Across the Fence #296
The idea is simple. It’s black and white. Be good to people.
Have you ever had someone be rude to you or say something hurtful? Maybe someone thought you were too slow pulling away from a stoplight and gave you a one-finger salutation. How did it make you feel? Chances are you became irritated or angry and wanted to retaliate against that person, or more likely, the next person you encountered. You probably fumed about it for a long time afterwards. It ruined your day, didn’t it?
It’s like throwing a stone in the water. The ripple affect from that act keeps moving outward and touching everything it meets. If someone was good to you instead of rude, those ripples can have a positive affect too. A smile or kind word can make someone’s day.
Be Good to People. Those simple words have become the central theme for the business of Kris Wittenberg, who lives in Eagle, Colorado. Those of you, who have been reading Across the Fence for a long time, know I’ve often written about the adventures I shared with my cousin, Sandra, who spent every summer on the farm with us until she was in high school. Kris is the daughter of Sandy and her husband, Lou Wagner. Sandy died of cancer several years ago at the all too young age of 60. Kris, her husband, Augie Wittenberg, and their two children live in Eagle, where their business is headquartered.
The idea for Be Good to People was inspired by a rude experience that Kris had back in the spring of 2008 while running errands at lunch. The exact bad experience has long been forgotten, but the idea that people need to treat each other better has not.
Once back in the office of her promotional materials company, SayNoMore! Promotions, she exasperatingly asked, “Why can’t people just be good to people?” Given her entrepreneurial spirit and her longing for a friendlier world, she researched to see if the phrase was trademarked and if the web address was taken.
She found everything was available and took that as a “sign.” She knew she had to act, so she secured both the name and the web address, and Be Good to People, the brand and the movement was born.
Being Good to People is as simple as giving someone a compliment, holding a door open for someone, paying for the person’s coffee behind you in line, carrying a heavy bag for someone, bringing flowers to a nursing home, bringing toys to a children’s hospital, sending an email to a loved one, leaving a server a large tip and saying thank you as you leave, making amends with someone you’ve hurt, or simply smiling at the next person you meet!
Being Good to People is performing simple acts of kindness. It gives, both you and the recipient of your kindness, a renewed feeling of hope and relief from today’s negative news. It helps spread a positive message. Be Good To People is a movement, changing the world, one person, one kind act at a time.
I wish Sandy was still here to see the positive affect her daughter is having on the people she touches through her business. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Looks like she also got her father’s entrepreneurial spirit.
I hope this movement takes off and that major department stores will soon be offering items with the Be Good To People slogan on them. It’s hard to be nasty to people if you’re wearing a shirt or hat that says “Be Good To People.” That would be a bit hypocritical.
The more I’ve thought about this simple statement, the more I think the story and idea needs to be told. When I look around, I see a lot of people who don’t seem to be very happy. They’re always complaining and tend to take out their frustrations on people they come in contact with. If you listen to talk radio or watch the talking heads on television, there is a lot of anger and tearing people down. Politicians are always at each other’s throats and there is plenty of name-calling and blaming. What ever happened to the words civility and compromise? They seem to have been thrown out of our dictionaries.
The world has become a series of straight lines instead of the circle of life. The leaders of countries, governments, organizations, and even some religions, aren’t being very good role models for the young people. They don’t see a whole lot of people being good to people, especially if the people have differing political views, religious views, lifestyle views, etc., etc. The list could go on and on. I guess that’s why those simple words and sentiment appeal to me.
I know this is a departure from my usual columns, but there comes a time when a person needs to make a statement about life, and put it down in black and white, with no shades of gray. Kris has done that and has developed a business to help promote what she feels. She’s trying to change the world, one person, one kind act at a time. It’s a monumental task for one person, but if each of us would imprint “Be Good To People,” in our mind, think of the changes it could bring about. It’s worth a shot.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
A July Type of Attitude
Across the Fence #295
It’s the first week of July and the second half of the year has begun. Where did the first half go? I’m a certified member of the Over the Hill Gang and every member knows that you pick up more speed as you go. It’s quite a ride, but it would be nice if we could apply the brakes once in a while, so we don’t go flying off some hairpin curve.
It’s funny how age changes our perspective on things. When I was in seventh grade, my grandfather, Oscar Hanson, died. I thought he was an old man. When I was looking up some family history information this week, I realized he was 66 years old. Uff da! He was my age when he died. I wonder if he ever felt like a young guy trapped in an old, aching body?
I guess age and how we approach life is really an attitude. When our relatives from Norway visited us last month, Arne Olav Østrem told me about a client he does taxes for. He asked the old farmer, who was 81, when he was going to retire from farming. “Why should I quit farming?” the old farmer said. “Where would I find a job at my age?”
It reminded me of my relative, Alf Tomtengen. He was still farming and milking cows at 90 years of age. He was proud that he was still able to farm at an age when most people have been retired for years. I asked if he planned to retire some day. “I think when I’m able to work, I should have something to do,” Alf replied.
Both of those old farmers had what I call a July type of attitude. The world is alive with color, sounds, and smells, and they didn’t want to miss any of it.
As I mentioned, we began the second half of the year on July 2. If I was creating a calendar, I’d never begin the year on January 1. It’s often bitterly cold, the world is covered in a layer of white, and very few people or animals are active. Animals and birds with any sense, are either hibernating or have flown south for the winter.
I’d begin the calendar year at the halfway point… July. It’s a beautiful time of year. The world is alive with color and life. Trees and bushes are filled with leaves of every shade of green. Crops in the fields are growing. Corn was almost chest high by the 4th of July this year. This is when the earth is alive, and it rubs off on all who inhabit the land. Who could venture along a tree-lined country road, where the ditches are filled with colorful wildflowers, and feel depressed?
