Happy Hollow-een

Across the Fence # 571

How many of you remember “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” by Washington Irving? I remember watching Walt Disney’s animated version on The Wonderful World of Disney in the 1950’s when I was young. The other day we were driving around, when I started noticing all the roads with Hollow in the name. It brought back memories of Sleepy Hollow.

It had the gangly schoolteacher, Ichabod Crane as the main character and was narrated by Bing Crosby. It also had a dark forest and the scary headless horseman. I don’t remember a lot of details about the story, but I know it was exciting and frightening.

I remember the headless horseman chasing Ichabod as they rode through that dark forest, with the branches of the trees reaching out like skeletal fingers, trying to grab Ichabod—Pretty scary stuff. A perfect story to remember as Halloween approaches.

There’s always something magical about Disney animation, and when you add Bing Crosby narrating and singing, you have the makings of a wonderful film. Ichabod was the underdog in the story. He was everything that we associate with the non-hero type of person. I think most of us like to stick up for the underdog and see them win. We see ourselves as underdogs too, and can relate to them.

I prefer the Disney animated films to the horror films, usually associated with Halloween. Even before I went to art school, I wanted to be an animator for Walt Disney Productions in California. I even wrote a letter to Walt when I was still in grade school, telling him I hoped to work for him some day. I never did hear back from him. I suspect he had more important things to do, and received many letters like that every day. It’s probably a good thing I never headed off to California to seek employment with Walt, or my life would have been completely different and I wouldn’t be writing this story now. Life seems to offer us paths that we can choose to travel, but just as Ichabod found out, some of the paths we choose can be pretty scary at times.

Halloween has changed a lot in my time. When I was young, I don’t remember going trick or treating. When you lived in the country, you couldn’t just walk door to door and collect more candy than you could eat in a month, as kids do today. In our case, our father would have had to drive us from place to place. He was busy milking cows and we were busy helping with the chores. My mother didn’t drive. 

I think our Halloween celebration happened in our one-room country school, where we had a party on a day close to Halloween. We bobbed for apples, and had a fish pond where a sheet was strung up and we took turns fishing. The pole had a line attached to it with a clothespin on the end. When you put the line over the sheet, older kids behind the sheet attached a small prize. They pulled on the line so it felt like you’d caught a fish, and you brought up your prize. I don’t remember what the prizes were, but they were probably pretty simple. The dressing up we did was called Hobo Day. I think that was all part of our Halloween celebration. 

When our kids were young, they always went trick or treating around our neighborhood. Linda or I went with them and stayed on the sidewalk while they went up to each house. One of us stayed home to dish out the candy to kids who came to our house. We just went to houses where we knew the people, not to every house within a mile radius, as some kids seemed to do. One year I got into the act too. Linda’s brother, Lon, and his family, lived in Middleton. We drove to their house, where I put on a mask and wore an old trench coat. When the kids rang the doorbell, I knelt on my knees between them. When they opened the door, we all said “trick or treat.” But the trick was on me. They knew exactly who that big kid was between Erik and Amy. “Aren’t you a little old to be trick or treating?” I guess I should have stuck to tipping corn shocks and outhouses. I’ve heard tell, people used to do those activities on Halloween.

Halloween can also be a cold time of year. Many times it’d be raining and very cold. The kids would be all dressed up in their Halloween costumes and then have to wear a coat over the top to go trick or treating. That kind of defeated the whole purpose of dressing up. They could just as well have dressed up in long johns, heavy parkas, mittens, and a ski mask to cover their face, and gone door to door that way. At least they’d have been incognito and warm.

They also had Halloween parties at their school, except for a couple years, when it was decided by the powers-to-be in Madison, that it was not politically correct to dress up with masks, because some people might be offended or frightened. At least Halloween was later reinstated, so the kids could enjoy the occasion and have some fun memories to look back on too. 

Happy Hollow-eening everyone! 

