Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow!

Across the Fence #265

Oh the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful, and since we’ve no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow! Lyricist Sammy Cahn and composer Jule Styne created that wonderful Christmas song in 1945, when I was one year old. I was singing along with it last week in the car, as winter finally arrived after staying away through November. We usually have several inches of the white stuff on the ground by the time December arrives.

As usually happens with the first snowfall, people have forgotten how to drive on slippery, snow-covered roads. A car lost control ahead of me as I was approaching Sherpe Road, and slid into the ditch. If it had slid across the road, we’d probably have hit head on. It’s hard going from green grass and dry roads one minute, to snow-covered, slippery roads the next.

It snowed just enough to make driving and walking treacherous, but not enough to ski, sled, or snowshoe on. That could easily change by the time you read this. They’re predicting up to a foot of snow with high winds and blizzard conditions for tonight. I have two choices, I can complain about the weather as being a major Uff da, or I can sit back and sing along with the song, “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.” We live in the upper Midwest and it’s winter. That usually means snow and cold weather. I like the Norwegian philosophy, “There’s no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes.”

We have to face the fact that snow and cold weather have arrived. It’s time to get out the long underwear, snow boots, heavy winter jackets, sweaters, scarves, stocking caps, earmuffs, and extra pairs of gloves and socks. Then if you can still move, you can venture outside and enjoy the new snow. Just don’t slip and fall down. With all those clothes on, you won’t get hurt, but you’ll be like Ralphie’s little brother, Randy, in “A Christmas Story” and you won’t be able to get back up.

I plan to try something new this winter. I’ve always wanted to snowshoe, so this year I bought a pair, when they were on sale of course. I love to cross country ski through woods and other quiet areas, but there are always places you can’t get with skis or there’s just too much snow. I figure you’re never too old to try something new. I suspect it will be quite a workout, but should give me access to some beautiful winter scenes.

I like venturing into areas where no one else has been. I call it “virgin snow,” when no human tracks or trails are found. I like looking for animal tracks in such areas and following them. You never know where they’ll lead or what you’ll find. Maybe I’ll even find some deer trails. I haven’t seen a deer around here for a long time. I personally think last year’s “earn a buck” hunting season depleted the doe population. That’s one less fawn for every doe killed. I’ll look for deer tracks and let you know what I find.

By the way, did you hear the report that Santa will have 18 reindeer pulling his sleigh this year? Opps, disregard what I said. I just found out that report came from the DNR. Hopefully Santa will still be able to find eight reindeer.

As long as we’re talking about tracks in the snow, how many of you remember playing Fox and Geese? At Smith School, we’d tromp down the snow to make a large circle. Then we made intersecting trails through the center of the circle. One person was the fox and everyone else was a goose. The fox started in the center where the trails crossed. This was the safe zone or hen house. The geese were on the outer circle. The fox would then chase the geese. They had to make it to the center hen house without being caught by the fox or going out of the trails. I think the last goose tagged became the fox. However, the rules are pretty fuzzy in my mind and we probably made many of them up as we went along.

I do know that we did a lot of running around the circle and other trails, but don’t remember much else. It was great exercise in the winter.

Making snow angels in new-fallen snow was another winter activity at school. I think it was mostly a girl thing. After all, they were the angels! The guys were busy behind the outhouse writing yellow messages in the new snow! I don’t think that qualifies us for angel wings. That’s all I’ll say about that.

As you can see, there are a variety of things you can do in the snow to make winters more bearable and enjoyable.

Whenever I think of snow and Christmas, I think of another song, “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas,” sung by Bing Crosby. It’s a classic and part of the Christmas season for me.

Now granted, I know I’ll be singing completely different tunes by the end of March, but for the moment, “Let it snow, let it snow let it snow!”