But I’m also a realist and know that not everything about July is positive to everyone. I don’t care much for all the mosquitoes and pesky bugs either. After all the rain we’ve had lately, there should be no shortage of mosquitoes. On the positive side, the birds love them.
I can’t talk about July and our abundance of rain without mentioning lawns and grass. I made the mistake of fertilizing our yard this spring. Being frugal, I didn’t put that much on, but any amount was too much this year. This is where my July attitude wears a little thin. I’ve come to the conclusion that grass is good for one thing. It beats the muddy mess you have if you don’t have grass. Other than that, I’m thinking of planting the whole back yard with wildflowers. They’re much more colorful than grass, they come back each year with no need for special treatment or expensive fertilizer, and you don’t need to waste time and money mowing them down every week. I mow the grass every week, and it just keeps coming back. The dead grass is left on the lawn. People don’t even bale it up, so it’s of use to some hungry animal. Now, what’s the sense in that? I wonder who invented lawn mowing? I guess they didn’t have anything better to do. Some people have such gorgeous, pristine lawns you don’t dare to walk on them and trample down the grass. We are a strange species, aren’t we?
One more thing, July can get very hot and humid. Many people don’t like the heat. I like it. I think we tend to over air-condition our lives. As a result, it feels so much hotter when we do venture outside. I’ve been some places where I have to go outside to warm up.
Along with that, if you don’t go outside in July, you’re missing so much. You need to sit in the cool shade and listen to the wind in the trees. Watch and listen to the wind moving through tall grass along fencelines. Listen to the joyous sounds of all the birds. Watch butterflies darting among the flowers. Enjoy the evenings when the night comes alive with wonderful sights and sounds. Watch the fireflies put on their light show, lie back and gaze up at the star-filled sky, and let the crickets, frogs and tree toad chorus serenade you. July evenings are something special.
It doesn’t get much better than that. It’s July, it’s an attitude, and how you look at it is up to you.
It’s the first week of July and the second half of the year has begun. Where did the first half go? I’m a certified member of the Over the Hill Gang and every member knows that you pick up more speed as you go. It’s quite a ride, but it would be nice if we could apply the brakes once in a while, so we don’t go flying off some hairpin curve.
It’s funny how age changes our perspective on things. When I was in seventh grade, my grandfather, Oscar Hanson, died. I thought he was an old man. When I was looking up some family history information this week, I realized he was 66 years old. Uff da! He was my age when he died. I wonder if he ever felt like a young guy trapped in an old, aching body?
I guess age and how we approach life is really an attitude. When our relatives from Norway visited us last month, Arne Olav Østrem told me about a client he does taxes for. He asked the old farmer, who was 81, when he was going to retire from farming. “Why should I quit farming?” the old farmer said. “Where would I find a job at my age?”
It reminded me of my relative, Alf Tomtengen. He was still farming and milking cows at 90 years of age. He was proud that he was still able to farm at an age when most people have been retired for years. I asked if he planned to retire some day. “I think when I’m able to work, I should have something to do,” Alf replied.
Both of those old farmers had what I call a July type of attitude. The world is alive with color, sounds, and smells, and they didn’t want to miss any of it.
As I mentioned, we began the second half of the year on July 2. If I was creating a calendar, I’d never begin the year on January 1. It’s often bitterly cold, the world is covered in a layer of white, and very few people or animals are active. Animals and birds with any sense, are either hibernating or have flown south for the winter.
I’d begin the calendar year at the halfway point… July. It’s a beautiful time of year. The world is alive with color and life. Trees and bushes are filled with leaves of every shade of green. Crops in the fields are growing. Corn was almost chest high by the 4th of July this year. This is when the earth is alive, and it rubs off on all who inhabit the land. Who could venture along a tree-lined country road, where the ditches are filled with colorful wildflowers, and feel depressed?
But I’m also a realist and know that not everything about July is positive to everyone. I don’t care much for all the mosquitoes and pesky bugs either. After all the rain we’ve had lately, there should be no shortage of mosquitoes. On the positive side, the birds love them.
I can’t talk about July and our abundance of rain without mentioning lawns and grass. I made the mistake of fertilizing our yard this spring. Being frugal, I didn’t put that much on, but any amount was too much this year. This is where my July attitude wears a little thin. I’ve come to the conclusion that grass is good for one thing. It beats the muddy mess you have if you don’t have grass. Other than that, I’m thinking of planting the whole back yard with wildflowers. They’re much more colorful than grass, they come back each year with no need for special treatment or expensive fertilizer, and you don’t need to waste time and money mowing them down every week. I mow the grass every week, and it just keeps coming back. The dead grass is left on the lawn. People don’t even bale it up, so it’s of use to some hungry animal. Now, what’s the sense in that? I wonder who invented lawn mowing? I guess they didn’t have anything better to do. Some people have such gorgeous, pristine lawns you don’t dare to walk on them and trample down the grass. We are a strange species, aren’t we?
One more thing, July can get very hot and humid. Many people don’t like the heat. I like it. I think we tend to over air-condition our lives. As a result, it feels so much hotter when we do venture outside. I’ve been some places where I have to go outside to warm up.
Along with that, if you don’t go outside in July, you’re missing so much. You need to sit in the cool shade and listen to the wind in the trees. Watch and listen to the wind moving through tall grass along fencelines. Listen to the joyous sounds of all the birds. Watch butterflies darting among the flowers. Enjoy the evenings when the night comes alive with wonderful sights and sounds. Watch the fireflies put on their light show, lie back and gaze up at the star-filled sky, and let the crickets, frogs and tree toad chorus serenade you. July evenings are something special.
