Across the Fence #361
We recently went on a four-day bus tour to Minot, North Dakota, where we attended Norsk Høstfest, the largest Scandinavian festival in North America. Being of Norwegian ancestry, a Norwegian folk art wood carver, and loving all things Scandinavian–even lutefisk, a visit to Høstfest was a must at some point in my life. I imagine many of you have also attended over the years.
Marjorie and Elnor Haugen, relatives from Coon Valley, had been to Høstfest before and had decided to go again this year. They encouraged Linda and me to go along. We signed up last spring, and soon discovered that several other people we know from the Westby area would also be going; Jennings and Lois Bjornstad, Tip and Eleanor Bagstad, Janet Johnson, and Sandra Peterson, would be on the same bus as us. Other friends were leaving with a different tour group a day before us, so the Westby area was well represented at the festival.
This was the first bus tour for Linda and me, and we had a great time. It’s nice to sit back, relax, enjoy the scenery, and let the bus driver worry about where to go. We were part of Glenn’s Motorcoach Tours out of Rochester, Minnesota.
At 3:30 on Wednesday morning, we sleepily boarded our bus at the pickup point in La Crosse. I envy people who can sleep on a bus or plane. It would certainly make the trip pass faster. After several stops in Minnesota to pick up other passengers, and some rest stops, we finally arrived at our hotel in Bismark, North Dakota, twelve and a half hours later.
The next morning we were back on the bus by 8:00 a.m. for the almost two-hour trip to Minot. Due to the devastating flood earlier this year, many places where people had stayed in previous years, were still closed. We drove through parts of Minot, near the Høstfest grounds, where entire neighborhoods will have to be torn down. The destruction from the flooding was very evident.
I had no idea what to expect from Høstfest, but knew it was a large event. As we entered the grounds, I was surprised by how many tour buses and RV Campers I saw. The campers alone, must have numbered a thousand or more, and surrounded the huge arena. Høstfest is to Minot, what the World Dairy Expo is to Madison.
The Great Hall of the Vikings, where the headliner shows take place, holds 10,000 people. We saw the Trace Atkins show on Thursday and the Judds on Friday. There were also six free stages in the arena where you could enjoy continuous entertainment throughout the day and evening.
The Oak Ridge Boys have been performing at Høstfest for many years. Linda and I went to their concert at the Madison Coliseum many years ago when I was doing the advertising for shows that appeared there. We always had excellent seats for any shows. The Oaks still sound good after all these years. Everyone laughed when Joe Bonsall said, “We used to think this was an old crowd at Høstfest, but now we’ve caught up to you.”
Another must-see show was Williams and Ree, also known as “the Indian and the White Guy.” They kept everyone in stitches for over an hour. Bjøro Haaland, Norway’s Country Gentleman, was also a crowd favorite with his country western songs.
The arena fest grounds is huge, and divided into many areas, where you can find wood carving, rosemaling, crafts, clothes, jewelry, books, and just about every kind of Scandinavian food you can imagine–yes, even lutefisk.
If you get separated from someone, you might not see them again until you board the bus at 8:30 in the evening for the trip back to the hotel. This is one of those stories that’s just begging to be told! About half an hour after arriving at Høstfest for our second day, I ran into Janet Johnson. She wondered if I had seen Sandra (Peterson) go by. I hadn’t seen her since we got off the bus. That afternoon we ran into Janet again. She had found Sandra back in the morning, but now they had become separated again. Later, we found out they both had cell phones but had neglected to get each other’s number. Janet had finally called Sandra’s husband back in Cashton, to get her number so she could call her. After several attempts to reach Sandra, they finally connected and were re-united! As I said, it’s a huge place, with thousands of people and it’s easy to turn around and find you’ve lost someone. I wonder if Janet could have checked for Sandra at the Lost and Found booth?! If you go to Høstfest, be sure to carry a cell phone and type in the numbers of people in your traveling party. Thanks Janet and Sandra for giving me permission to share this wonderful story.
One of the great parts of Høstfest is meeting and talking with people from all over the country, Canada, and Scandinavian countries. I ran into two people from Westby… Westby, Montana, and we compared notes on our hometowns. I also ran into people, who when they found out who I was, said they read my column every week. That was nice to hear.
If you want a fun experience, put Høstfest on your calendar for next year, and bring your cell phone.
*
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Milk Hauling Days - Part 4 (Conclusion)
Across the Fence #360
Another job milk haulers had, was to report to the milk inspector any violations that you noticed on farms. Then the inspector would go to that farm and check it out. I had one farmer that let the manure pile up in the gutters and the cows were absolutely filthy. I had to report him several times. His farm was at the end of a long road in the hills up above the Kickapoo Valley. His buildings were old and in disrepair.
The toughest times for milk hauling were the winter months. I think that winter of ‘1963-’64, convinced me that I didn’t want to haul milk the rest of my life.
It didn’t matter how cold it was or how much snow there was, the milk needed to be picked up. There was a block heater attached to the truck that I plugged in each day so it would start in the mornings. It was tough crawling into that cold cab when it was still dark out and taking off when the temperature was way below zero. When I pulled the cans out of the coolers, the cold water would drip on my apron and boots, and before long it would be frozen hard as a rock, with icicles hanging from it. My heavy leather gloves would get wet and frozen and my fingers would feel numb.
Sometimes a farmer couldn’t get his pickup or tractor started, and ask if I could jump it to get it going, or sometimes we hooked a chain from the truck to the vehicle and pulled it until it started. Not only was that a cold, miserable job, lying in the snow under the truck, attaching the chain, but it also put me behind on my route. Then I had to go faster to make up lost time.
After a snowstorm it was hard to make it through the snow to some of the farms. Then I’d crawl under the truck and put the chains on the dual rear wheels before I started out in the morning; a cold, miserable job. I remember getting stuck in driveways several times and had to shovel until I could get going again. If a driveway was completely blocked and I couldn’t get to the farm, the farmer would haul the cans out to the road on a sled.
The sideroads of Vernon County are not the best places to drive, even on a good winter day. There are many hills and winding roads. I’d wind the truck up as tight as I could on the downhills to get a run at the uphills. By the time I reached the top of the hill with my heavy load, I was in my lowest gear and barely moving.