Two Years and Many Changes

Across the Fence #264

It's now two years since the contractor started putting our house together on the foundation in the back forty of the farm I grew up on. So many things have changed in that time. Two years ago I was living at the Old Towne Motel south of Westby. It was my home for five months during our transition from Madison to Westby. It was very comfortable, complete with two recliners, bookcases, a table, television, phone, morning coffee and rolls, plus I could use their microwave and refrigerator. I thank Carroll and Pat Olson again for letting me stay in the “Sherpe Suite.” I told Linda, it was so comfortable, we should forget about building a house and live at the motel. It would be a lot cheaper. Even though she liked the Sherpe Suite, she thought the fresh country air had warped my brain. We didn’t cancel the construction!

In February 2008, I finally moved into our completed house and Linda moved from our Madison house to Westby. Let me say to everyone, if you don’t need to sell a house in this down economy, stay where you are. Luckily we finally sold our Madison house after about ten months on the market and feel very fortunate that we got rid of it, even if we took a beating.

We managed to survive the bitter cold weather and record snows of that first winter. There was a huge snowstorm the day before we moved, and a storm the day after, but luckily, the snow held off on the day we moved. After the long winter, it was nice to see spring finally arrive.

Spring brought mud around our new house and plenty of weeds. It also brought more torrential rain and floods. Again we were lucky. All the water problems we experienced during the building process had been a blessing in disguise. As a result, many things were implemented to avoid future water problems. When everyone else was experiencing water troubles during the June, 2008 flood, our basement was dry as a bone.

After three attempts to get grass seeded before another rain, we finally succeeded. It grew so good, I had to break down and buy a riding lawnmower… a John Deere of course.

I was ready for that first winter in our house on the prairie where the winds blow strong and create deep drifts in our driveway. I had purchased an old, used snow blower at a neighbor’s auction. Back in Madison, I always used a shovel and never owned a snow blower. But then our driveway was much shorter too. I had volunteered to buy matching shovels for Linda and me, but that suggestion didn’t go over as good as I had hoped!

You get what you pay for. That pre-owned (let’s tell it like it is, that old snow blower was not just pre-owned, it was prehistoric) and was mighty short on blowing power. It broke down twice last winter and I’m beginning to think a shovel works just as good with fewer problems. But then I’m not as young as I used to be. I still get back problems from when I broke my tailbone years ago.

As frugal as I try to be, I may have to break down and buy a new snow blower this year. Uff da, it pains me just to write those words. So far, I’m still holding out for matching shovels. Here we are at the end of November, as I write this, and the grass is still green. Maybe I won’t need those shovels this winter!

After two years I finally got around to unpacking all our boxes and stuff in the basement. When I started unpacking, I found things back that I’d been looking for and thought I’d probably thrown in the garbage or given to Good Will. Anyone who’s cleaned out and packed up a house after thirty-plus years will understand how things can become misplaced. At first I was sorting, packing, and labeling every box with great care. As time went on, I was throwing stuff left and right, and what we kept was stuffed into any box where it would fit. Why we kept half the stuff we had is beyond my comprehension. At the time you never know when you might need that used nail, that old, torn, pair of jeans that’s three sizes too small, and countless knick-knacks and stuff that hadn’t seen the light of day for twenty-plus years. Now as I went about unpacking the boxes in the basement, I wondered why we kept half the stuff we moved?!

One thing I haven’t second-guessed is my decision to accept the Marketing Manager job at Vernon Telephone Cooperative in Westby, and moving after forty years in the advertising business in Madison. Many friends thought I was crazy to make those changes at my age, when most of them were retiring or already retired. Maybe I am crazy, but then I’ve always been accused of taking the road less traveled. Linda loves it here too, has many new friends, and says she has the best of both worlds.

We now have beautiful sunrises and sunsets, deer roaming through our back yard, clouds, and the night sky filled with billions of stars. The road less traveled may be filled with many changes, but the trip is great.

Priming the Pump

Across the Fence #263

I think my age is showing, or as I prefer to say, “I’m youthfully challenged.” It all began when I looked in the box we have on our front counter at work to collect donations for Bethel Butikk to help feed the many people in need around our area. After several days, I was surprised to find nothing had been dropped in the box. I made the comment, “I think I need to prime the pump.” The two young ladies at the front desk had puzzled looks on their faces. I could tell they didn’t have a clue what I meant. It was very apparent that we were part of vastly different generations.