It doesn’t get much better than that. It’s July, it’s an attitude, and how you look at it is up to you.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Long Gone But Not Forgotten
Across the Fence #294
On a hilltop overlooking Bloomingdale, Wisconsin sits a small country church. A short, steep, winding, tree-lined road takes you up to the Bloomingdale Church, quietly nestled in a clearing among the trees. Behind the church is the well-maintained cemetery. Early pioneers of Bloomingdale and Vernon County can be found resting on this peaceful, secluded hilltop.
Many years ago my mother wanted to go for a ride on Wang Ridge Road and see the farm where she grew up, and then down in the Kickapoo Valley area to Bloomingdale. She wanted to show Linda and I where she had gone to church when she was young. I’d never been to the Bloomingdale Church and cemetery before. This was before I became interested in genealogy and didn’t realize Bloomingdale’s importance to our family history.
My mother was still in good health at the time and could walk around. She wanted me to know where some of my ancestors were buried. She showed us an old tombstone. It contained names that I had never heard of before. On one side it said Anne Pederson Korsveien (1802–1892). The other side of the tombstone had Agnethe Goldseth Korsveien (1827-1912), Anne’s daughter. My mother said they were my great, great and great, great, great grandmothers on her father’s side (Oscar Hanson).
Since that time, we’ve visited the cemetery many times. It had been many years since anyone had left a flower there, so Linda and I have planted flowers each year. If it wasn’t for the lives of these two women, I wouldn’t be here. Since that first visit to their graves, I’ve learned their story and they didn’t have an easy life. Anne, and her son and daughter, Peder and Agnethe, traveled from Norway to this area in 1854, only to find out her husband, Anders Pederson, who had gone ahead to establish a home for them, had been killed by lightning a month earlier. That was a tough beginning to a new life in this country. I didn’t want them forgotten. The least we can do is remember them with a flower.
During the past few years, the tombstone was starting to sink on one side. Each spring I was glad to find it was still upright. It’s a tall, slender stone that sits on a larger base and foundation. A year ago, the main stone was leaning so far over I was worried it would slide off and bust. I couldn’t let that happen. Last fall I managed to lay the heavy stone on the ground, next to the base. I planned to enlist the help of other relatives this spring and put a new base under it to straighten it up.
When Linda and I visited the cemetery this spring, I couldn’t believe it. The tombstone was standing tall and straight on a new concrete base. Other tombstones around it had also been repaired and straightened. I wanted to know who had taken the time and energy to do this. It had taken a lot of work to repair so many stones. As is often the case, we get busy and I didn’t ask anyone about the repairs.
One day this week, I just had to get out of the office during noon hour and get away from dealing with people for a while. I decided to go for a short drive in the countryside and refresh my mind and spirit. For some reason I decided to head toward Bloomingdale and then back to Westby on another country road. When I got to Bloomingdale I felt myself being pulled up to the cemetery. I decided to check on the flowers we’d planted. There was a man mowing the grass in the cemetery. After checking the flowers, I decided to ask the man if he knew who had fixed the tombstones.
I introduced myself and found out his name was Jim Fish. He provided the answers to my questions. I learned that Jim and his brother, Jerry, along with other volunteers, had repaired all the stones. I let Jim know how appreciative I was and how important that tombstone was to our family. Jim said that while they were fixing some of those older stones, his brother made the comment that no one was probably around who would even notice or care that the old stones were fixed. I was happy to let him know that I cared and how much it meant to me.
It’s so refreshing to find people like Jim and Jerry Fish, who are making sure this small cemetery on a hilltop doesn’t fall into disrepair. We often hear about vandalism and destruction of tombstones, but we seldom hear about the efforts of good people to keep them standing tall and intact.
I think if my ancestors, Anne and Agnethe Korsveien, were able to, they would embrace Jim, Jerry, and the other volunteers for making sure they’re not forgotten after all these years. Maybe they were the ones who were pulling me toward their resting place that day, so I could meet Jim and let him know how much all three of us appreciate their efforts. I think the spirits were very active in arranging our meeting on that peaceful hilltop.
Anne and Agnethe have been gone for a long time, but they are certainly not forgotten. They are still important family members.
On a hilltop overlooking Bloomingdale, Wisconsin sits a small country church. A short, steep, winding, tree-lined road takes you up to the Bloomingdale Church, quietly nestled in a clearing among the trees. Behind the church is the well-maintained cemetery. Early pioneers of Bloomingdale and Vernon County can be found resting on this peaceful, secluded hilltop.
Many years ago my mother wanted to go for a ride on Wang Ridge Road and see the farm where she grew up, and then down in the Kickapoo Valley area to Bloomingdale. She wanted to show Linda and I where she had gone to church when she was young. I’d never been to the Bloomingdale Church and cemetery before. This was before I became interested in genealogy and didn’t realize Bloomingdale’s importance to our family history.
My mother was still in good health at the time and could walk around. She wanted me to know where some of my ancestors were buried. She showed us an old tombstone. It contained names that I had never heard of before. On one side it said Anne Pederson Korsveien (1802–1892). The other side of the tombstone had Agnethe Goldseth Korsveien (1827-1912), Anne’s daughter. My mother said they were my great, great and great, great, great grandmothers on her father’s side (Oscar Hanson).