I never slid in the ditch or tipped the truck, but came close one day while returning to the creamery with a full load on Highway 27. The roads were snow-packed and slippery. As I rounded one of the many curves, the back end of the truck took off on me and I found myself sliding sideways down the center of the road. Luckily, no cars were coming and I managed to bring the back end around, over corrected, and started going the other way. I finally brought it to a stop sitting along the edge of a ditch that would certainly have rolled the truck. I was lucky. All the doors stayed shut through the ordeal and not a drop of milk was spilled.
I wasn’t that lucky one day, when in my hurry, I neglected to secure the latch on one of the doors. It worked loose, and as I rounded a curve on a county road, I saw the door fly open, in my rearview mirror, and watched as cans started rolling out of the truck and bouncing into the ditch. By the time I brought the truck to a halt, I’d lost over a dozen cans. The covers came off some of them and there was a nice trail of spilled milk along the road and ditch.
As I mentioned earlier, that cold winter convinced me to seek school and other employment. I continued hauling milk through the next summer. At the end of summer, I retired from milk hauling and returned to Madison, where I entered the commercial art program at MATC.
I was a milk hauler for fourteen months and never missed a day, hauling seven days a week. It was quite an experience, but convinced me there must be an easier way to make a living. And all that double clutching and shifting that I thought was so great when I started, that got old real fast!
I must admit, I really got in shape lifting all those cans every day. By the time I quit, I could take a full can in each hand and, doing a curl like a weightlifter, set them up in the truck. It helped to be young too.
Now those days are gone and milk is picked up in bulk tank trucks and the hauler doesn’t have to lift all those heavy cans anymore. But, milk haulers today still have to deal with all the other problems and adventures we went through back in the days of hauling canned milk.
All in all, my time hauling milk was certainly an adventure, and quite a learning experience.
*
Another job milk haulers had, was to report to the milk inspector any violations that you noticed on farms. Then the inspector would go to that farm and check it out. I had one farmer that let the manure pile up in the gutters and the cows were absolutely filthy. I had to report him several times. His farm was at the end of a long road in the hills up above the Kickapoo Valley. His buildings were old and in disrepair.
The toughest times for milk hauling were the winter months. I think that winter of ‘1963-’64, convinced me that I didn’t want to haul milk the rest of my life.
It didn’t matter how cold it was or how much snow there was, the milk needed to be picked up. There was a block heater attached to the truck that I plugged in each day so it would start in the mornings. It was tough crawling into that cold cab when it was still dark out and taking off when the temperature was way below zero. When I pulled the cans out of the coolers, the cold water would drip on my apron and boots, and before long it would be frozen hard as a rock, with icicles hanging from it. My heavy leather gloves would get wet and frozen and my fingers would feel numb.
Sometimes a farmer couldn’t get his pickup or tractor started, and ask if I could jump it to get it going, or sometimes we hooked a chain from the truck to the vehicle and pulled it until it started. Not only was that a cold, miserable job, lying in the snow under the truck, attaching the chain, but it also put me behind on my route. Then I had to go faster to make up lost time.
After a snowstorm it was hard to make it through the snow to some of the farms. Then I’d crawl under the truck and put the chains on the dual rear wheels before I started out in the morning; a cold, miserable job. I remember getting stuck in driveways several times and had to shovel until I could get going again. If a driveway was completely blocked and I couldn’t get to the farm, the farmer would haul the cans out to the road on a sled.
The sideroads of Vernon County are not the best places to drive, even on a good winter day. There are many hills and winding roads. I’d wind the truck up as tight as I could on the downhills to get a run at the uphills. By the time I reached the top of the hill with my heavy load, I was in my lowest gear and barely moving.
I never slid in the ditch or tipped the truck, but came close one day while returning to the creamery with a full load on Highway 27. The roads were snow-packed and slippery. As I rounded one of the many curves, the back end of the truck took off on me and I found myself sliding sideways down the center of the road. Luckily, no cars were coming and I managed to bring the back end around, over corrected, and started going the other way. I finally brought it to a stop sitting along the edge of a ditch that would certainly have rolled the truck. I was lucky. All the doors stayed shut through the ordeal and not a drop of milk was spilled.
I wasn’t that lucky one day, when in my hurry, I neglected to secure the latch on one of the doors. It worked loose, and as I rounded a curve on a county road, I saw the door fly open, in my rearview mirror, and watched as cans started rolling out of the truck and bouncing into the ditch. By the time I brought the truck to a halt, I’d lost over a dozen cans. The covers came off some of them and there was a nice trail of spilled milk along the road and ditch.
As I mentioned earlier, that cold winter convinced me to seek school and other employment. I continued hauling milk through the next summer. At the end of summer, I retired from milk hauling and returned to Madison, where I entered the commercial art program at MATC.
I was a milk hauler for fourteen months and never missed a day, hauling seven days a week. It was quite an experience, but convinced me there must be an easier way to make a living. And all that double clutching and shifting that I thought was so great when I started, that got old real fast!
I must admit, I really got in shape lifting all those cans every day. By the time I quit, I could take a full can in each hand and, doing a curl like a weightlifter, set them up in the truck. It helped to be young too.
Now those days are gone and milk is picked up in bulk tank trucks and the hauler doesn’t have to lift all those heavy cans anymore. But, milk haulers today still have to deal with all the other problems and adventures we went through back in the days of hauling canned milk.
All in all, my time hauling milk was certainly an adventure, and quite a learning experience.
*
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Milk Hauling Days - Part 3 (Long Days)
Across the Fence #359
Last week, I mentioned that I always let a woman go ahead of me and helped her unload the four or five cans she had in the back of her pickup.
A couple years later, when I was home on leave before heading for Vietnam, I ran into Neil Nelson in Westby. He wanted to buy me a coke at the drug store and thanked me for always helping unload their milk when I had been a milk hauler. He told me to wait at the counter, and he went next door to the bank. He came back and gave me two silver dollars. Neil said, “Now that you owe me money, you have to come back safely.” He wanted me to carry them as good luck and when I returned, I had to give one back to him and I could keep the other. I returned that dollar to him a year later, and I’ve carried the other coin every day since he gave it to me.
