Tell Your Story This Syttende Mai

Across the Fence #286

Many people, including people of Norwegian descent, aren’t aware of the historical significance of Syttende Mai, and why people of Norwegian blood celebrate it. It’s to Norway what the 4th of July is to the United States. The constitution of Norway was signed at Eidsvoll, Norway on May 17, 1814. The constitution declared Norway to be a free and independent nation. But it wasn’t until 1905 that Norway finally gained its independence from Sweden.

Just like St. Patrick’s Day, when everyone becomes an Irishman, Syttende Mai is when everyone wishes they could be a Norwegian. Even the Swedes become Norwegian wannabes for the day and join in the celebration. I can say that because I have several good Swedish friends. It seems that we Scandinavians are the only people who still have a sense of humor.

My Irish friends don’t like to admit it, but they have a lot of Norwegian blood coursing through their veins too. My Viking ancestors spent a lot of “summer vacations” touring Ireland and plundering and pillaging. Many people aren’t aware that Norwegian Vikings founded the cities of Dublin, Cork, Limerick, and others. They also established settlements in Scotland, Northern England, Iceland, Greenland, Faroe Islands, Shetlands, and Orkney. Linda is Irish on her mother’s side. I tell her that if we could trace our families far enough back into Ireland, we’re probably related.

During this Syttende Mai, we should all take time to reflect on our heritage and roots. I’d also like to challenge everyone to write down or tell your story to someone. There are lots of stories to be told. Our family history and our stories are very important.

Maybe you think your story isn’t important, or that what happened in the past is of no consequence. “Who’d be interested in all that old stuff?”

That was the problem I encountered when I wanted my father, Hans Sherpe, to tell me about his life and things he remembered. He said he couldn’t remember anything, or that he didn’t want to talk about it. Then when he moved to The Friendship House, an assisted living facility in Westby, there was a man living there who had written up his life story and given copies to all his kids. “At least they’ll know what I’ve done,” he told my dad.

The next time we visited Dad, he said to us, “I really should write about my life, but I can’t write good anymore.” That was all the opening I needed. I told him, “You don’t need to write it down, I’ll set up our video camera and you can just talk. Before you know it, you’ll forget the camera is even there.”

The next weekend we were on our way back to Westby. I set the camera on a tripod in his room, turned it on, sat down, and started asking questions to get things going. It went slow at first and was like pulling teeth to get him to talk about things! But soon he was volunteering all kinds of information and stories. He DID remember. He talked about so many things I’d never heard about before. As we went along, I would ask questions about some event or some person and he would tell stories about what he remembered.

I’m so thankful we took the time to do this. He died two years later. He would have taken his music with him to the grave and all that information, and all those stories, would have been lost forever.

Much of what my father told about was what it was like to live in the 1920s through 1940s when he was young; the things they did for fun; Smith School memories; the struggles of the depression years and how it affected our family; what it was like to farm with horses and do most work by hand; what they did for recreation; courting our mother; the struggles of having no money and being forced off farms to make room for buyers instead of renters; the changes he had seen in over eighty years of living; and the list could go on and on.

I’m sorry I didn’t do the same with my mother. By the time I was really into family history, she was having all kinds of health problems. I didn’t want to bother her with asking about her life, thinking she might look at it as being near the end of her life, and now I wanted her to tell things before she died. If I could do it over, I’d ask her, and I suspect she would have been happy that someone wanted to know about her life. Now it’s all gone and we can never find out the details of her life and her thoughts about things.

Don’t take your music with you when you leave! Share it with others. Someday people will want to know what things were like when you lived. A personal family story is really a history lesson for those who come after you.

Regardless of who you are; 100% Norwegian, Norwegian by marriage, a Norwegian wannabe, a German, or even a Swede, your roots and your story are important! This Syttende Mai, start telling someone your story.

This is one Norwegian-American who’s proud of his roots and why I like to say that I stand in the present, with one foot in the past and one in the future.

Across the Fence Books

Across the Fence Book #4 is now available.

"Across the Fence: If Walls Could Talk" is the fourth compilation of Across the Fence columns.