Since that time, we’ve visited the cemetery many times. It had been many years since anyone had left a flower there, so Linda and I have planted flowers each year. If it wasn’t for the lives of these two women, I wouldn’t be here. Since that first visit to their graves, I’ve learned their story and they didn’t have an easy life. Anne, and her son and daughter, Peder and Agnethe, traveled from Norway to this area in 1854, only to find out her husband, Anders Pederson, who had gone ahead to establish a home for them, had been killed by lightning a month earlier. That was a tough beginning to a new life in this country. I didn’t want them forgotten. The least we can do is remember them with a flower.
During the past few years, the tombstone was starting to sink on one side. Each spring I was glad to find it was still upright. It’s a tall, slender stone that sits on a larger base and foundation. A year ago, the main stone was leaning so far over I was worried it would slide off and bust. I couldn’t let that happen. Last fall I managed to lay the heavy stone on the ground, next to the base. I planned to enlist the help of other relatives this spring and put a new base under it to straighten it up.
When Linda and I visited the cemetery this spring, I couldn’t believe it. The tombstone was standing tall and straight on a new concrete base. Other tombstones around it had also been repaired and straightened. I wanted to know who had taken the time and energy to do this. It had taken a lot of work to repair so many stones. As is often the case, we get busy and I didn’t ask anyone about the repairs.
One day this week, I just had to get out of the office during noon hour and get away from dealing with people for a while. I decided to go for a short drive in the countryside and refresh my mind and spirit. For some reason I decided to head toward Bloomingdale and then back to Westby on another country road. When I got to Bloomingdale I felt myself being pulled up to the cemetery. I decided to check on the flowers we’d planted. There was a man mowing the grass in the cemetery. After checking the flowers, I decided to ask the man if he knew who had fixed the tombstones.
I introduced myself and found out his name was Jim Fish. He provided the answers to my questions. I learned that Jim and his brother, Jerry, along with other volunteers, had repaired all the stones. I let Jim know how appreciative I was and how important that tombstone was to our family. Jim said that while they were fixing some of those older stones, his brother made the comment that no one was probably around who would even notice or care that the old stones were fixed. I was happy to let him know that I cared and how much it meant to me.
It’s so refreshing to find people like Jim and Jerry Fish, who are making sure this small cemetery on a hilltop doesn’t fall into disrepair. We often hear about vandalism and destruction of tombstones, but we seldom hear about the efforts of good people to keep them standing tall and intact.
I think if my ancestors, Anne and Agnethe Korsveien, were able to, they would embrace Jim, Jerry, and the other volunteers for making sure they’re not forgotten after all these years. Maybe they were the ones who were pulling me toward their resting place that day, so I could meet Jim and let him know how much all three of us appreciate their efforts. I think the spirits were very active in arranging our meeting on that peaceful hilltop.
Anne and Agnethe have been gone for a long time, but they are certainly not forgotten. They are still important family members.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
This Is One for the Birds
Across the Fence #293
Every day, millions of birds probably die around the world. They die from natural causes, old age, accidents, shootings, and become meals for other birds and animals. Then why worry about one single bird, and a Common Grackle to boot? It’s not like it was some endangered species or special bird that we get excited about when we see one.
We have a bird feeder, Hummingbird feeder, and birdbath in our back yard. They are close to our house where we can observe them from the windows in our four-season room and from the deck. I guess you could call them our pets. Birds are easy to take care of. As long as they have food and water they’re happy. We don’t need to potty train them, although I do wish they wouldn’t deposit stuff all over our deck. They could be a little more courteous to us since we feed them. Other than Chickadees in the winter, none of the other birds have been friendly enough to land on my hand and take the birdseed from it.
This spring many species of birds arrived and must have decided this was a great place to spend the summer. There was plenty of food and a great place to take a bath and get a drink each day. What more could a bird want, except a place of shelter to call home. They have that in the grove of trees and brush next to our house. The Grackles tend to hog the feeders and water, but the Mourning Doves, Cardinals, Blue Jays, Red-Wing Blackbirds, Cowbirds, various Sparrows, and assorted other birds have held their own.
One morning last week, Linda called me at the office to say there was a bird caught in the supports under the birdbath. It kept struggling and couldn’t get free. At noon I went home to check it out. There was a Grackle hanging upside down with a leg caught between the supports. I got some gloves and a towel to throw over it to keep it from struggling when I tried to free it. Once I held the bird I saw that the leg caught in the support was broken. I freed the leg and set it down on the ground. It flopped into the grass under the deck and tried to hide there.
I realized it was badly hurt and didn’t stand a chance of survival with a broken leg. I decided the humane thing to do was kill it. I went and found an old tobacco axe in the garage. I picked the bird up and carried it toward the trees where I intended to decapitate it. Death would come quickly and put the poor bird out of its misery. As I carried it, the bird was looking at me with what seemed like the saddest, pleading eyes. When I reached the weeds by the trees, I just couldn’t bring the axe down and take its life. Good lord, it’s just a bird, I thought. They die every day. I poised the axe in the air again. Those sad eyes kept looking at me. Make it swift and painless, just like I used to kill chickens when I was young. There was one big difference. We killed them to eat.
I hesitated and finally put the axe down. I couldn’t kill this injured bird. The old medic in me came to the surface. I decided to splint the leg and at least give it a slim chance for survival. I went in the garage, got some duct tape and small slivers of wood. Holding the bird down under the towel, I lined up the bones in the slender leg and secured the wood splint to the leg by winding duct tape around it. When all else fails find some duct tape or WD-40 and you can fix most anything. With the operation completed, I returned the bird to the weeds by the trees and released it. It crawled off into the tall grass. With the rescue mission accomplished, I went back to work.