But I digress, back to the milk hauling. After I arrived at the creamery, I waited for my turn and then opened the large doors on the right side of the truck, and pulled in around a corner post and positioned my truck as close to the track as possible. As time went on, I could line it up with an inch to spare instead of a foot, as I had done when I first started. That made it much easier to unload. I then climbed up into the back of the truck and started unloading.
The cans belonging to one farm all had to stay in a group. I used a special wrench to knock the can covers loose and then placed one can at a time on a track of rollers that carried them into the creamery, where the milk was weighed for each farmer and dumped into a large vat.
After the load was emptied, I drove ahead and the empty cans, washed and sanitized, came through a small door on more rollers. I put them back in the truck, making sure all the cans for one farm stayed in a group and in the position I wanted them in the truck, depending on where I would load the cans from that farm. If the milk house was on the right side of the truck, I put them on that side of the truck. All this was pretty much learned on the fly, with one quick lesson, when I rode along that first day.
As soon as the empty cans were loaded, I headed out for the second load and in many cases, back to some of the same farms to pick up the morning milking for those who had too many cans to fit in the cooler. This was a problem in the summer when milk could sour very fast. The second load was the same routine as the first. I had a couple of farmers who were always late. Even when I left them until the end of my route, they were still milking when I arrived at 11:00. Sometimes, if they still had several cows to milk, I just took what they had ready. The rest could sit in the cooler until the next day.
Most dogs were very friendly and liked to have me pay attention to them when I arrived. But one dog always had to be watched. As I got out of the truck, he’d come running with his lips laid back, his teeth barred, and growling. I’d yell and he’d usually stop, and just growl, but I never trusted turning my back on him. When the farmer was around, he’d chase him off. One day he told me I should smack the dog if he got too close. A couple days later I was ready for him. I had placed a can cover in the seat next to me. When I got out of the truck he came charging as usual. This time I didn’t yell, and when he got close enough, I nailed him in the head with the can cover and sent him sprawling and yelping. He never bothered me after that.
When I was done with my route, I filled up the tank with gas and headed home to our farm, parked the truck, and helped my dad with farm work the rest of the day. It got old real fast. The days were long, and the milk route alone, would have been enough physical labor for one day, but then I had to spend the rest of the day helping farm, and of course, chores and milking in the evenings. I lived for the weekends when I could go cruisin’, let loose, and raise some H with my friends.
However it was pure H to get up on Sunday morning and climb back into that truck with only a couple hours sleep. Cows don’t stop producing milk on the weekends, so hauling milk was a seven days a week job. Neither rain, sleet, snowstorm, sub-zero temperatures, sickness, don’t feel like working today, or hangover, could keep the milk hauler from his appointed rounds. I managed to survive those wild weekends of my youth, and got all the milk picked up. I never missed a day hauling milk in those 14 months.
(Concluded next week)
*
Last week, I mentioned that I always let a woman go ahead of me and helped her unload the four or five cans she had in the back of her pickup.
A couple years later, when I was home on leave before heading for Vietnam, I ran into Neil Nelson in Westby. He wanted to buy me a coke at the drug store and thanked me for always helping unload their milk when I had been a milk hauler. He told me to wait at the counter, and he went next door to the bank. He came back and gave me two silver dollars. Neil said, “Now that you owe me money, you have to come back safely.” He wanted me to carry them as good luck and when I returned, I had to give one back to him and I could keep the other. I returned that dollar to him a year later, and I’ve carried the other coin every day since he gave it to me.
But I digress, back to the milk hauling. After I arrived at the creamery, I waited for my turn and then opened the large doors on the right side of the truck, and pulled in around a corner post and positioned my truck as close to the track as possible. As time went on, I could line it up with an inch to spare instead of a foot, as I had done when I first started. That made it much easier to unload. I then climbed up into the back of the truck and started unloading.
The cans belonging to one farm all had to stay in a group. I used a special wrench to knock the can covers loose and then placed one can at a time on a track of rollers that carried them into the creamery, where the milk was weighed for each farmer and dumped into a large vat.
After the load was emptied, I drove ahead and the empty cans, washed and sanitized, came through a small door on more rollers. I put them back in the truck, making sure all the cans for one farm stayed in a group and in the position I wanted them in the truck, depending on where I would load the cans from that farm. If the milk house was on the right side of the truck, I put them on that side of the truck. All this was pretty much learned on the fly, with one quick lesson, when I rode along that first day.
As soon as the empty cans were loaded, I headed out for the second load and in many cases, back to some of the same farms to pick up the morning milking for those who had too many cans to fit in the cooler. This was a problem in the summer when milk could sour very fast. The second load was the same routine as the first. I had a couple of farmers who were always late. Even when I left them until the end of my route, they were still milking when I arrived at 11:00. Sometimes, if they still had several cows to milk, I just took what they had ready. The rest could sit in the cooler until the next day.
Most dogs were very friendly and liked to have me pay attention to them when I arrived. But one dog always had to be watched. As I got out of the truck, he’d come running with his lips laid back, his teeth barred, and growling. I’d yell and he’d usually stop, and just growl, but I never trusted turning my back on him. When the farmer was around, he’d chase him off. One day he told me I should smack the dog if he got too close. A couple days later I was ready for him. I had placed a can cover in the seat next to me. When I got out of the truck he came charging as usual. This time I didn’t yell, and when he got close enough, I nailed him in the head with the can cover and sent him sprawling and yelping. He never bothered me after that.
When I was done with my route, I filled up the tank with gas and headed home to our farm, parked the truck, and helped my dad with farm work the rest of the day. It got old real fast. The days were long, and the milk route alone, would have been enough physical labor for one day, but then I had to spend the rest of the day helping farm, and of course, chores and milking in the evenings. I lived for the weekends when I could go cruisin’, let loose, and raise some H with my friends.
However it was pure H to get up on Sunday morning and climb back into that truck with only a couple hours sleep. Cows don’t stop producing milk on the weekends, so hauling milk was a seven days a week job. Neither rain, sleet, snowstorm, sub-zero temperatures, sickness, don’t feel like working today, or hangover, could keep the milk hauler from his appointed rounds. I managed to survive those wild weekends of my youth, and got all the milk picked up. I never missed a day hauling milk in those 14 months.