Other books available are:

Across the Fence (2nd Printing - New Cover)

Across the Fence: Down Country Roads

Across the Fence: Back To the Country

If interested in purchasing a copy, let me know and I'll send the details.

Each book is $16.00

Sales Tax: $0.88 if a Wisconsin resident

Shipping: $5.00 Priority Mail

Shipping: $4.00 Media Rate - Padded Envelope

Howard Sherpe

E7409 Sherpe Road

Westby, WI 54667

E-mail: skjerpe@mwt.net

Things I've Learned Over 66 Years

Across the Fence #285

I'm having another birthday this week. I’m proud to admit I’ve now survived 66 of them. I used to think that was really old. Most days I don’t feel that old. I said most days. Some days, I feel ancient, both mentally and physically. Life is speeding along and some days it’s hard to hang on and keep up with all the changes a 66-year old has seen; especially all the high-tech changes.

First, the good news. I can now take Social Security, keep on working, and the government can’t penalize me and ask me to pay the Social Security payment back because I make more money than they allow. Of course we’re still saddled with the hundreds of different taxes the government burdens us with. Is it just me, or does it seem unfair that our Social Security is taxed as income, when we already paid that in as a tax. Now they tax it again. That seems like double taxation to me.

This birthday got me thinking about things I’ve learned and opinions I’ve formed in my 66 years.

I’ve learned that two subjects you shouldn’t discuss or write about are politics and religion. When it comes to those subjects, I’ve learned that most people have minds like a steel trap that’s been left out in the elements too long… they’re rusted shut.

I’ve learned that the older I get, I find it easier to accept that this is who I am… warts, pimples, extra pounds, aching joints, balding head, and all. I’ve put on a lot of miles to make it through 66 years. Not all of them were on paved roads. I’ve hit a lot of potholes over the years.

I’ve learned that when things look the darkest, a light appears and shows us the way. I’ve learned that I’m capable of doing a lot of things I never thought I could do. All we need is some confidence and the willingness to try and swim against the current. Even a dead fish can float downstream.

I’ve learned that I don’t have all the answers. I’ve learned that I can get much farther if I keep an open mind and am willing to listen to other points of view and opinions. The mind is like a parachute… it only functions when it’s open.

Another thing I’ve seen in my 66 years is an increasing amount of government regulations to protect us from ourselves. What happened to individual responsibility for our own actions?

There have been a lot of stories in the news lately about raw milk and the government wanting to protect us from drinking it. We grew up drinking raw (fresh) milk, direct from the cow. Everyone I knew also drank raw milk. I don’t remember anyone getting sick from drinking it and no one died that I’m aware of. We milked the cows, put the milk in cans, and set them in a cooler filled with cold water in the milkhouse. We’d fill a glass quart jar with milk and take it to the house. Ma put it in the refrigerator and in the morning it had a couple inches of cream on the top. We had Jersey’s who had higher butterfat content. Ma skimmed off most of the cream, saved it to use later, and we drank that raw, cream-filled, high-fat milk. We thought it was great and we survived. For us, drinking store-bought milk was like drinking watered down milk. We Jersey farmers referred to it as Holstein milk! My apologies to all you Holstein people, but I couldn’t resist.

Remember that woman who got burned when she spilled McDonald’s coffee on herself. She sued them and got a monetary settlement. Now most companies have a warning on their coffee cups that the contents are hot. If you read the warnings on any product these days, they seem to be protecting us from our own stupidity.

I’ve learned that many of the games we played as kids, would be outlawed now as too dangerous and someone could get hurt. They are probably right, but somehow we all survived.

I’ve learned that war produces only two things, victims and survivors. Too often, wars are started and waged by people who have never been in one, have never been shot at, or held the mangled body of a dying friend. It changes your outlook on life and death.

I’ve learned that every season has its good and bad points. You just have to find the good parts and concentrate on that. Back to that old Norwegian saying, “There’s no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes.”

I’ve learned that some days you’re the bug; some days you’re the windshield. That’s a fact of life and we all better get used to it.

I’ve learned that you can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy. Not everyone likes small towns or country living and that’s just fine. But for some of us, we need the peacefulness of country life and being able to see the stars at night without light pollution.