Will the bird survive? I rather doubt it. The cards of life are stacked against it. It would probably have been more humane to quickly kill it, but the killer instinct became buried deep within me many years ago. A long ago war sickened me on killing anything again. Animals and birds have as much right to life as we humans do.
All that said, don’t expect me to sit passively if an animal or human attacks me or someone else. Many years in the martial arts have taught me that you never strike first. You strike only in self-defense and use lethal force only if a life is in danger. This poor bird posed no danger to me and needed help.
I’ve searched the area since that time and haven’t found any trace of the bird. I did see a stray tomcat searching along the tree line the day after I released it. Perhaps he found an easy meal. Such is nature and survival of the fittest. I’m hoping the bird found a sheltered place and is still surviving, although that’s probably wishful thinking. I haven’t seen any bird limping around with duct tape on its leg and little bird crutches under its wings. If you see a bird limping around with a duct-taped leg, give me a call. That would make my day.
Every day, millions of birds probably die around the world. They die from natural causes, old age, accidents, shootings, and become meals for other birds and animals. Then why worry about one single bird, and a Common Grackle to boot? It’s not like it was some endangered species or special bird that we get excited about when we see one.
We have a bird feeder, Hummingbird feeder, and birdbath in our back yard. They are close to our house where we can observe them from the windows in our four-season room and from the deck. I guess you could call them our pets. Birds are easy to take care of. As long as they have food and water they’re happy. We don’t need to potty train them, although I do wish they wouldn’t deposit stuff all over our deck. They could be a little more courteous to us since we feed them. Other than Chickadees in the winter, none of the other birds have been friendly enough to land on my hand and take the birdseed from it.
This spring many species of birds arrived and must have decided this was a great place to spend the summer. There was plenty of food and a great place to take a bath and get a drink each day. What more could a bird want, except a place of shelter to call home. They have that in the grove of trees and brush next to our house. The Grackles tend to hog the feeders and water, but the Mourning Doves, Cardinals, Blue Jays, Red-Wing Blackbirds, Cowbirds, various Sparrows, and assorted other birds have held their own.
One morning last week, Linda called me at the office to say there was a bird caught in the supports under the birdbath. It kept struggling and couldn’t get free. At noon I went home to check it out. There was a Grackle hanging upside down with a leg caught between the supports. I got some gloves and a towel to throw over it to keep it from struggling when I tried to free it. Once I held the bird I saw that the leg caught in the support was broken. I freed the leg and set it down on the ground. It flopped into the grass under the deck and tried to hide there.
I realized it was badly hurt and didn’t stand a chance of survival with a broken leg. I decided the humane thing to do was kill it. I went and found an old tobacco axe in the garage. I picked the bird up and carried it toward the trees where I intended to decapitate it. Death would come quickly and put the poor bird out of its misery. As I carried it, the bird was looking at me with what seemed like the saddest, pleading eyes. When I reached the weeds by the trees, I just couldn’t bring the axe down and take its life. Good lord, it’s just a bird, I thought. They die every day. I poised the axe in the air again. Those sad eyes kept looking at me. Make it swift and painless, just like I used to kill chickens when I was young. There was one big difference. We killed them to eat.
I hesitated and finally put the axe down. I couldn’t kill this injured bird. The old medic in me came to the surface. I decided to splint the leg and at least give it a slim chance for survival. I went in the garage, got some duct tape and small slivers of wood. Holding the bird down under the towel, I lined up the bones in the slender leg and secured the wood splint to the leg by winding duct tape around it. When all else fails find some duct tape or WD-40 and you can fix most anything. With the operation completed, I returned the bird to the weeds by the trees and released it. It crawled off into the tall grass. With the rescue mission accomplished, I went back to work.
Will the bird survive? I rather doubt it. The cards of life are stacked against it. It would probably have been more humane to quickly kill it, but the killer instinct became buried deep within me many years ago. A long ago war sickened me on killing anything again. Animals and birds have as much right to life as we humans do.
All that said, don’t expect me to sit passively if an animal or human attacks me or someone else. Many years in the martial arts have taught me that you never strike first. You strike only in self-defense and use lethal force only if a life is in danger. This poor bird posed no danger to me and needed help.
I’ve searched the area since that time and haven’t found any trace of the bird. I did see a stray tomcat searching along the tree line the day after I released it. Perhaps he found an easy meal. Such is nature and survival of the fittest. I’m hoping the bird found a sheltered place and is still surviving, although that’s probably wishful thinking. I haven’t seen any bird limping around with duct tape on its leg and little bird crutches under its wings. If you see a bird limping around with a duct-taped leg, give me a call. That would make my day.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Telephone Conversing Has Changed
Across the Fence #292
As I was walking down the street the other day, I met a man walking toward me who was talking to himself. If this had been on State Street in Madison, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but this was in Westby. People around here usually carry on conversations with other people.
This man was well-dressed and looked like a businessman, not the “talking to themselves” type of person I was used to seeing. Then as I got closer, I realized he was having a phone conservation. He had a small Bluetooth communication device in his ear.
Times have sure changed since the days when you had to stand next to the crank wall phone and talk into the protruding mouthpiece while holding the receiver to your ear. You couldn’t roam around the house, or kick back in the Lazy Boy with your feet up, while talking on that phone. Also, you couldn’t use it while walking down the street. It was very heavy and would have taken a really, really long cord.
I got to thinking. What would my grandmothers and mother think if they could see the many changes in telephones and how we carry on conversations these days? What would they think if they could see people walking down the street talking into a small cell phone held up to their ear, or the man talking without holding anything up to his ear or mouth?
