Hothead Sven Remembers Norway's Civil War

Across the Fence #443 (Syttende Mai Extra)

This story about the Ornes (Urnes) family and Hothead Sven is an excerpt from the “Hothead Sven Saga,” a historical fiction story I’m writing about these early ancestors. 

Sven ran his calloused, thick fingers through his thinning hair. His bloodshot eyes peered up at the bar-covered window in his small, dark cell. The first light of dawn was visible behind the mountains that rose high above Hauklandstølen. A few lights dotted the landscape as the residents of Moi began to stir and prepare for the day many had dreaded to see arrive.

Sven turned away from the lights and retreated into the darkness of the room. The thick log walls and heavy wood door captured the chill of early autumn and the small room was cold and damp. His large body shivered as a chill shot through it. They would come to get him as soon as the sun appeared over the mountains.  

A wave of despair swept over him and he sank slowly onto the straw-covered, wood bed along one side of the room. He sat on the edge of the bed and buried his head in his large hands as tears rolled down his weathered face and disappeared in his bushy, gray beard.

Sleep had not been possible this night as he thought about his life and what awaited him at dawn. He didn’t want to die. He lay back on the hard bed and covered his eyes with his large, muscular forearm, trying to block out the light of the coming dawn and the fate that awaited him. 

Me in the same jail where Hothead Sven was held, wearing the handcuffs he once wore.

His thoughts drifted back to younger, happier days when he roamed the hills and mountains surrounding their small farm at Skåland, and later at Steinberg, in southwestern Norway. The mountains rose up from the waters edge on the west and east. He wished he could see that beautiful lake again, where his father had taught him how to handle a boat and fish. A stone-lined path from the Skjerpe farm went up into those mountains where the Østrem and Mageland farms were located. To the south the lake narrowed before joining the sea on the southern coast of Norway. 

Sven Pedersen Skåland was born in 1575, the oldest son of Peder Atlaksen Steinberg and Berete Iversdatter Skåland. Their small farm, just south of Moi, was located near the shore of Skålandsvika, a small inlet that emptied into Lundevatnet, one of the largest lakes in the area. In earlier days, Sven’s ancestors had pushed their Viking boats into the water at Skålandsvika, waved goodbye to their families, and sailed the fifteen miles downstream to where it emptied into the sea near Flekkefjord.

  

When Sven was a young boy he sat and listened in wide-eyed wonder as the old men told tales of Viking exploits that had been passed down from generation to generation. Each telling of the tales became grander, in direct proportion to the amount of ale that had been consumed. 

Sven could still see and hear his grandfather, Atlak Steinberg, as he sat on the heavy bench by the old wood table in their small house and told the stories on long winter nights.

Grandfather Atlak leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table. Strands from his long, shaggy beard fell into his large ale bowl in front of him. The bowl with dragon heads had been hand carved by Atlak’s grandfather, Ståle. Atlak used the dragons as handles when he drank from the old ale bowl. He pushed the bowl out of the way and ran his fingers through his soggy beard, then licked the ale from his fingers. A slight smile creased his lips. “No sense in wasting good ale,” he said. “Now, did I ever tell you about old Gaut One-Eye’s family?”

Before anyone could protest and say they had heard it at least a hundred times before, Atlak began the story again. Sven’s father, Peder, rolled his eyes, leaned back against the log wall, and crossed his muscular arms across his chest. “Here we go again.” Young Sven listened intently to his every word, even though he’d heard many of the stories before. 

“This story was told to me by my father and he heard it from his father before him. It took place a long time ago when our grandfathers were still sailing in Viking ships and took part in the Great Civil War of Norway between the Birkebeiners and the Baglers.”

The death of King Sigurd ‘The Crusader’ in 1130 set off the war. It lasted 110 years until 1240. There was fighting among many different groups and chieftains wanting control of Norway. During that time the clergy of the Catholic Church sided with the Aristocracy and together they ruthlessly gained control over lesser kings, chieftains, and their followers.”

The Church took much control of the country when they introduced a mandatory tax called ‘Peter’s Pence’. People who couldn’t pay lost their property. By 1500, only 100 years ago, the Catholic Church owned nearly half the land in Norway.”