And one last thing; I’ve learned that you can go home again. Things have changed over the years, but it’s still home. It’s where my roots are buried deep. That’s a good place to be when you’re 66 years old.

Spring Fever Comes Knocking

Across the Fence #284

There’s something in the spring air that causes people, animals, and birds to abandon all logical thinking and do things that seem strange and stupid.

I’ve told you about Toby, our dog when we lived in Madison. He caught a scent of spring in the air and ran off in search of female companionship. After three days we thought he was gone forever. We were all very happy when we received a phone call that he had been found at a farm north of Middleton, many miles away from our home. When he tried running away again a couple days later, we took a trip to the vet and Toby lost his manhood, or in his case, his male doghood. The arrival of spring was much more peaceful for us after that. There is a force in the spring air that had a much more powerful attraction than his love of home and our family.

Another spring incident happened last week. Linda called me at work one morning and said it sounded like something was banging around in the air duct pipes in the basement. I said I’d come home at noon and check it out. When I investigated, I didn’t hear anything. I banged on all the air ducts, but nothing responded. I figured whatever had gotten in there, had either found its way out or had died.

The next morning before I went to work, I heard the banging. I went downstairs to investigate. Of course there was no sound when I tried to find it. It’s like having that banging or clanking noise in your car. As soon as you take it to a garage to have a mechanic listen to it, the motor purrs like a kitten and there are no strange noises. All I saw in this case was a robin sitting on a window well looking at me.

Later that morning Linda called again. She had discovered the source of the banging. It was that robin flying repeatedly against the basement windows.

You would think at my age I’d have heard stories of robins flying against windows. If you’re looking for answers in this age of the Internet—Google it. I typed in “robins flying against windows.” Presto! Just like magic, I found the answer, just a click of the mouse away. I found out that male robins are very territorial, and I might add from my own observations, rather stupid and have poor eyesight. They see their reflection in a window and think it’s another male intruding into their territory. They will fly against the window, repeatedly, trying to scare the rival male away. It gives a whole new meaning to the line, “Sorry dear, not tonight. I’ve got a headache.”

Over the weekend, I was able to watch the poor fellow beat himself silly several times. He never could get rid of that intruder. He was a formidable foe. Meanwhile, his mate was busy collecting dry grass and building a nest on a support beam under our deck.

As I watched them both hunting for worms later, I got to thinking. They may have super eyesight when locating worms, but the males could use a trip to the optometrist when it comes to recognizing other males.

We haven’t heard any banging against the windows lately. He either scared the intruder away, at least in his battered mind, or he got tired of beating himself up. As far as I know, he may be in bird therapy by this time. It points up once again, how fascinating nature can be.

Another great sight and sound of nature happened over the weekend. I heard a pheasant call one night from the grove of trees beside our house. The next morning he was roaming around in our back yard. I’m glad to see they survived the winter, hunters, and predators. Now if only our deer would make a return appearance.

Spring also brings out the latent farmer in me. I get the urge to dig in the dirt and plant some seeds. This week I used a shovel to dig up a small plot of ground for a garden. Then I chopped the chunks up with a old hoe. It’s not the easiest way to prepare the soil for a garden, but I’m too cheap to rent a rottotiller. By the time I got to the planting part, it was dark and I was using a flashlight. I guess that’s as crazy as that robin flying against the window. But, I need the exercise. I told Linda, some people shop at Big and Tall Stores for their clothes. If I don’t get rid of some weight, I’ll need to look for a Short and Wide Store!

Another thing, I only have the weekends and evenings to get anything done. When you work all day, it’s hard to find enough time if you’re involved in organizations that have evening meetings and other commitments. I’m contemplating dropping out of all organizations until I’m retired. I need time to do other things, like planting gardens, writing, carving, do a little trout fishing, and just sitting quietly in the woods enjoying nature and solitude.

As you can tell, these first warm, sunny, spring days certainly give me a severe case of Spring Fever. I may have a fever, but at least I don’t have a headache like our friend, the robin.