It seems like only yesterday that Grandma Inga or Ma would be standing by the wall phone, talking or rubbernecking. For all you younger folks, who aren’t familiar with that term, run to your computer and Google it. For the older crowd, I’ll bet every one of you would have to plead guilty if I asked you if you’ve ever rubbernecked. Don’t try to deny it. You know you’ve done it.
I suspect Ma would be horrified if she knew I had mentioned she occasionally rubbernecked. Both my parents were gone long before I started writing “Across the Fence.” I don’t know what they’d think about me writing a weekly column. They’d probably have worried every week as they waited for the paper to arrive, hoping I wasn’t going to write something that would embarrass the family name.
But now I’m sailing up the wrong fjord again, lets get back to the telephone. Telephone communication has certainly changed in my lifetime. I wonder what changes the next fifty years will bring? I can’t even imagine. Most people my age and older, grew up using party lines. No, I’m not talking about political parties and their party line. I’ve mentioned before that my grandmother and two aunts were on our party line. My mother and them sometimes had four-way conversations. Conference calling is nothing new to people who were on party lines.
That one phone, fastened to the wall, served the whole family. It was unheard of for kids to have their own phone. If you wanted to call and talk with a girl, it was very embarrassing because the whole family could sit and listen to what you were saying. If you tried to talk real soft, the girl couldn’t hear you and would ask you to talk louder. Since you had to stand right by the phone to talk and listen, there was no place to have a private conversation. Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t have many dates in high school. It could have been very stressful.
Now I see elementary school kids walking around, talking on cell phones. I don’t imagine very many of those kids are paying the monthly bills for those phones. I’m from the old school that thinks kids should be doing some kind of work to earn some money to pay for things like that. They could mow lawns in the summer, help around the house, and shovel sidewalks in the winter. You’re never too young to learn that most things in life aren’t free. It’s disturbing to hear that the first job most kids have these days is the one they get when they graduate from college. I guess a lot more things than telephones have changed during my lifetime.
I’ve got a phone in my office with more buttons, bells, and whistles than an old airplane. You should have an advanced degree in electronics to operate it. However, that’s nothing compared to the new cell phones that do everything but take out the garbage for you. They even have a built-in GPS so you can see where you are or how to find where you’re going. If you do get lost, you can take a photo of yourself with the phone and put it on a milk carton before your battery runs down and you aren’t able to call anyone. Yes, there are some disadvantages too. They do need to be recharged. With the old wall phones, you could talk all day and night if you had that much to say, and it seldom went dead unless lightning struck the line.
As I was walking down the street the other day, I met a man walking toward me who was talking to himself. If this had been on State Street in Madison, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but this was in Westby. People around here usually carry on conversations with other people.
This man was well-dressed and looked like a businessman, not the “talking to themselves” type of person I was used to seeing. Then as I got closer, I realized he was having a phone conservation. He had a small Bluetooth communication device in his ear.
Times have sure changed since the days when you had to stand next to the crank wall phone and talk into the protruding mouthpiece while holding the receiver to your ear. You couldn’t roam around the house, or kick back in the Lazy Boy with your feet up, while talking on that phone. Also, you couldn’t use it while walking down the street. It was very heavy and would have taken a really, really long cord.
I got to thinking. What would my grandmothers and mother think if they could see the many changes in telephones and how we carry on conversations these days? What would they think if they could see people walking down the street talking into a small cell phone held up to their ear, or the man talking without holding anything up to his ear or mouth?
It seems like only yesterday that Grandma Inga or Ma would be standing by the wall phone, talking or rubbernecking. For all you younger folks, who aren’t familiar with that term, run to your computer and Google it. For the older crowd, I’ll bet every one of you would have to plead guilty if I asked you if you’ve ever rubbernecked. Don’t try to deny it. You know you’ve done it.
I suspect Ma would be horrified if she knew I had mentioned she occasionally rubbernecked. Both my parents were gone long before I started writing “Across the Fence.” I don’t know what they’d think about me writing a weekly column. They’d probably have worried every week as they waited for the paper to arrive, hoping I wasn’t going to write something that would embarrass the family name.
But now I’m sailing up the wrong fjord again, lets get back to the telephone. Telephone communication has certainly changed in my lifetime. I wonder what changes the next fifty years will bring? I can’t even imagine. Most people my age and older, grew up using party lines. No, I’m not talking about political parties and their party line. I’ve mentioned before that my grandmother and two aunts were on our party line. My mother and them sometimes had four-way conversations. Conference calling is nothing new to people who were on party lines.
That one phone, fastened to the wall, served the whole family. It was unheard of for kids to have their own phone. If you wanted to call and talk with a girl, it was very embarrassing because the whole family could sit and listen to what you were saying. If you tried to talk real soft, the girl couldn’t hear you and would ask you to talk louder. Since you had to stand right by the phone to talk and listen, there was no place to have a private conversation. Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t have many dates in high school. It could have been very stressful.
Now I see elementary school kids walking around, talking on cell phones. I don’t imagine very many of those kids are paying the monthly bills for those phones. I’m from the old school that thinks kids should be doing some kind of work to earn some money to pay for things like that. They could mow lawns in the summer, help around the house, and shovel sidewalks in the winter. You’re never too young to learn that most things in life aren’t free. It’s disturbing to hear that the first job most kids have these days is the one they get when they graduate from college. I guess a lot more things than telephones have changed during my lifetime.