I explained that in order to get water from the old, hand water pumps, you first needed to prime the pump by pouring some water in it as you quickly pumped the handle up and down. In other words, it took water to get water. If I wanted people to drop some dollars in the box, I needed to stick some dollar bills in it first. Maybe then, the dollars would start to flow.

Priming the pump applies to a lot of life’s situations, not just getting water from an antique pump. Zig Zigler tells a story about “Priming the Pump.” He said, “You can achieve anything you want in life, if you’re willing to first help enough other people get what they want. He says you need to “Prime the pump for success!”

After being introduced, Zigler would come on stage lugging a large, old-fashioned, chrome-plated water pump. It would catch everyone off guard. He would quickly share the reason for his unique prop. He felt the water pump conveyed the story of life at its simplest. He would then demonstrate that before you can get water, you first have to prime the pump.

He said that if you want to get anything out of life, your marriage, your job, etc., you have to put something in first. Too many people tend to say, “If you give me a raise today, I’ll perform much better starting tomorrow.” Zigler gave the example of someone saying, “Stove, if you give me some heat, I’ll put some wood in you as soon as I get warm.” It’s not going to happen.

Now back to that pump. Once you’ve primed the pump, you have to begin pumping vigorously to get the pressure and suction built up to bring the water all the way up the long pipe. If you happen to get tired and stop pumping, the water falls back down into the cistern, and you have to start all over again.

Zigler points out that you have to persist in whatever you do in life. When you start a new job or take on a new challenge, you have to pump with enthusiasm, even if you don’t see the results you’d like to see in the short run.

I’ve learned over the years that you need to keep trying and not give up in order to accomplish anything. Once the water starts flowing, you need to keep pumping to keep it flowing.

There was a pump on top of our cistern. We attached a long pipe to it that was used to fill the tobacco planter barrel and portable water tanks. We’d keep a jar of water nearby to pour down the pump to prime it. As you quickly pumped the handle there would be no resistance. We kept pouring water in and soon you could feel resistance and knew that water was finally on its way up the pipe. Before you quit pumping it was wise to fill the jar or a pail to use next time you needed water.

There’s a story about a traveler who hiked for many miles across a desolate area. His water supply had run out, and he knew that if he didn’t find water soon, he’d become dehydrated and die before anyone found him. In the distance, he finally noticed an abandoned cabin and hoped to find some water there. Once he made it to the cabin, he discovered an old well. He noticed an old, tin can tied to the pump, with a note inside.

The note said: “Dear stranger: This water pump is in working condition, but the pump needs to be primed in order for the water to come out. Under the white rock next to the pump, I buried a jar of water, out of the sun. There’s enough water in the jar to prime the pump, but not if you drink any first. When you’re finished, please fill the jar and put it back as you found it, for the next stranger in need of water who comes this way.”

One thing I haven’t mentioned is how miserable it was to prime the pump on a cold, winter day. And no, I never stuck my tongue on the pump handle!

That’s a short lesson in how to prime a pump, and what it means. We need to remember that most of today’s younger generation has no idea how an old-fashioned water pump works because they’ve never seen one in action. It’s our job, as the “youthfully challenged” generation, to bridge the gap and let the younger generations know there’s a valuable life lesson to be learned from the simple action of priming a pump.

Thanks for Visiting With Me

Across the Fence #262

This begins the sixth year of Across the Fence. It seems like only yesterday when Dick Brockman, publisher of the Linn News-Letter in Central City, Iowa, asked if I’d ever thought about writing a weekly column. I said I’d do it, and here we are, five years and over 260 columns later. It’s been quite a journey.

Once again, it occurs during the week of Thanksgiving. That’s quite appropriate, because I’m very thankful for the opportunity to write this column and visit across the fence with you each week.