(Concluded next week)
*
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Milk Hauling Days - Part 2
Across the Fence #358
I’ll try to describe a typical day in the life of this milk hauler. Up at 4:00 am, grab a sandwich that my mother had made the night before, and out to the truck, parked at the farm. I headed out in the dark toward Cashton, north of Westby, to my first farm. At each stop I’d maneuver the truck as close to the milk house as possible. Some places were set up so you could drive right alongside the milk house. At others, you had to back down a winding path or around buildings to reach the milk house, using only your sideview mirrors.
The first order of business was to unload the empty cans for the next day’s milking. Each farmer had cans with numbers painted on in red or black, so the hauler and the creamery knew who the milk belonged to. I always carried extra cans without numbers in case a farmer needed them and then used a red marker to write their number on the cans.
All milk haulers wore a large leather apron like blacksmiths use. This was used because you were always pulling cold, wet cans out of the milk coolers in the milk houses and carrying them to the truck. Without the apron you’d have been soaking wet. I pulled the full cans from the cooler and carried them outside where I loaded them on the truck. At first I’d carry one can at a time and with a swinging motion, hoist it up into the truck. After all, they weighed a hundred pounds when full. Eventually I could carry two cans at a time, because it saved a lot of steps and time. Depending on the size of the dairy herd, a farm could have as little as two cans or as many as twenty. The truck had doors on the back and sides to make loading easier. After the cans were loaded, I secured the door latch on the truck and headed off to the next farm.
As I became more familiar with driving the truck, I’d roar along the back roads as fast as I could go in order to save time. At the creamery I usually had to wait in line for at least one other hauler to unload, and also for farmers who hauled their own milk in pickups. That meant spending a half hour in line and another twenty minutes unloading and loading. If Magnus Sather beat me to the creamery, it meant waiting even longer. He also had two loads a day.
Magnus was a friend of our family. His daughter and I graduated from high school together. Magnus was built like a bull, strong and muscular from hauling milk for over twenty years. He had bad knees, arthritis in his hands, back problems, and aches and pains from all those years of lifting heavy cans. He told me many times, “Howard, go back to school, you don’t want to be doing this for twenty years. It’s too hard. You’ll end up like me.” I was still having fun, but I hadn’t gone through a cold Wisconsin winter hauling milk at that point.
Magnus and I helped each other unload, because it went faster and we’d be back on the road for our second load, and finish sooner. But there was a friendly rivalry to see who could get to the creamery first.
One day Magnus and I arrived at a crossroad on Highway 27 at the same time, about a mile north of town. I pulled onto the highway first and Magnus pulled in right behind me. I barreled down the highway toward town with him on my bumper. At that time there were two stop signs at the north edge of Westby where 14 and 27 split. One went straight ahead to go south into Westby, the other veered to the right to go toward Coon Valley. As we came to the intersection, I pulled to a stop and leaned forward to look out my right window, and see if any cars were coming. No cars were coming, but there was Magnus, barreling by and waving to me. He had taken the right exit and must have run the stop sign, in order to get ahead of me. I roared after him, both of us double clutching our way down Main Street. We might have exceeded the speed limit just a bit. We pulled into the creamery in the south part of town and screeched to a halt.
Magnus got out of his truck grinning ear to ear. “Thought you were going to beat me, didn’t you?” He let out a big laugh and I had to laugh too.
Another milk hauler, Cal Anderson, pulled in behind us and got out. “Where’s the fire? I saw you guys racing into town as I was coming down 14.” He knew why we’d been in a hurry. Cal was probably trying to get there ahead of us so he wouldn’t have to wait an extra hour!
I felt sorry for some of the farmers who hauled their own cans when they got behind a line of our trucks. One woman arrived about the time I did. I always let her go ahead of me and helped her unload the four or five cans she had in the back of their pickup.
(Continued next week)
*
I’ll try to describe a typical day in the life of this milk hauler. Up at 4:00 am, grab a sandwich that my mother had made the night before, and out to the truck, parked at the farm. I headed out in the dark toward Cashton, north of Westby, to my first farm. At each stop I’d maneuver the truck as close to the milk house as possible. Some places were set up so you could drive right alongside the milk house. At others, you had to back down a winding path or around buildings to reach the milk house, using only your sideview mirrors.
The first order of business was to unload the empty cans for the next day’s milking. Each farmer had cans with numbers painted on in red or black, so the hauler and the creamery knew who the milk belonged to. I always carried extra cans without numbers in case a farmer needed them and then used a red marker to write their number on the cans.
All milk haulers wore a large leather apron like blacksmiths use. This was used because you were always pulling cold, wet cans out of the milk coolers in the milk houses and carrying them to the truck. Without the apron you’d have been soaking wet. I pulled the full cans from the cooler and carried them outside where I loaded them on the truck. At first I’d carry one can at a time and with a swinging motion, hoist it up into the truck. After all, they weighed a hundred pounds when full. Eventually I could carry two cans at a time, because it saved a lot of steps and time. Depending on the size of the dairy herd, a farm could have as little as two cans or as many as twenty. The truck had doors on the back and sides to make loading easier. After the cans were loaded, I secured the door latch on the truck and headed off to the next farm.
As I became more familiar with driving the truck, I’d roar along the back roads as fast as I could go in order to save time. At the creamery I usually had to wait in line for at least one other hauler to unload, and also for farmers who hauled their own milk in pickups. That meant spending a half hour in line and another twenty minutes unloading and loading. If Magnus Sather beat me to the creamery, it meant waiting even longer. He also had two loads a day.
Magnus was a friend of our family. His daughter and I graduated from high school together. Magnus was built like a bull, strong and muscular from hauling milk for over twenty years. He had bad knees, arthritis in his hands, back problems, and aches and pains from all those years of lifting heavy cans. He told me many times, “Howard, go back to school, you don’t want to be doing this for twenty years. It’s too hard. You’ll end up like me.” I was still having fun, but I hadn’t gone through a cold Wisconsin winter hauling milk at that point.
Magnus and I helped each other unload, because it went faster and we’d be back on the road for our second load, and finish sooner. But there was a friendly rivalry to see who could get to the creamery first.