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Corn Shocks Are Fall to Me

Across the Fence #570

Corn shocks stand like lonely sentinels, guarding the last memories of a vanishing lifestyle. A backdrop of changing colors in the woods bordering the cornfield signals the arrival of fall. A flock of geese passing overhead completes the picture as they talk among themselves. It’s fall and the harvest has begun.

The sight of corn shocks and pumpkins in a field represents what the fall season is to me, in the pictures in my mind. Today, corn shocks are as scarce as hen’s teeth around the countryside, unless you head for Amish country. We have a large Amish community within a few miles of Westby. As we drove around the area last weekend, we were once again treated to the sight of fields filled with corn shocks. It was a welcome sight and brought back memories of how farming used to be on most farms.

Today I can watch monstrous combines going through the fields around us, day and night, as they clear huge fields of soybeans in a fraction of the time it used to take. Soon they’ll be stripping the cornfields bare, shelling the corn as they go, and filling semi trucks that haul it from the fields. Today, fall harvesting is big, fast, and in many ways impersonal.

Many of you can still remember when small farms of one hundred acres, or less, were the norm. Corn shocks were not a novelty in those days. It wasn’t shocking to suddenly come across a field filled with them. What would us young Prairie Ghosts have done on Halloween if we couldn’t have tipped over a few corn shocks? I’m not saying we ever did, but there’s something about a corn shock that attracts young boys and shouts out, “Tip me over!”

Another thing I remember about fall and corn harvesting was helping dad clean up the field of corn that had escaped the corn picker. We used a curved husking peg or knife that was strapped to the palm of a heavy, leather strap that fit around our hand. We used it to rip open the husks, break off the corncob, and throw it in a wagon. In those days, nothing was wasted. Perhaps some of you can remember when you picked whole fields of corn using the husking peg and threw the ears against a “bang board” on a wagon pulled by horses. I have several husking pegs in case I ever get the urge to clear a cornfield by hand.

I also remember harvesting as being a neighborly event, with lots of good food involved. It was a time when neighbors got together and helped each other with the harvest. Meals were looked forward to and every farmer knew who the best cooks in the neighborhood were. Sometimes long tables and chairs were set up on the lawn because there wasn’t enough room in the house. The women slaved over the hot cooking stove all day preparing the meals. There were large bowls of mashed potatoes, rich gravy, big platters of meat, home-grown vegetables, pickled beets, cole slaw, home-made bread and lefse, topped off with fresh pie and steaming cups of coffee. My mother was known for her great meals and pies. No one ever went away hungry. The meals, shared by the neighbors, were a big part of the harvest. I suspect the men doing the harvesting today, and running those big combines and semis on corporate farms, are missing out on the best part of the fall harvest… the wonderful meals and neighbors working side by side as they helped each other.

When I feel the brisk winds of fall, as darkness begins to envelope the land, I remember sitting in an empty wagon at the end of the cornfield. It’s dark and cold. The stars shine brightly overhead in the clear, crisp sky. The light from the tractor makes strange, scary shadows dance among the corn stalks. The air is filled with the distinctive “putt-putt-putt” of the idling John Deere B tractor. In the distance I see the lights of the corn picker coming through the corn stalks. I hear the hum of the machine as it severs the stalks, and the continual “clunk, clunk, clunk” of ears of corn landing in the wagon box. The corn picker finally reaches us. Among the sounds and lights from the tractors and corn picker, there’s a flurry of activity as the full wagon is exchanged for the empty one. 
Throw in some snowflakes dancing in the lights, and it becomes a magical scene.
 When a wagon was full, we hauled it from the field to the corncrib, where we shoveled the corncobs into the crib. It was heavy, hard work, especially when I was younger. Now most corncribs are gone, along with one and two row corn pickers. Gravity boxes replaced the old wood wagons, and now large trucks and semis are replacing the gravity box. Those huge combines have replaced the need for neighbors to get together and help each other with the harvest.