I’ve got a phone in my office with more buttons, bells, and whistles than an old airplane. You should have an advanced degree in electronics to operate it. However, that’s nothing compared to the new cell phones that do everything but take out the garbage for you. They even have a built-in GPS so you can see where you are or how to find where you’re going. If you do get lost, you can take a photo of yourself with the phone and put it on a milk carton before your battery runs down and you aren’t able to call anyone. Yes, there are some disadvantages too. They do need to be recharged. With the old wall phones, you could talk all day and night if you had that much to say, and it seldom went dead unless lightning struck the line.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Fatherhood: Endings and Beginnings
Across the Fence #291
A father and his son sit on the running board of an old farm truck. A single rail, barely visible in the lower portion of the painting, suggests they are waiting for the train to arrive. The son, wearing a white jacket and pants, with a red and white tie, sits up straight, gazing down the track, looking for the train to arrive and take him off to a new adventure, a new beginning. A ticket protrudes from his jacket pocket, and a suitcase with books stacked on top, and a State U pennant on it, rests between his feet. His hands are folded, and the family dog rests his head in his lap. You know from the sad look in the dog’s eyes that he senses something is changing.
The father sits beside his son, slumped forward, with the same sad look as the faithful dog. He looks like a weathered, old farmer. His hat and his son’s hat are both clutched in his large, strong hands. A cigarette dangles from his lips as he looks down the track in the direction the train will be taking his son. I suspect he’s dreading the arrival of the train that will take his son away to college. He knows nothing will ever be the same again. It’s the transition from one stage of their lives to another. That one painting says so much about the endings and beginnings of life and family relationships.
I think this is a very appropriate painting to talk about as we approach Father’s Day. Parents who have sent a child off to college, military service, or a job far away from home, can relate to this picture.
I was ten years old when this painting appeared on the cover. Eight years later, I headed off to college. I can easily insert the images of my father, myself, and our dog, Duke, into that picture. I was full of apprehension at leaving the farm for the big city of Madison, but also excited about whatever adventures awaited me there. I imagine my father felt the same as the man in the painting.
Now I know what it’s like to be on the other end too. We sent our children off to college many years ago. There was an emptiness within us when we left them at college and drove home alone. Our little boy and girl had grown up and were starting a whole new adventure without us. They now had wings and could test them without us hovering nearby. As parents you can only hope you’ve done a good job of providing them with the confidence, values, and tools they’ll need as they fly from the nest and begin their life without you beside them every day.
As a father, I remember carrying them from the delivery room to the nursery. They were so small and helpless. It was scary to realize you were now a parent and this small child was now your responsibility to raise. I think every parent has that panicky thought at some point. But, once you have a child, you don’t know how you ever lived without them.
Time goes by fast and before you know it, they’re walking and talking. I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t mention the crying and occasional screaming too. That’s all part of the growing up process and every parent has been there. It seems that all too soon they’re off to nursery school and then high school. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention learning to drive too. That’s a major step in testing their wings.
Through it all, you hope you’ve been a good parent and have been there for them throughout all their growing pains. I realize that having had my own business for over 30 years, I often had to spend long days in the office, and wasn’t always there for them. Even in spite of me, both Erik and Amy matured into great adults. Erik is a Respiratory Therapist in Madison and Amy is in Marketing and Communications with Harley-Davidson corporate office in Milwaukee. We’re very proud of both of them. I can tell you, it’s great seeing your children fly on their own.
Parenting can also have some scary moments. On June 6, 2001, we almost lost Erik. He had a recurring respiratory infection and that evening his lungs starting shutting down. By the time they got him to the hospital he was in cardiac and respiratory arrest. When we arrived at the hospital he was in intensive care with tubes everywhere. It’s a frightful experience for any parent. We were lucky and he survived.
On September 25th we’ll have another major event as parents. I’ll walk Amy down the aisle when she marries Tim Davis during an outdoor ceremony in Waukesha. Another ending and beginning. It will be another transition in our lives, but this is a happy one. It’s great being a father.
A father and his son sit on the running board of an old farm truck. A single rail, barely visible in the lower portion of the painting, suggests they are waiting for the train to arrive. The son, wearing a white jacket and pants, with a red and white tie, sits up straight, gazing down the track, looking for the train to arrive and take him off to a new adventure, a new beginning. A ticket protrudes from his jacket pocket, and a suitcase with books stacked on top, and a State U pennant on it, rests between his feet. His hands are folded, and the family dog rests his head in his lap. You know from the sad look in the dog’s eyes that he senses something is changing.
The father sits beside his son, slumped forward, with the same sad look as the faithful dog. He looks like a weathered, old farmer. His hat and his son’s hat are both clutched in his large, strong hands. A cigarette dangles from his lips as he looks down the track in the direction the train will be taking his son. I suspect he’s dreading the arrival of the train that will take his son away to college. He knows nothing will ever be the same again. It’s the transition from one stage of their lives to another. That one painting says so much about the endings and beginnings of life and family relationships.
I think this is a very appropriate painting to talk about as we approach Father’s Day. Parents who have sent a child off to college, military service, or a job far away from home, can relate to this picture.
I was ten years old when this painting appeared on the cover. Eight years later, I headed off to college. I can easily insert the images of my father, myself, and our dog, Duke, into that picture. I was full of apprehension at leaving the farm for the big city of Madison, but also excited about whatever adventures awaited me there. I imagine my father felt the same as the man in the painting.
Now I know what it’s like to be on the other end too. We sent our children off to college many years ago. There was an emptiness within us when we left them at college and drove home alone. Our little boy and girl had grown up and were starting a whole new adventure without us. They now had wings and could test them without us hovering nearby. As parents you can only hope you’ve done a good job of providing them with the confidence, values, and tools they’ll need as they fly from the nest and begin their life without you beside them every day.