One day Magnus and I arrived at a crossroad on Highway 27 at the same time, about a mile north of town. I pulled onto the highway first and Magnus pulled in right behind me. I barreled down the highway toward town with him on my bumper. At that time there were two stop signs at the north edge of Westby where 14 and 27 split. One went straight ahead to go south into Westby, the other veered to the right to go toward Coon Valley. As we came to the intersection, I pulled to a stop and leaned forward to look out my right window, and see if any cars were coming. No cars were coming, but there was Magnus, barreling by and waving to me. He had taken the right exit and must have run the stop sign, in order to get ahead of me. I roared after him, both of us double clutching our way down Main Street. We might have exceeded the speed limit just a bit. We pulled into the creamery in the south part of town and screeched to a halt.
Magnus got out of his truck grinning ear to ear. “Thought you were going to beat me, didn’t you?” He let out a big laugh and I had to laugh too.
Another milk hauler, Cal Anderson, pulled in behind us and got out. “Where’s the fire? I saw you guys racing into town as I was coming down 14.” He knew why we’d been in a hurry. Cal was probably trying to get there ahead of us so he wouldn’t have to wait an extra hour!
I felt sorry for some of the farmers who hauled their own cans when they got behind a line of our trucks. One woman arrived about the time I did. I always let her go ahead of me and helped her unload the four or five cans she had in the back of their pickup.
(Continued next week)
*
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Milk Hauling Days - Part 1
Across the Fence 357
I ran into two people recently that brought back memories of my milk hauling days. Many of you are familiar with the days of farming when milk was hauled in cans. I’d like to take you back to those days of yesteryear when I hauled milk to the Westby Cooperative Creamery for 14 months.
During the summer of 1963, I was working on the family farm. One day, while I was doing chores, our milk hauler, Vernal Bjornstad, arrived. I helped lift the cans out of the cooler and carried them from the milk house while he lifted them into the truck. That was back in the days when you still put milk in ten-gallon cans, not bulk tanks. A full can weighed 100 pounds.
Vernal said he could use help with his milk route. He had two trucks and wondered if I’d be interested in hauling milk for him. He’d pay me $125 dollars a month. That seemed like a lot of money, especially when I wasn’t making any money working at home. “Talk it over with your dad,” he said, “and let me know tomorrow.” The hours would be from four or five in the morning until around one in the afternoon. I could still help on the farm in the afternoon and evening.
Dad was reluctant to have me haul milk. “You don’t know how to drive a big truck like that, it’s different from driving a pickup.” He finally relented.
The next morning I told Vernal I’d take the job. He said he’d pick me up at 4:30 the next morning and I’d ride with on the route I’d be taking over. Depending on the time of year there would be from 175 to 250 cans, and it would take two loads per day.
The next morning I was ready to roll. It was my first “real” job. Before then, I’d only worked on the farm or helped neighbors with farm work for short periods of time.
My route was mostly in the area north of Westby along Highway 27, the Clockmaker area, Jersey Valley, Rognstad Ridge, Highway 33 near Cashton, and several farms south of Westby, including our farm. It was a lot of miles to cover every day and still get the second load to the Westby Creamery and unloaded before 1:00.
Vernal drove while I made notes on what farms were on the route, and other things I needed to know, such as how many pounds of butter each received, and which dogs to watch out for. After the truck was full we headed for the creamery to unload. Vernal said I should try to beat Magnus Sather to the creamery, or I’d lose half an hour waiting behind him while he unloaded. Magnus also had a big route and it usually took about twenty minutes to half an hour to unload the full cans and load empty cans back on the truck.
After we’d completed the second load, Vernal parked the truck, and said, “It’s all yours!” He told me to take it to the gas station on the south edge of town and fill it up each day when I finished my route. He had an account there. Then he got in another truck and drove away.
There I stood. I still hadn’t driven the truck. I’d only been a passenger and watched while he explained how to shift from high to low gear by pressing the little red button on the side of the shift knob, while double clutching. He said I’d learn quickly which gear to use, depending on how heavy the load was.
I climbed up into the cab of that truck and started it up. I tried shifting it into gear. I had problems at first, but eventually made it out of the creamery driveway and onto Highway 14, sweating profusely!
I felt pretty cool bouncing along on my way to the gas station. Look at me; I’m a double-clutching truck driver, a real macho-man. I tried not to grind the gears too much as I headed down the highway. It was fun running through all those gears and constantly shifting. Little did I know that a year later it’d be a big pain in the butt shifting all the time.
That was the start of my truck driving, milk hauling career. Thank goodness it was in the summer when the weather was nice and the roads were good.
The next morning I was up and on the road before 4:30. It took longer that first day because everything was new, and I was still learning how to drive and shift the truck. I also found it tricky backing into tight places near milk houses using only the side-view mirrors and trying to judge the distance
.
Somehow I survived that first day, with no accidents or spilled milk. I didn’t hit any milk houses, run over anyone, and even managed to maneuver the truck into the unloading dock without damaging the creamery.
By that evening every muscle in my body was sore. I was 19 and thought I was in great shape from doing farm work, but slinging 250 milk cans around and lifting them up into the bed of the truck was hard work. What had I gotten myself into?
Next week: A day in the life of a milk hauler.
*
I ran into two people recently that brought back memories of my milk hauling days. Many of you are familiar with the days of farming when milk was hauled in cans. I’d like to take you back to those days of yesteryear when I hauled milk to the Westby Cooperative Creamery for 14 months.
During the summer of 1963, I was working on the family farm. One day, while I was doing chores, our milk hauler, Vernal Bjornstad, arrived. I helped lift the cans out of the cooler and carried them from the milk house while he lifted them into the truck. That was back in the days when you still put milk in ten-gallon cans, not bulk tanks. A full can weighed 100 pounds.
Vernal said he could use help with his milk route. He had two trucks and wondered if I’d be interested in hauling milk for him. He’d pay me $125 dollars a month. That seemed like a lot of money, especially when I wasn’t making any money working at home. “Talk it over with your dad,” he said, “and let me know tomorrow.” The hours would be from four or five in the morning until around one in the afternoon. I could still help on the farm in the afternoon and evening.
Dad was reluctant to have me haul milk. “You don’t know how to drive a big truck like that, it’s different from driving a pickup.” He finally relented.