All this mechanization has allowed farms to get bigger and the harvest go faster, with fewer people involved. But to me, fall harvest is still represented by those shocks of corn, standing tall and reminding us of another time and place, where neighbors even talked across the fence.
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Coffee Boycott

Across the Fence #569

It’s been a long time since I’ve visited the Coon Ridge Family Restaurant and Truck Stop. Things were jumping as usual the other day when I stopped in. It’s located near the edge of town at the intersection where two roads cross. Each road leads to no place in particular, unless of course you live along one of those lazy country roads.

The Morning Breakfast Gang was holding court at the only round table in the restaurant, as they do every morning. They keep trying to solve the problems of the world. Most folks round’ here think it’s rather pointless, since most can’t even solve the problems in their own back yards. I can’t report that they’ve ever solved a single one of the world problems they’ve debated, but like people everywhere, they certainly have all the answers, at least in their own minds. I’ve got to admit, I’ve taken part in those debates too and put my two cents worth in. Every town needs a family diner where the locals can congregate and debate the issues of the day.

The Wednesday Breakfast Gang in Madison, back when I still lived there. Several of  them have moved on to the big round table in the Great Unknown. The rest of us have seen healthier days.

When Thoreau said the majority of men live lives of quiet desperation, he must have been thinking of the guys like me who hang out at the Coon Ridge Family Restaurant and Truck Stop. 

However, the name is a bit misleading. It’s not really a truck stop unless you count the assortment of pickup trucks parked outside on any given day of the week. Tiny Olson thought it sounded like a good name when he opened the restaurant. He always heard people say that you should eat where the truckers eat, because they know where the food is good. So he added Truck Stop to the name, thinking it would attract more people. What attracts the crowds to the restaurant isn’t the name. It’s the only restaurant in town, so it isn’t like they have a choice! 

In all the years the restaurant’s been open, no one’s ever asked Tiny where all the big rigs and truckers are. My guess is that no one really cares. They just want a place where they can swap lies and solve world problems over a fifty-cent bottomless cup of coffee. Yes, you heard me right, coffee is still only fifty cents at the Coon Ridge Family Restaurant and Truck Stop. That includes endless refills. 

About a year ago, Tiny got sick and tired of all the boys drinking up his coffee every morning and he raised the price up to seventy-five cents a cup. That still included endless refills at no charge. Well, the gang got ticked at Tiny for trying to rip them off and they all boycotted the place. They started driving down to Coon Creek and hanging out at Joe and Dot’s Diner. The coffee wasn’t near as good and the drive took twenty minutes each way on a hilly, winding road. That easily ate up much more than twenty-five cents in gas, so they certainly weren’t saving any money. But it was the principle of the thing. A determined, ornery, cheap bunch of Norwegians trying to make a point is not a group you want to be on the wrong side of. 

Word quickly spread around Coon Ridge that Tiny had raised his prices and that the Morning Breakfast Gang was boycotting the place. Loyalty to a hometown business doesn’t go very far when twenty-five cents is at stake and feathers have been ruffled. 

In the past, finding a table or booth for breakfast at the Coon Ridge Family Restaurant and Truck Stop was like looking for hen’s teeth. And Heaven forbid if some outsider stopped in and sat at the wrong table. That upset the apple cart for the rest of the day, especially if the Morning Breakfast Gang didn’t get their round table. Their icy stares at the intruding parties could have sent icicle daggers through their hearts. But during the boycott, the tables and booths sat empty except for the outsiders stopping by for breakfast on their way through Coon Ridge in search of the Northwoods. 

The boycott was driving poor Tiny out of business. After two months of everyone driving to Coon Creek to eat, Tiny waved the white dishtowel of surrender and lowered the price of coffee back to fifty cents. The war was over. He hand-printed a big sign with magic markers and hung it in his window for all to see, “Coffee–Only Fifty Cents!”

The next morning, the restaurant was overflowing again as all the regulars returned. They talked about holding out for a couple extra days just to put a little scare into Tiny and teach him a lesson or two, but with twenty-five cents involved, they didn’t see any sense in wasting more good money on bad coffee and extra gas. So the whole gang is back and holding court at the round table as usual each morning.

