ate. How many Thanksgiving dinners are now sandwiched around a football game?

I still like the use of a kitchen table as a place to sit and visit when company arrives. It’s a place for a cup of coffee, something to eat, and good conversation shared among family or friends, uninterrupted by electronic gadgets. That’s what kitchen tables are for. The next time you sit down at your kitchen table, think of the many things that have taken place around yours, and the importance that simple table has played in your life.

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