Bill, Willie, and Joe

Across the Fence #283

If you remember World War II, you will also remember the most famous cartoonist of the war, Bill Mauldin, and his characters, Willie and Joe. I was born during World War II, just over a month before D-Day. I was too young to remember Willie and Joe at the time, but after finding myself in another war with the 4th Infantry, I can relate to the Willie and Joe characters and the situations they found themselves in.

Mauldin’s cartoons earned him a Pulitzer Prize in 1945 at the age of 23. He won a second Pulitzer Prize in 1959 as a political cartoonist with the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. He also won the National Cartoonist Society Award for Editorial Cartooning and their Reuben Award in 1961. In 1962 he moved to the Chicago Sun-Times and remained with them until his retirement in 1991.

Mauldin’s talent as a cartoonist was recognized while he was assigned to the 45th Division’s newspaper staff when he enlisted in 1940. After the war began, he served as an infantryman. He landed at Anzio and received a Purple Heart after being wounded. In 1944 he joined Stars and Stripes and developed the characters of Willie and Joe. They were unshaven, filthy, aged beyond their years, and had an irreverent attitude toward officers and the army’s spit and polish. Willie and Joe expressed the dreams, hopes, hardships, and fears of combat-weary GI’s. They showed the real life of a GI in war and the average soldier appreciated the honesty.

After Ernie Pyle, America's most popular journalist in World War II, wrote an article about the work of Mauldin, United Feature Syndicate picked him up in 1944 and his cartoons began appearing in newspapers all over the United States.

Some officers, especially General George Patton, didn’t like his cartoons and tried to get them banned. However, General Eisenhower, told Patton to leave Mauldin alone. He felt Mauldin’s cartoons gave soldiers an outlet for their frustrations.

Bill Mauldin fully understood the infantryman, and was able to convey that understanding through his cartoon artwork. In referring to infantrymen, Mauldin said:

“The surest way to become a pacifist is to join the infantry. I don't make the infantryman look noble, because he couldn't look noble even if he tried. Still there is a certain nobility and dignity in combat soldiers and medical aid men with dirt in their ears. They are rough and their language gets coarse because they live a life stripped of convention and niceties. Their nobility and dignity come from the way they live unselfishly and risk their lives to help each other. They are normal people who have been put where they are, and whose actions and feelings have been molded by their circumstances… when they are all together and they are fighting, despite their bitching and griping and goldbricking and mortal fear, they are facing cold steel and screaming lead and hard enemies, and they are advancing and beating the h@#* out of the opposition. They wish to h@#* they were someplace else, and they wish to h@#* they would get relief… But they stay in their wet holes and fight, and then they climb out and crawl through minefields and fight some more.”

In 1945, Time Magazine had Mauldin’s “Willie” on the cover of the June 18th issue. I have that cover and the story about Mauldin, and keep it with his book, “Up Front,” published in 1945. Tucked within the pages of the book is a newspaper clipping of a book review. Also tucked in the book is the letter I received from Mauldin, on Chicago Sun-Times stationary, dated October 26, 1972.

I had written him a letter, telling how much I admired his work and the Willie and Joe cartoons. I included some copies of cartoons I had drawn about Vietnam. They were very similar in content to Mauldin’s cartoons. I told him the names of wars change, but the subject matter when dealing with war, never changes.

In his typewritten reply, he thanked me for my letter and said it had brightened a day full of nothing else but deadlines. He signed his name and drew a smiling Willie and Joe type of face next to it. I appreciate that he took the time to reply to my letter.

Another of my cartoonist heroes is Charles Schulz. He was also a World War II veteran and a fan of Mauldin’s cartooning ability too. Schulz paid tribute to Bill Mauldin in his Peanuts comic strip each Veterans Day from 1969-1998. Snoopy would be dressed as an army vet, on his way to Mauldin’s house to “quaff a few root beers and tell war stories.” I remember those strips.

Bill Mauldin died on January 22, 2003 from complications of Alzheimer’s disease and was buried in Arlington Cemetery. On March 31, 2010, the U. S. Post Office released a first-class stamp that depicts Mauldin, along with his famous characters, Willie and Joe.