They still think they have all the answers to solve the problems of the world, if someone would only listen to them. But, nobody does. At least in their own minds they managed to solve a major local crisis – seventy-five cent coffee. And they won. 

It looks like the taste of victory has gone to their heads. Now the boys are talking about doing something about the high price Tiny charges for a piece of pie during their mid-afternoon coffee get-togethers. They think a dollar and a quarter for a piece of pie, free coffee included, is way too much to pay.

Stay tuned. This could get interesting.

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Silo Filling

Across the Fence #567


Recently we were driving behind a tractor pulling a chopper wagon full of silage. The wind was blowing loose silage through the air, leaving a trail of it on our windshield and the road. The sweet smell of silage brought back memories of silo filling. I don't see many silos being filled these days. farming has changed. 

We were always in school when the silo fillers came to chop the corn and blow it up into the silos. We’d hurry home from school so we could get in on some of the adventure. Before we could start filling, the silo doors had to fitted into place and locked, to hold the silage in. You started at the bottom and worked your way up, securing each door as you climbed up the narrow chute. It was also fun watching the men put the blower in place and attach the pipes. They used a rope to haul the pipes up alongside the silo and hook them together. The final piece was the curved pipe that went into the silo.

When the full wagons started arriving from the cornfields, the action started. After the wagon was emptied, we used the John Deere 50 to take the empty wagon back to the field and exchange it for a full wagon.

When we got to haul the wagons from the field to the silo we thought we had been promoted to the major league. It was fun, but scary too. It was tricky pulling the big chopper wagon filled with silage alongside the blower and stopping in the right spot. 

After the wagon was in place, we pulled the silage from the back of the wagon into the auger, using curved forks. The blower then sent the silage rattling up the pipe and into the silo. That was a dangerous job. Many farmers have lost arms and legs when loose clothing got caught in the spinning augers and pulled the farmer in. It’s easy to see why farming is such a dangerous occupation. You’re always working around moving parts that can quickly entangle and harm you. Maybe it’s that sense of danger that added to the silo adventure when we were young.

As it got dark, lights from the tractors created a shadow-filled surreal world. It was dark in the silo as we climbed up the narrow chute to put in new doors and adjust the pipes. We had only a flashlight to light our way and help see what we were doing. One of our silos didn’t have a roof covering it. When you looked up, you saw a round circle of black filled with stars. It was like looking through a gigantic telescope at the evening sky. The reason we kept working after dark was that we had to get the corn in fast so the people who owned the harvesting equipment could move on to the next farm and get their corn harvested. There wasn’t any time to waste.

Now I watch huge combines going through a field taking many rows at a time, while a large truck drives alongside and the silage is blown into the truck. When the truck is full, an empty truck pulls alongside and away they go again, with hardly a pause in the action. They can clear a large field in a very short time.
The corn on the fields of the back forty behind our house, disappears faster than Rolaids at a hot chili eating contest. Times have sure changed since the days of a one-row picker pulled behind a tractor. We thought things were really changing when we saw the first two-row picker mounted on the front of a tractor. 

I don't think many farmers climb up into the silo anymore either. Now silage is stored in concrete bunkers or those long, white, plastic “worms” you see around farms.    

                           

Harvesting corn is much more efficient these days, but I still like the magical world I still see, hear, and smell that lives on in my memories as I relive those days of helping fill silo after we got home from school. Eventually the night sky was filled with stars as we continued working into the night with our only lights provided by the tractors.

Besides the silo filling, there were chores to be done and cows to be milked. David and I usually ended up with those jobs while Dad kept driving tractor and hauling wagons from the field to the silo. We would have preferred doing the driving and unloading of wagons, but we weren’t given a choice. By the time we finished milking it was time for bed. Morning came all too soon. Then it was up and help with chores before heading off to Smith School. We usually walked the mile to school along Hwy.14. We joined neighbor, Sharon Midtlien first, and then hooked up with Beverly and Donna Jasperson. The five of us walked together, to and from school, almost every day. When there was silo filling to do, we walked a lot faster, so we could help haul and unload the wagons.The smell of silage brings back a lot of memories.

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