Atlak continued his story. “Our Grandfather, Gaut of Ornes allied himself with King Magnus Erlingson and the Church, and became one of the most powerful families in Norway at the time. The Ornes family was also known as Urnes. The Urnes Stave Church had been built by them on their farm. Gaut also owned land at Mel and Ænes. We’ll forgive him now for siding with the rich folks. His grandsons would eventually see the light and join the Birkebeiners.”

Gaut’s son, Jon Gautsson, the father of Gaut ‘One-Eye’ Jonsson, became the skipper of King Magnus’ ship. He led the King’s army into battle with King Magnus fighting by his side.”

Fed up with the Aristocracy and Church taking their property, plus higher and higher taxes, a group was organized by the farmers and common people and led by Sverre Sigurdsson Prest. They were called the ‘Birkebeiner’, which means ‘Birchlegs’, because they were sometimes forced to wrap their feet in birch bark for want of shoes. It’s against this group that Grandfather Jon Gautsson fought, as he led King Magnus Erlingson’s forces.” 

There’s a story that Sverre is also our grandfather that involves an illegitimate granddaughter of King Håkon Håkonson, but that’s a story for another day.”

Peder shook his head and relit his pipe as his father rambled on, often getting sidetracked on another story, much like a ship sailing up a tributary of the main fjord and then having to backtrack to get on course again. But regardless of his story wandering all over the place, Sven knew Grandfather Atlak was coming to the exciting part of the story. As he sat on the floor near his grandfather, he leaned forward to catch his every word. 

Atlak continued. “On the 15th day of June, 1184, King Magnus, along with Grandfather Jon Gautsson, led twenty-four ships and 3,000 men against King Sverre and his Birkebeiners, who had fourteen ships and 2,000 men. Jon’s brother, Munan Gautsson, also commanded a ship in the battle. They met in a great battle at Fimreite in Norefjord, a narrow arm of the Sognefjord. Stories are told of a fierce battle that began in the afternoon and lasted until midnight.” 

Grandfather Jon had his ship in the lead as they closed with Sverre’s forces. Ships rammed into opposing ships and a fierce fight began. Grandfather led the charge, swinging his great sword as they boarded the Birkebeiner ships. Broad axes were planted in the chests of the enemy as the battle raged. Grandfather was a great warrior and had survived many battles in his day. Many Birkebeiners fell under his mighty blows. The Birkebeiners were also tough and fought hard, and Sverre was a great leader. The tide of battle turned against King Magnus and Grandfather. A Birkebeiner ship came alongside of Grandfathers’ and tied on. A violent battle began as the two ships battled each other with swords, spears and broad axes. Another Birkebeiner ship came along the other side. Now they had to do battle with both crews as the Birchlegs jumped into their ship. Grandfather fought hard, slaying many of the Birchlegs until a sword pierced his chest. He slumped to the deck of the ship. King Magnus realized the battle was lost. Rather than suffer the humiliation of being captured and tortured, he jumped overboard so that he might enter the halls of Valhalla as a fighter. The coat of mail he wore pulled him under and he drowned. He was only eight and twenty years.“

At that point Grandfather Jon struggled to his feet and with his sword, struck a man who was boarding their ship. Grandfather was struck again and the blow knocked him into the water, saving his life. The night was full upon them at that point and it was very dark in the water. As Grandfather struggled to stay above water, another ship almost ran him over. He realized it was one of his own ships and yelled for help. They pulled him from the water and laid him in the boat with the other wounded and dead. With their King and leader dead, along with many of their fellow warriors, they gave up the fight. What was left of their force broke contact and retreated. Many great warriors entered the halls of Valhalla that day, including grandfather’s brother, Munan. Twenty-one hundred and sixty men, nearly half of the 5,000 men who took part in the battle died that day. It’s said that if you sit on the shores of the Sognfjord at midnight, when the wind sweeps down the fjord, you can still hear the long mournful moans of all the men who died in the battle that night.”

Atlak leaned back, let out a big sigh, and lifted his ale bowl to his lips. He took a long drink, wiped his sleeve across his mouth, and continued his story. 

“It was thought that Grandfather Jon also perished in the fighting, but he was taken home severely wounded and prepared to die. But he was tough and after many days of suffering he began to get stronger and survived. That was good for us Sven, or we wouldn’t be here. His son, Gaut ‘One-Eye’ Jonsson was born three years later.”