When I look at the 50+ cartoons I drew about Vietnam, I see a lot of Mauldin’s influence. Different wars, but nothing really changes. As Mauldin said in later years: “I wanted to make something out of the humorous situations which come up even when you don’t think life could be any more miserable.”

I agree Bill. May you, Willie, and Joe, all rest in peace.

Calling All Smith School Alumni

Across the Fence #282

Attention All Smith School alumni! It’s time for a reunion. Hear ye, hear ye. If you were a student at Smith School, located at the corner of Highway 14 and Smith Road, south of Westby, consider yourself invited.

After many years of saying we should have a reunion, Alan Berg finally took the bull by the horns and called several of us to attend a meeting at his house to discuss it. It’s been forty plus years since the door closed and the last students exited that small, one-room school, and walked down the steps for the last time. All of us who attended the meeting agreed that it’s time to get together and remember and celebrate what it was like to attend a rural, one-room school.

It was a wonderful experience for most people. I think everyone who attended a country school experienced a few bumps along the way, but most of the memories are good ones. I did talk with one former student who said she wouldn’t be attending. She had a lot of unpleasant memories because she had been picked on and bullied by another student. I can understand her not wanting to revisit those days, but other former students can’t wait to get together again.

I think country schools were a special experience. All eight grades occupied one room. One teacher taught every subject in all eight grades. Most of those country schools had 20-25 students. Some years there were less.

In most cases you were a big, extended family. You were together each weekday for nine months of the year. Just like any family, you worked together, played together, ate together, and sometimes you fought together too.

Country schools were unique. I think we lost some of our sense of community when they were closed and everyone was bused to one big school in town, where each class was separate. The country school was the hub and gathering place in a rural community. You belonged to the Smith School district, or Seas Branch, Unseth, Natwick, Clockmaker, Gilbertson, Rongstad, Round Prairie, and the list goes on and on. I think the closing of country schools was more than just shutting the doors on rural education. It was also the end of a way of life and the dissolution of rural communities, as we knew them when we were young.

We plan to remember and celebrate that way of life with this reunion. It will be held on Saturday, August 7, 2010, from 1:00 – 5:00 pm in the basement of the Westby Coon Prairie Lutheran Church on Main Street in Westby. A lunch will be served at 3:00. Weather permitting, those who want to can walk over to the Seas Branch one-room school that’s been moved and preserved, next to the Westby Elementary School. Some Smith School students attended Seas Branch before it was closed and they were transferred to Smith. The inside is like it was when school was in session. See if you can still fit into a desk! I hear Anita is even bringing a Dick and Jane reader. Remember those simple stories that taught you how to read? “Run Spot, run. Oh Look. See Jane run. See Jane run after Spot.” It doesn’t get any better than that! I wonder what happened to all the old Dick and Jane books? I wish I had one.

Last year I wrote a story about flip stick. Many of you couldn’t remember playing it. We won’t play the game because we don’t want to poke anyone’s eye out at this stage. We made it through school without major injuries. I’ll bring a couple sticks and we’ll demonstrate the fine art of Vippe Pinne. Now if that doesn’t get you excited and want to attend, I don’t know what will. Maybe we’ll have to put up a curtain and bring a fishing pole. Remember when you went fishing and someone behind the curtain put a prize on your line and gave it a yank? That might be a great way to give away some door prizes.

If you have photos, books, those little annuals, or any memorabilia that would be of interest, bring them along. We’ll have tables to display the items. Start digging through the basement and attic and dust off those old items from the past!

We’d also like to invite any teachers who taught at Smith School. We aren’t sending out invitations to teachers or students. It would be a major project just assembling the addresses. We’re relying on the printed page and word of mouth. If you were a Smith School student, consider yourself invited. If you have siblings, relatives, or friends who were students, let them know. Our alumni are spread out all over the state of Wisconsin and the country. This is your opportunity to return home for one day, renew old friendships, swap stories, tell lies, and remember a simpler time when we were one big family.

Smith School and all the one-room schools are gone, but the spirit lives on in the memories of those students who attended them.

If you have questions or are planning to attend, let me know. We’d like to have some idea of how many people to plan for. You can contact me by e-mail at: skjerpe@mwt.net, or if you don’t have e-mail, we’ve paid our bills so our phone works too. 608-634-6874.