The next morning I told Vernal I’d take the job. He said he’d pick me up at 4:30 the next morning and I’d ride with on the route I’d be taking over. Depending on the time of year there would be from 175 to 250 cans, and it would take two loads per day.
The next morning I was ready to roll. It was my first “real” job. Before then, I’d only worked on the farm or helped neighbors with farm work for short periods of time.
My route was mostly in the area north of Westby along Highway 27, the Clockmaker area, Jersey Valley, Rognstad Ridge, Highway 33 near Cashton, and several farms south of Westby, including our farm. It was a lot of miles to cover every day and still get the second load to the Westby Creamery and unloaded before 1:00.
Vernal drove while I made notes on what farms were on the route, and other things I needed to know, such as how many pounds of butter each received, and which dogs to watch out for. After the truck was full we headed for the creamery to unload. Vernal said I should try to beat Magnus Sather to the creamery, or I’d lose half an hour waiting behind him while he unloaded. Magnus also had a big route and it usually took about twenty minutes to half an hour to unload the full cans and load empty cans back on the truck.
After we’d completed the second load, Vernal parked the truck, and said, “It’s all yours!” He told me to take it to the gas station on the south edge of town and fill it up each day when I finished my route. He had an account there. Then he got in another truck and drove away.
There I stood. I still hadn’t driven the truck. I’d only been a passenger and watched while he explained how to shift from high to low gear by pressing the little red button on the side of the shift knob, while double clutching. He said I’d learn quickly which gear to use, depending on how heavy the load was.
I climbed up into the cab of that truck and started it up. I tried shifting it into gear. I had problems at first, but eventually made it out of the creamery driveway and onto Highway 14, sweating profusely!
I felt pretty cool bouncing along on my way to the gas station. Look at me; I’m a double-clutching truck driver, a real macho-man. I tried not to grind the gears too much as I headed down the highway. It was fun running through all those gears and constantly shifting. Little did I know that a year later it’d be a big pain in the butt shifting all the time.
That was the start of my truck driving, milk hauling career. Thank goodness it was in the summer when the weather was nice and the roads were good.
The next morning I was up and on the road before 4:30. It took longer that first day because everything was new, and I was still learning how to drive and shift the truck. I also found it tricky backing into tight places near milk houses using only the side-view mirrors and trying to judge the distance
.
Somehow I survived that first day, with no accidents or spilled milk. I didn’t hit any milk houses, run over anyone, and even managed to maneuver the truck into the unloading dock without damaging the creamery.
By that evening every muscle in my body was sore. I was 19 and thought I was in great shape from doing farm work, but slinging 250 milk cans around and lifting them up into the bed of the truck was hard work. What had I gotten myself into?
Next week: A day in the life of a milk hauler.
*
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Let's Park for a While
Across the Fence #356
At least I know a few people read Across the Fence. I hear my cruisin’ with WLS in the 60’s story sparked some memories in many of you.
I walked into Borgen’s Café in Westby one day and ran into two of my high school classmates. One of them remarked, “I didn’t know you were a dancer?” I was a bit puzzled, until she said she read my story about going to Lloyd’s and Danceland. I doubt if anyone in my high school class ever saw me dance. I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly in high school. I was more like a moth stuck inside a cocoon and couldn’t find my way out.
By the way, I was 19 years old, had been out of high school for over a year, and was hauling milk, when I was frequenting Lloyd’s and Danceland. Let’s just say, those were my coming out of my cocoon years.
One day we stopped in Ole and Lena’s Kaffe Hus in Westby. Mike, the owner, said, “I was hoping you’d come in this week.” Then he burst into song. “On top of a pizza all covered with cheese…” At that point I joined in… “I saw my first meatball, til’ somebody sneezed. It rolled off the table and onto the floor…” You’d have thought Mike and I were cruisin’ down the highway in a ’57 Chev, and singing along with Dick Biondi on WLS! Other people in Ole and Lena’s must have wondered what was wrong with the two of us.
Mike was surprised to find out we had been listening to WLS in Westby. Mike is a Chicago-area native and even got to attend a Rockin’ New Year’s Eve with Dick Biondi at the Chicago Theatre one year. We had a good time reminiscing about our cruisin’ and listenin’ to WLS years. It’s a small world. Kids in Westby and kids in Chicago were tuned into the same radio station and doing the same things.
What we all did was similar to the movie, American Graffiti, where they cruised around listening to Wolfman Jack. Readers reminded me that guys and gals also parked their cars for a while in that movie. That was another activity that went on in that era… parking. You do remember parking, don’t you? Some people wondered if young people still park. We suspect it’s not a common activity these days. In all our travels around back roads in the country, day or night, I’ve never come across a situation that even resembles parking.
Perhaps I need to do a little explaining here for the younger crowd, and for those in my age group or older, who’ve been living in isolation in the back woods. Now I’m not saying I have any experience with parking, but any writer worth his weight in printer’s ink, researches his subject before putting words to paper. I’ve tried asking people about the subject, but it’s almost impossible to find anyone who will admit they used to park. As I’ve already mentioned, I’m not saying I have any experience on this subject either, but I’ve heard a lot about parking.
For the younger crowd, I’m not talking about driving to the local mall, parking your car, and going shopping. Back in the cruisin’ days, so I’ve been told, guys and gals would go cruisin’ around some lonely back roads at night and find a secluded place to park the car so they could spend some time alone… and sit and talk.
Back in those days, most cars didn’t have bucket seats and shifting knobs between the seats. It was just one seat and the shifting lever was on the steering column. That made it easier for a girl, way over on the passenger side, to slide over closer to the guy in case she couldn’t hear what he was saying. I should also mention that we didn’t have seat belts in those days, to keep us in our proper place. Sitting closer did make for some stimulating conversation, so I’ve been told.
Another interesting activity associated with parking, was bushwhacking. Again, I’m not saying I ever engaged in such activities, but I have it on good authority that such things took place. Bushwhacking was an activity carried out by a group of guys who didn’t have any girls to park and talk with. They would go looking for people who were parking. It was best to have the use of an old pickup truck, so one guy could drive, and the rest could ride in the back. Then we headed for the prime parking spots that we knew of. Did I say we? I meant to say, “they” headed for the prime parking spots. When they spotted a car parked in the shadows, they sprang into action. If it was in a field, they’d circle the car and guys would whoop and yell while pounding on the sides of the pickup. The occupants looked like a couple of deer caught in the headlights.