As a father, I remember carrying them from the delivery room to the nursery. They were so small and helpless. It was scary to realize you were now a parent and this small child was now your responsibility to raise. I think every parent has that panicky thought at some point. But, once you have a child, you don’t know how you ever lived without them.
Time goes by fast and before you know it, they’re walking and talking. I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t mention the crying and occasional screaming too. That’s all part of the growing up process and every parent has been there. It seems that all too soon they’re off to nursery school and then high school. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention learning to drive too. That’s a major step in testing their wings.
Through it all, you hope you’ve been a good parent and have been there for them throughout all their growing pains. I realize that having had my own business for over 30 years, I often had to spend long days in the office, and wasn’t always there for them. Even in spite of me, both Erik and Amy matured into great adults. Erik is a Respiratory Therapist in Madison and Amy is in Marketing and Communications with Harley-Davidson corporate office in Milwaukee. We’re very proud of both of them. I can tell you, it’s great seeing your children fly on their own.
Parenting can also have some scary moments. On June 6, 2001, we almost lost Erik. He had a recurring respiratory infection and that evening his lungs starting shutting down. By the time they got him to the hospital he was in cardiac and respiratory arrest. When we arrived at the hospital he was in intensive care with tubes everywhere. It’s a frightful experience for any parent. We were lucky and he survived.
On September 25th we’ll have another major event as parents. I’ll walk Amy down the aisle when she marries Tim Davis during an outdoor ceremony in Waukesha. Another ending and beginning. It will be another transition in our lives, but this is a happy one. It’s great being a father.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Haying and Strawberry Kool Aid
Across the Fence #290
Hot and humid weather like we’ve had the past couple day, usually means the hay is ready to cut and take in. Haying and hot, humid weather seem to go hand in hand. Times and methods of haying have changed since I was young, but haying weather never changes. You still have to cut the hay and rake it into windrows, but just about everything else about haying has changed.
I now see self-propelled choppers blowing the hay directly into large trucks or wagons as they travel beside the chopper across the hay field. When the truck is full, another one takes its place and away they go again. A huge hay field that would take several days to bale and haul to the barn, is now finished in a matter of hours.
Another haying method is to bale the hay into very large, round or rectangular bales. It takes a skid steer to pick those bales up and load them onto a wagon. You can’t just physically grab one of those bales and toss it onto the wagon. We’re talking major hernias and serious back problems if you tried that.
What a difference 50 years make. When you consider all the technological advancements during that time period, I guess we shouldn’t be surprised. I’m old enough to remember when we still picked up the hay with a hayloader that was hooked behind the hay wagon. The windrowed hay went up the hayloader and was dumped loose onto the wagon. If you’re interested in seeing this method of haying in operation today, drive out to an Amish community and watch how haying was done when I was young. And of course, it’s still done that way among Amish farmers. It’s hard work, but it still works!
When the wagon was full, you unhooked the hayloader and headed for the barn. The wagon was parked under the large, open haymow door and the hayfork was lowered from the track that went into the haymow. The hayfork was pushed into the loose hay by stomping on it to “set” it. Then a horse or tractor on the other end of the rope would pull the hay up into the barn, through a series of pulleys, where it was dumped into the haymow when you pulled on the “trip” rope. I still remember when we used work horses to pull the hay up before we got our first tractor, a John Deere B. It was much easier backing a tractor up.
That loose hay in the haymow was great for jumping into from one of the big crossbeams. We would pretend we were paratroopers jumping out of an airplane, behind enemy German lines, during the Allied invasion of Normandy in World War II. Our playing war games ended when the haymow started filling up and there was no place to jump. The higher up in the haymow you got, the more hot, humid, and steamy it got. I guess we could have pretended we were in the hot, humid, steamy jungles of Vietnam, but we had never heard about that country in those days.
Some time after we moved to the farm where we now live on a corner of the back forty, I became aware of the hay baler. A neighbor, Clifford Gilbertson, had one and eventually Dad hired him to bale our hay. I think he paid ten cents a bale. The bales were dropped on the ground and we had to load them on a wagon. David, being the youngest, drove the tractor while Dad picked up the bales and threw them onto the wagon, where I piled them up, four bales high. We never used gloves and our hands became tough and calloused. You may ask why we didn’t wear gloves. The wear and tear from the twine soon had them ripped and full of holes so you might as well just toughen your hands up. It was cheaper than buying new gloves all the time.
Haying was hard work, but there was a pride in doing what was considered “man’s work.” Remember, we were still in grade school at the time. The best part of haying was climbing down out of the hot haymow, sweaty and covered with chaff, and heading for the windmill, where we’d get a drink of cold water pumped direct from the well into a Mason jar. Water never tasted as good as it did then. I’d even pour some water over my head to wash off the chaff and cool down. The cold water would take your breath away.
Another great part about haying was stopping for coffee mid-morning and afternoon. At that age I didn’t drink coffee, but we always had Kool Aid in a big frosted pitcher. Strawberry and grape were my favorites. Ma also had sandwiches, cookies, and cake. We ate more for coffee than I now eat for a regular meal, and we never gained weight because of all the exercise.
Eventually Dad bought a baler and we loaded bales directly onto the wagon, but we still had to pile them up. The hayfork gave way to an elevator. Now they chop hay into trucks and make huge, round bales. Times and methods keep changing. Water direct from the windmill is gone, but I hope everyone still gets to enjoy a drink of ice-cold Strawberry Kool Aid!
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