Exploring Rock Shelters and Caves

Across the Fence #281

Goods News! I was able to get out of bed this morning and function at a fairly normal level. This evening the muscle soreness has set in, but it was worth every bit of the aches, pains, cuts, and scratches.

I’ve always been interested in archaeology, history, and the Native Americans who lived on this land long before the first white man arrived. I’ve wanted to explore some of the Indian caves and rock shelters and see the rock art they did on the walls. That dream became a reality this week.

I was invited to visit some sites by a man who knew of my interest in ancient rock art. I’ll just call him Jim in this story. The location of the sites we visited must also remain a secret, due to the fear of vandalism to the art. Jim had permission from the landowners for us to explore the caves and rock shelters. He had visited one of them before, but the other three areas would be a first for both of us.

They’re located in the southwestern part of Wisconsin in the unglaciated “Driftless Area.” It’s a rugged landscape with huge hills, deep valleys, and sandstone outcroppings located at the top of steep bluffs. Take a drive around the Driftless Area and you’ll see these rock formations in the hills.

As Jim and I arrived at the first area to explore, I was pumped and ready for action. It was a cool, but sunny day—perfect for a hike, and boy were we in for some hiking. As I surveyed the first area we’d climb, I wished I was 40 years younger. The day would not only be one of exploration and adventure, but also a test of our stamina and will. I must report that both of us have a “few” years behind us.

This is a perfect time for hiking through deep woods before the vegetation begins to bloom and the mosquitoes and snakes become active. Even so, the brambles and thorns tried to block our path and bloodied our hands. We hiked uphill along a deep valley. Where the valley narrowed near the top of the hill we came to a rock formation nearly hidden from view. If the vegetation had been in full bloom, I’d never have known it was there.

We emerged into a huge rock shelter. Much of the sandstone floor had deteriorated over the years and crumbled into the valley below, leaving a considerable drop-off. There was a small cave entrance about nine feet up the side of a rock face. You could tell that the floor of the shelter had once been near the entrance. But now, how would a person get up there without a ladder. I wanted to get into that cave and explore, but there were no foot or handholds. After several attempts to reach the ledge as Jim used his locked hands as a foothold, we abandoned that approach. I wasn’t about to give up. I decided to haul several rocks and pile them at the base of the cliff. That got me another couple of feet closer. Standing on the rocks I could reach the ledge at the cave entrance. Between me pulling myself up, and Jim boosting, I managed to crawl up and into the cave. I had images in my mind of coming face to face with a snarling, cornered animal, but that’s all part of the equation if you want this type of adventure. Luckily, I didn’t encounter any animal or snakes, only darkness. I turned on my flashlight and examined my surroundings.

As I sat in the entrance of the cave and looked out, I imagined the Indians who once sat at that same spot and looked out at the forest surrounding them. I felt very much alive sitting there in the present, while I was also a part of ancient history. The first known inhabitants sat there 3,500 years ago.

The Mississippi Valley Archaeology Center (MVAC) excavated the site in the 1980s. They found four periods of occupation, ranging from 1500 B.C. to 1000 A.D. That’s 2,500 years of occupation and many years ago since it was last used. Several Petroglyphs (rock carvings) were found. Chiseling or pecking into the rock surface, using stones or deer antlers as tools, made the carvings. I wanted to see those carvings. We finally found them and with the right lighting were able to photograph them. I hope they remain unharmed for thousands of years to come, so future generations can have the same thrill we had in finding them.

I explored the cave, hoping to find some arrowhead or artifact the archaeologists had overlooked. I wasn’t successful, but did find a small animal jawbone that had been blackened from burning in a firepit. Meanwhile, Jim found a piece of flint among the crumbling sandstone outside.

Climbing down out of the cave was just as hard as getting in. If I had lost my grip and fallen, it could have been disastrous for both Jim and me.

As we left the site and headed down the valley to the car, we still had three more sites to explore. We climbed three very steep hills, traversed deep valleys, and examined more caves and shelters. At the end of the day I was tired, but knew this would be a day and adventure I’d always remember.