I added up the number of subscribers in the papers where these stories run and it totaled up to 56,173. If there’s an average of two readers per household, that’s over 100,000 potential readers. I’ll be the first to admit, not everyone who subscribes to a paper reads my column. As the old saying goes, “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.”

For those of you who do visit with me across the fence each week, thank you. Mange tusen takk! I also appreciate your feedback on stories and providing me with new ideas for stories.

This week of Thanksgiving also begins the holiday season. After the last remnants of the turkey are consumed, it’s you and I who are stuffed, not the turkey. I always say I’m not going to make a pig of myself, but then I see all that good food and that’s the end of my good intentions. It’s like the old seafood diet. I see food and eat it. I can already tell you that my New Year’s resolution will be to lose 25 pounds. Every time I carry a 25-pound salt block down the stairs to the water softener, I realize that’s how much extra weight I’m packing around every day. That’s a lot of extra stress on my knees.

It’s a good thing I don’t have to climb up in tobacco sheds any more. It seems like case weather always showed up around Thanksgiving. When it did, even deer hunting was put on hold while we took down tobacco. I liked climbing around in the tobacco sheds when I was young. There was a sense of adventure and daring about it. We were lucky that none of us ever fell while hanging tobacco or taking it down. I’ve had poles break or roll, but was always able to grab a pole to keep from falling to the ground.

Now that tobacco is no longer raised around here, it won’t be long before no one will know what we’re talking about when we refer to “case weather. Even the terms “hanging tobacco” and “stripping tobacco” will become obsolete.” I know one thing; it was much easier taking tobacco down than hanging it. I still like to tell people that I used to be a stripper and then watch their expressions.

Recently we drove by a tobacco shed that was being torn down. The siding had been removed and only the framework and poles remained. It stood like a skeleton of a once useful, essential building that was found on many farms. Now it had been reduced to a reminder of a time when tobacco was the major cash crop on those farms. I stopped and took some photos of the framework. The timber frame and poles were weathered and well worn. I could almost hear the ghosts of the men who had once climbed around in that shed. I could see and smell the bents filled with curing tobacco. I imagined a farmer standing where I now stood, feeling thankful that another crop was ready to be taken down and stripped. It meant that mortgages could be met and taxes paid.

A few days later I drove by the spot again. All traces of the tobacco shed were gone and dirt now covered the area. Before long, even the ghosts of farmers past, would have a hard time finding where the shed once stood. Time marches on, years and holidays come and go. Each year, Thanksgiving, with turkey and all the trimmings, finds me remembering those case weather days and all the sights and smells associated with taking down tobacco.

Then, while the Thanksgiving meal is still digesting, Black Friday arrives. Thousands of shoppers invade the stores like a hoard of locusts devouring a field of grain. I can guarantee you one thing; I won’t be among those shoppers. Not because I’m so full of turkey that I can’t move, but I’m not much of a shopper and I hate crowds. My idea of shopping is to quickly find what I’m looking for, pay for it, and get out. These days you can buy a lot of things on-line and never have to enter a store. That’s my kind of shopping.

Among all the shopping, food, football games, deer hunting, and no tobacco to take down, it’s easy to forget the real reason for Thanksgiving. It’s a time to be thankful for all we have, especially our family and friends. Thanksgiving is sharing and not forgetting to help those who have fallen on hard times, or may be spending the day alone. It’s reaching out, across the fence, and letting people know how much you appreciate them. Mange takk for visiting with me each week. I’ll see you again next week.

Outhouse Adventures

Across the Fence #261

I said a few weeks ago, that the outhouse deserved its own story. Unless you’re Amish, only those of you with a few years under your belt can appreciate the importance of the outhouse. Or more importantly, we can appreciate the invention of indoor plumbing.

I can’t imagine anyone not being familiar with the term “outhouse” or “two-holer,” but just in case, I’ll offer a brief description for the uninformed. An outhouse was a small, wooden structure, containing a wooden seat with two holes cut in it, and positioned over a pit dug in the ground. The building served as a toilet and was set away from the main house. This toilet had no soft toilet paper, did not flush, and was not attached to a sewer. It was hot and infested with flies and spiders in the summer, and was beastly cold in the winter.