Then we roared off down the road as quickly as we’d arrived. We didn’t want to hurt anyone, just give them a little excitement, and a break from their heavy conversation.
Cruisin’, parking, and bushwhacking… activities that are a part of me and my generation. Just don’t blame me if this sparks a revival of those activities.
*
At least I know a few people read Across the Fence. I hear my cruisin’ with WLS in the 60’s story sparked some memories in many of you.
I walked into Borgen’s Café in Westby one day and ran into two of my high school classmates. One of them remarked, “I didn’t know you were a dancer?” I was a bit puzzled, until she said she read my story about going to Lloyd’s and Danceland. I doubt if anyone in my high school class ever saw me dance. I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly in high school. I was more like a moth stuck inside a cocoon and couldn’t find my way out.
By the way, I was 19 years old, had been out of high school for over a year, and was hauling milk, when I was frequenting Lloyd’s and Danceland. Let’s just say, those were my coming out of my cocoon years.
One day we stopped in Ole and Lena’s Kaffe Hus in Westby. Mike, the owner, said, “I was hoping you’d come in this week.” Then he burst into song. “On top of a pizza all covered with cheese…” At that point I joined in… “I saw my first meatball, til’ somebody sneezed. It rolled off the table and onto the floor…” You’d have thought Mike and I were cruisin’ down the highway in a ’57 Chev, and singing along with Dick Biondi on WLS! Other people in Ole and Lena’s must have wondered what was wrong with the two of us.
Mike was surprised to find out we had been listening to WLS in Westby. Mike is a Chicago-area native and even got to attend a Rockin’ New Year’s Eve with Dick Biondi at the Chicago Theatre one year. We had a good time reminiscing about our cruisin’ and listenin’ to WLS years. It’s a small world. Kids in Westby and kids in Chicago were tuned into the same radio station and doing the same things.
What we all did was similar to the movie, American Graffiti, where they cruised around listening to Wolfman Jack. Readers reminded me that guys and gals also parked their cars for a while in that movie. That was another activity that went on in that era… parking. You do remember parking, don’t you? Some people wondered if young people still park. We suspect it’s not a common activity these days. In all our travels around back roads in the country, day or night, I’ve never come across a situation that even resembles parking.
Perhaps I need to do a little explaining here for the younger crowd, and for those in my age group or older, who’ve been living in isolation in the back woods. Now I’m not saying I have any experience with parking, but any writer worth his weight in printer’s ink, researches his subject before putting words to paper. I’ve tried asking people about the subject, but it’s almost impossible to find anyone who will admit they used to park. As I’ve already mentioned, I’m not saying I have any experience on this subject either, but I’ve heard a lot about parking.
For the younger crowd, I’m not talking about driving to the local mall, parking your car, and going shopping. Back in the cruisin’ days, so I’ve been told, guys and gals would go cruisin’ around some lonely back roads at night and find a secluded place to park the car so they could spend some time alone… and sit and talk.
Back in those days, most cars didn’t have bucket seats and shifting knobs between the seats. It was just one seat and the shifting lever was on the steering column. That made it easier for a girl, way over on the passenger side, to slide over closer to the guy in case she couldn’t hear what he was saying. I should also mention that we didn’t have seat belts in those days, to keep us in our proper place. Sitting closer did make for some stimulating conversation, so I’ve been told.
Another interesting activity associated with parking, was bushwhacking. Again, I’m not saying I ever engaged in such activities, but I have it on good authority that such things took place. Bushwhacking was an activity carried out by a group of guys who didn’t have any girls to park and talk with. They would go looking for people who were parking. It was best to have the use of an old pickup truck, so one guy could drive, and the rest could ride in the back. Then we headed for the prime parking spots that we knew of. Did I say we? I meant to say, “they” headed for the prime parking spots. When they spotted a car parked in the shadows, they sprang into action. If it was in a field, they’d circle the car and guys would whoop and yell while pounding on the sides of the pickup. The occupants looked like a couple of deer caught in the headlights.
Then we roared off down the road as quickly as we’d arrived. We didn’t want to hurt anyone, just give them a little excitement, and a break from their heavy conversation.
Cruisin’, parking, and bushwhacking… activities that are a part of me and my generation. Just don’t blame me if this sparks a revival of those activities.
*
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Days of Summer Are Fading
Across the Fence #355
As the days become shorter and cooler, I can feel the beginning of fall in the air. Summer is heading south for the winter and leaving us behind.
Colorful wildflowers are disappearing and the wind rushing through the cornfields near our house sounds like waves rolling onto a beach. Summer is winding down and students have headed back to school. That can be an exciting or very apprehensive time in the life of every student, regardless of their age.
It’s also a tough time for parents as their child begins the first day of kindergarten, first grade, high school, or college. I know that emptiness and sadness you’re feeling. Been there, done that. On the other hand, maybe some of you are whooping it up and dancing in the streets. Summer vacation’s over and the kids are back in school! It makes me wonder how my parents felt when we headed off to school each fall.
Back to school for us farm kids was a mixed blessing. It was also tobacco harvesting time. We never got out of helping with tobacco when we were young. There was always lots of tobacco to pile as soon as we got home from school. I think Dad timed the cutting of the tobacco so it would be wilted and ready to pile when we arrived. In a way, we hated to miss the excitement of the harvest. Dad always put an ad in the paper, advertising for experienced tobacco harvest help. He got more than enough people who were willing to work for a dollar an hour, plus meals. That was the going wage at that time for a long day of physical labor.
When we were very young, we got the job of suckering and piling. I hated both jobs, but we didn’t have a choice. Those unglamorous jobs were reserved for us kids, as if any job in tobacco could be called glamorous. Things got better when we graduated to helping cut tobacco down and spear it onto laths. Those seemed like more grown-up jobs. When we got to help haul and hang tobacco in the shed, we knew we’d been promoted to the major leagues. That was “manly” work.