Who can forget a trip to the two-holer in the dead of winter when it was ten below zero and the wind was howling. On the positive side, at least we didn’t know about wind chill temperatures back then, or we’d really have thought it was cold. The door on our outhouse didn’t fit very tight and a stiff wind would blow snow through the cracks and deposit it on the seats. You get the picture. You’ve probably been there and experienced that type of adventure. I can tell you one thing; we didn’t take a paper or magazine along to read while we were doing our business in the winter!

Speaking of reading, my old army buddy, Big Lee, who now lives in California, calls my books the outhouse books. He said he takes one with to the bathroom. They’re just the right length to read one story while doing his duties. I told him I should call my next book “The Outhouse Book,” and dedicate it to him.

That also reminds me, when we arrived in Vietnam, we went ashore at Qui Nhon and were taken to a nearby airfield. While waiting on the airstrip to be flown into the Central Highlands, we needed to take a bathroom break. The “latrine” was a long, wooden building. The inside was just like a two holer, except this one had to be at least a twenty-holer. Several of us went in and sat down on a hole. We were tending to business when a Vietnamese woman entered and sat down on an open hole next to me. We all glanced at her and at each other. Were we in the wrong outhouse? The young woman completed her duties, got up, smiled at us, and left. We all busted out laughing. What kind of country and culture had we arrived in? The army had neglected to inform us about such things. That’s one outhouse that even a strong guy like Big Lee couldn’t have tipped over.

Outhouses and the tipping of them, go hand in hand with Halloween. I suspect many of you could regale me with stories of your exploits. I recently heard about one man who was tired of having his outhouse tipped over every Halloween. One year he decided to sit inside and wait for the pranksters to come along. When he heard them outside, he threw open the door and fired his shotgun into the air. The outhouse tippers scattered in every direction and disappeared into the night. I don’t imagine they tried tipping any more outhouses that year.

Another man who wanted to remain anonymous, for obvious reasons, told about being along on a tipping party in his youth. It was a rainy Halloween night and when they tipped the outhouse, he slipped in the mud, lost his balance, and ended up in the pit! That was his last outhouse-tipping adventure.

One thing I had never thought about was the proximity of lilac bushes to an outhouse. A man brought this to my attention during my book signing at Black River Falls. When I started asking other people about this, several of them remembered lilacs bushes or even hedges of them nearby. We also had a very large lilac bush behind our house. It was close to where the outhouse stood before we moved it, after the “pit” filled up. I suspect it had been even closer to the bush at one time. For you non-outhouse people, we couldn’t just flush an outhouse like you do with a modern day toilet. When the hole filled up, you dug a new pit and moved the outhouse. But back to those lilac bushes. They must have provided a little concealment and they smell good when they’re in blossom, even if it’s only for a couple weeks. Goodness knows every outhouse could use a little air freshener near it.

I don’t want to raise a stink about the use of outhouses, but how come we can’t stick one in the back yard any more? The Amish can still use them. Not that I want to sit out there when it’s twenty below zero and the wind is howling across Coon Prairie. But, it sure is a lot cheaper to dig a hole and put an outhouse over it than it is to install an expensive, government-inspected septic system here in the country.

On the positive side, at least we don’t have to worry about someone tipping over our septic system on Halloween.

The Highground: A Special Place

Across the Fence #260

The Highground, a 140-acre veterans memorial park, located west of Neillsville, Wisconsin, had its genesis in a battle at Ky Phu, Vietnam on December 18, 1965. Tom Miller from Wisconsin and Jack Swender from California, were serving with the 2nd Bn./7th Marines. They were on patrol when they came under heavy attack by the Viet Cong. Tom and his partner, Jack, took cover in a small house in the hamlet. They managed to hold them off for 15 minutes before an explosion blew a wall apart, mortally wounding Swender and severely wounding Miller. Tom held Jack as he died and vowed not to let his friend’s death be forgotten.

Fast-forward 19 years to 1984. Tom Miller recruited several other Vietnam veterans to join him in creating a Wisconsin Vietnam Veterans Memorial. This is where Tom entered my life. A couple of friends talked me into attending an organizational meeting of a Madison chapter of the Vietnam Veterans of America. Tom also attended that meeting. This big guy, with a black patch over one eye, wearing a cowboy hat, entered the room. We hit it off right away when we found out we were both self-employed graphic artists.

At the meeting, Tom told us about his idea for a memorial and was looking for volunteers to join him. There was a lot of interest, but few people wanted to get actively involved, including me.

In the following months, Tom and I got to be friends and he’d stop by my office and we’d talk business. One day he brought his new MAC computer with to show me. It was the first one I’d ever seen. He showed me a brochure about the memorial he wanted to build. Tom had designed it using the small computer. I was impressed.

One rainy day, Tom came into my office and said he wanted me to go with him to the Secretary of State’s office. He needed another person to sign incorporation papers for the memorial project. I protested, but he insisted it was only a formality so he could get the project rolling. Little did I know what a big commitment I was getting myself into. Neither of us had any idea at the time, what a huge project this “little” memorial would become!

Tom assembled a “working” Board of Directors and the project slowly started rolling. Most of us were Vietnam vets, but we also had a World War II and Korean vet.

In those early days most people wouldn’t give us the time of day, including veterans organizations. Few people expected us to succeed. One went so far as to tell me, “You Vietnam vets would screw up a two-car funeral. How did we think we could ever build a memorial?” When Tom tried to get publicity, one editor told him to forget about it, the wars been over for years. Fortunately, none of us listened to all the negatives and we forged ahead. Never tell a Vietnam vet they can’t do something.

Early on it was decided to change the direction of the project, from a Vietnam only memorial, to one that would include ALL veterans. No one would be excluded. We also changed the name from the Wisconsin Vietnam Veterans Memorial Project to The Highground. Today that little project has evolved into a beautiful, 140-acre veteran’s memorial park.

The Vietnam Veterans tribute, dedicated in 1988, is the centerpiece. It’s located at the point of the plaza, overlooking one-half million acres of spectacular Wisconsin woodland and glacial moraine. The bronze sculpture includes four life-size figures and was the first veteran’s tribute in the U. S. to include a woman in the statuary. Her poncho flows out from the back of the figures. Under it she carries the burden of the many Wisconsin servicemen killed in Vietnam. Their names are inscribed on the bundles of bamboo-shaped bronze rods that serve as wind chimes. It’s like their voices are still speaking to us in the wind.

Other memorials and tributes followed. In 1989, the MIA/POW earthen dove effigy mound was built and dedicated. 1990, saw the addition of the Gold Star Grove. Two timber frame shelters were also added in the lower park area. In 1992, The Nurse, in honor of all women who served, and the World War I Doughboy were dedicated. 1993 saw the addition of the World War II Veteran’s tribute. In 1995 the National Native American Vietnam Veterans tribute was dedicated. In 2008, the Korean Veteran’s tribute was added. True to our mission, all the tributes honor the veteran, not the war.

A four-mile hiking and nature trail has also been added, along with a timber-frame office/gift shop. A Meditation Garden is a recent addition. It’s a beautiful, peaceful park that draws thousands of visitors each year. It’s become a place of spiritual healing for thousands of veterans and their families. It became a reality thanks to private contributions and thousands of volunteer hours.

During this Veteran’s Day week, I wanted you to know that The Highground is a tribute to all veterans of all wars. If you haven’t experienced The Highground, put it on your list of places to visit. You’ll also see what a dedicated, determined group of people can accomplish, when they all work together toward a common goal.

All Gave Some, Some Gave All

Across the Fence #259

Veteran's Day is almost here and it’s time to honor veterans… ALL veterans. It bothers me when I hear some veterans make apologies for not being a combat veteran, or if they were in a combat zone, they say they had it easy compared to others.