I think the best part of harvesting was when Ma brought coffee out to the field mid-morning and mid-afternoon. Then everyone stopped what they were doing and gathered around the tobacco rack for not just coffee, but sandwiches, cookies, and assorted other goodies. We ate more for coffee than I eat at a regular meal now. We all drank water out of a large mason jar. Many of the men chewed tobacco and I can still see that tobacco juice swirling around in the water. It didn’t look the most appetizing, but we never considered not drinking it.
When we had our noon meal in the house, everyone washed up outside. We had a pail of water and wash basins on an old table behind the shanty. Most people didn’t worry about getting all the dirt off, just enough to look presentable at the kitchen table. Anyone who’s worked in tobacco knows how hard it is to get caked-on tobacco juice and dirt off. We used Lava soap. It seemed to be the only thing that would take most of it off, other than dousing your hands with gasoline, but then you had that gas smell that lingered forever.
Stained hands and smelling like I’d taken a bath in gasoline, or had just come from cleaning the barn, were part of our life. The barn smell was a natural smell to us and I never gave it a second thought until I got to high school. Going from a one-room school to high school was a big transition for me.
At Smith School we were like one big family with around 20 kids in all eight grades. We were all farm kids and everyone helped with chores at home. Most of us didn’t have indoor plumbing and I suspect most of the kids were like us, and only had a bath in a portable tub once a week. Many of you grew up on farms and you know how the many barn smells seem to permeate your clothes and hair. It was no big deal. I never even thought that I smelled like a barn. That was life as we knew it. Maybe we subconsciously carried that barn smell like a badge of honor. It let people know that we knew how to work. We certainly didn’t smell like fancy, store-bought cologne. I don’t think we ever used cologne or deodorant when we were young. I’m not saying we didn’t need some; we just didn’t use any.
But then I headed off to high school in Westby. We still used an outhouse, and didn’t have indoor plumbing, although Ma had a hand pump at the kitchen sink to draw water from. I became much more self-conscious of how I smelled when sitting in class with “city girls.” By the time I started my sophomore year we had a bathroom and indoor plumbing. It didn’t seem to enhance my status with the girls, so maybe it wasn’t just smelling like I’d been born in a barn that was hindering my social standing!
Life is full of changes, obstacles, insecurities, and possibilities. Summer transitioning to fall is one of them. Don’t fight it. Enjoy it!
*
As the days become shorter and cooler, I can feel the beginning of fall in the air. Summer is heading south for the winter and leaving us behind.
Colorful wildflowers are disappearing and the wind rushing through the cornfields near our house sounds like waves rolling onto a beach. Summer is winding down and students have headed back to school. That can be an exciting or very apprehensive time in the life of every student, regardless of their age.
It’s also a tough time for parents as their child begins the first day of kindergarten, first grade, high school, or college. I know that emptiness and sadness you’re feeling. Been there, done that. On the other hand, maybe some of you are whooping it up and dancing in the streets. Summer vacation’s over and the kids are back in school! It makes me wonder how my parents felt when we headed off to school each fall.
Back to school for us farm kids was a mixed blessing. It was also tobacco harvesting time. We never got out of helping with tobacco when we were young. There was always lots of tobacco to pile as soon as we got home from school. I think Dad timed the cutting of the tobacco so it would be wilted and ready to pile when we arrived. In a way, we hated to miss the excitement of the harvest. Dad always put an ad in the paper, advertising for experienced tobacco harvest help. He got more than enough people who were willing to work for a dollar an hour, plus meals. That was the going wage at that time for a long day of physical labor.
When we were very young, we got the job of suckering and piling. I hated both jobs, but we didn’t have a choice. Those unglamorous jobs were reserved for us kids, as if any job in tobacco could be called glamorous. Things got better when we graduated to helping cut tobacco down and spear it onto laths. Those seemed like more grown-up jobs. When we got to help haul and hang tobacco in the shed, we knew we’d been promoted to the major leagues. That was “manly” work.
I think the best part of harvesting was when Ma brought coffee out to the field mid-morning and mid-afternoon. Then everyone stopped what they were doing and gathered around the tobacco rack for not just coffee, but sandwiches, cookies, and assorted other goodies. We ate more for coffee than I eat at a regular meal now. We all drank water out of a large mason jar. Many of the men chewed tobacco and I can still see that tobacco juice swirling around in the water. It didn’t look the most appetizing, but we never considered not drinking it.
When we had our noon meal in the house, everyone washed up outside. We had a pail of water and wash basins on an old table behind the shanty. Most people didn’t worry about getting all the dirt off, just enough to look presentable at the kitchen table. Anyone who’s worked in tobacco knows how hard it is to get caked-on tobacco juice and dirt off. We used Lava soap. It seemed to be the only thing that would take most of it off, other than dousing your hands with gasoline, but then you had that gas smell that lingered forever.
Stained hands and smelling like I’d taken a bath in gasoline, or had just come from cleaning the barn, were part of our life. The barn smell was a natural smell to us and I never gave it a second thought until I got to high school. Going from a one-room school to high school was a big transition for me.
At Smith School we were like one big family with around 20 kids in all eight grades. We were all farm kids and everyone helped with chores at home. Most of us didn’t have indoor plumbing and I suspect most of the kids were like us, and only had a bath in a portable tub once a week. Many of you grew up on farms and you know how the many barn smells seem to permeate your clothes and hair. It was no big deal. I never even thought that I smelled like a barn. That was life as we knew it. Maybe we subconsciously carried that barn smell like a badge of honor. It let people know that we knew how to work. We certainly didn’t smell like fancy, store-bought cologne. I don’t think we ever used cologne or deodorant when we were young. I’m not saying we didn’t need some; we just didn’t use any.
But then I headed off to high school in Westby. We still used an outhouse, and didn’t have indoor plumbing, although Ma had a hand pump at the kitchen sink to draw water from. I became much more self-conscious of how I smelled when sitting in class with “city girls.” By the time I started my sophomore year we had a bathroom and indoor plumbing. It didn’t seem to enhance my status with the girls, so maybe it wasn’t just smelling like I’d been born in a barn that was hindering my social standing!
Life is full of changes, obstacles, insecurities, and possibilities. Summer transitioning to fall is one of them. Don’t fight it. Enjoy it!
*
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