I want to say to every veteran, peacetime or wartime, “Your service was important, no matter what your job was or where and when you served. You never have to apologize to anyone. You answered the call, you stood tall, and you did what the military asked you to do.”

I have a friend who was a crew chief and door gunner on a helicopter in Vietnam. He downplays his role, saying, “You guys had it much worse. We’d drop you guys off in an LZ (Landing Zone) and leave you there to live in the jungle while we flew back to camp and slept in a dry bunk and ate real food. Meanwhile you guys were wet, miserable, eating c-rations, and getting shot at.” Those comments came from a guy who was strapped on the side of a speeding chopper that often flew into hot LZ’s to drop off or pick up guys. He was even wounded. Everyone thinks they didn’t do enough.

That’s why I like the song, “All gave some, some gave all.” All veterans gave some. Some of our friends gave all and their names are now found on memorials.

Truth be told, most of us didn’t have a say in what our job would be. You may have voluntarily enlisted, or been like me, a reluctant draftee. In either case, we stepped forward, raised our right hand, and took the oath. Uncle Sam then decided our destiny. We had little, or no say in what we’d be doing or where we’d be sent. The army decided I’d be a medic and would be with the 4th Infantry Division. I wasn’t given a choice and no one asked for my opinion. The army decided, and I went where they told me. It’s like playing poker, we have no control over what cards we’re dealt. Each of us plays the cards we end up with and make the best of it.

I recently attended a meeting held in Viroqua, where a group of us Vietnam veterans got a sneak preview of the new Wisconsin Public Television documentary, “Wisconsin Vietnam War Stories.” The premier showing will be next May at Lambeau Field, where all Wisconsin veterans, family members, and friends are invited to attend. After the premier it will be shown on Wisconsin Public Television. The documentary is still in the editing process.

The veterans in attendance at the sneak preview were from most branches of service and had served during the Vietnam War. Each had performed the duties Uncle Sam gave them. I looked around that room and every man and woman was important and equal in my eyes.

We all think our branch of service, our unit, our MOS (job), our area of operation, was the best and toughest. It’s always been that way and always will be. That’s part of the pride of having served. But when push comes to shove, we’re all united as one. We’re a band of brothers and sisters. Yes, sisters too. I have some army nurse friends who would kick my butt if I didn’t include them. Diane Carlson Evans and Alice Plautz saw more blood and the destruction of war than anyone can ever imagine. And then there’s my mother’s cousin, Evelyn Schye from Cashton, who served in the army during World War II, along with three of her brothers. One was killed. Yes, all gave some, and some gave all.

All branches of service are important. Many infantrymen owe their lives to the Navy vets who were aboard ships offshore and provided firepower when they needed it. Air Force vets who often served on bases far removed from the fighting, loaded bombs that would be delivered by pilots. Many of us are still alive today because of their help.

Doctors, nurses, and medics assigned to hospitals, dealt with the daily carnage of war and tried to save everyone. There are a lot fewer names on The Wall because of their efforts. Cooks kept everyone fed so they’d be able to fight. Truck drivers kept the supplies rolling. Engineers built roads, buildings, and bridges. They were often the first ones in to clear an LZ, and the last ones out after blowing up what was left behind. Clerks kept the records straight and the payroll running or there would be no record of what everyone did. Others kept the supplies, equipment, and personnel moving and made sure they were delivered where needed, often in the midst of a battle. Every job was important and vital to the overall effort.

When someone asks if you’re a combat veteran, where do you draw the line? I consider everyone who served in a combat zone a combat veteran, whether they ever fired a shot or not. I treated infantrymen, engineers, cooks, clerks, truck drivers, tank personnel, officers, enlisted men, women, children, and all colors of skin. War doesn’t make any distinctions. Everyone becomes a combatant. Everyone bleeds the same color blood.

Everyone’s important. I don’t want to hear any veteran apologize for their role while I’m around. We all gave some, some gave all.