After the defeat and death of King Magnus, Sverre became King of Norway. Before that time, the Ænes family had been living at Ornes for centuries. They were a powerful Chieftain family, but, because they had been supporting the forces opposed to Sverre and his Birkebeiners, they lost their land at Ornes. Jon and the rest of his family moved farther south to Mel and Ænes, property also owned by their family.”

King Sverre knew he needed the support of the powerful Ornes families if he wanted to keep control of Norway. The war was still going on as pockets of resistance from the Church and their rich friends continued to fight against him. He allowed the Ornes family to keep their property at Mel and Ænes and invited them to join him as Birkebeiners.”

Atlak stopped and took another drink of ale.

“Peder said, “Father, you fill Sven with such wild tales, he won’t know what to believe. If we were descended from nobility would we be living like this, barely able to raise enough food among the damn rocks on these mountains to keep ourselves fed? What kind of bullshit is this you teach him? I teach him how to farm and fish. At least that will put food in his mouth. You fill him with nothing but words and stories that have nothing to do with us today. It’s all in the past and should be left there. We have no need for it.”

Atlak rose from his seat and straightened his bent, frail body as best he could. Pointing a bony finger at his son, he admonished him. “That’s no way to speak to your father! Bullshit you say! Lies you say! Are you calling your grandfathers liars too? Your own grandfathers, whose blood flows through your body and gives you life. These Sagas have been passed down from generation to generation. Thank the gods that Sven is interested in the stories.”

“The stories cause nothing but trouble,” Peder said. He pointed at Sven. “Look at him. He sits there in wide-eyed wonder as you spin your tales of the Sagas as skillfully as a spider weaves his web. You draw him in and he gets caught in that web. Mark my words, it will only lead to more trouble. Sven almost killed one of his friends playing war games because of the damn stories you tell.”

“Father, I was just protecting myself,” Sven protested.

“At least Sven’s not afraid to stand up for himself,” Atlak said. “Nobody’s going to push him around. Too bad you didn’t have some of his fire. Maybe if you did, you’d have a farm that produced more than rocks!”

Peder’s face turned red as he clenched his fists. He wanted to lash out and strike his old father, but he didn’t say a word. He rose quickly from his chair and headed out the door, slamming it behind him. ‘Damn you,’ he thought as he headed up a mountain trail to cool off. ‘Age hasn’t softened his edges at all. There’s no sense trying to argue or reason with him. Everything’s always been his way and he becomes angry if anyone disagrees. Now I worry that Sven is just like his grandfather. He has that same explosive temper. That temper and all those damn stories about fighting and war are going to lead to nothing but trouble.”

As Sven sat alone in the jail at Moi, waiting for dawn to arrive, he remembered how his father and grandfather had argued. It was true that the stories of the fighting between the Birkebeiners and the Baglers had made an impression on him and had fueled his imagination. In that imaginary world Sven was fighting alongside Sverre as one of the Birkebeiners. 

He remembered the day he had stood on the shores of the Norfjord where his ancestors had fought in the great battle that was the turning point of the Norwegian Civil War. He was certain he’d heard the mournful moans of the dead in the wind. He wished he were back there again. 

Unfortunately, he would never see it again. “Hothead” Sven now sat waiting for the dawn to arrive. He would soon be joining his ancestors.

Visit me in the Heritage Tent at Westby Syttende Mai on May 18th and 19th. Maybe I’ll tell you what happened to Hothead Sven.

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Listen for the Moen "Bells for Peace"

Across the Fence #443

It’s that time of year when those of us with Norwegian roots, celebrate our Norwegian heritage. On this Syttende Mai, I thought I’d tell you about the Moen “Bells for Peace.”

When you watch the winter Olympic games on TV and hear what sounds like cowbells ringing, do you know where those bells come from? I’m proud to say a relative in Norway made most of those bells!

When our Norwegian relatives, Arne Olav and Vivi Østrem, visited us a few years before we went to Norway, they brought us some Moen Bells as gifts. We have our sheep bell near our front door and our clock bell sits in my home office. They are cherished because we know their history.

Tobias Osmundsen Moen, Vivi’s grandfather, started the Moen Bell Factory at Moi, Norway in 1922. Tobias had a son, Osmund, and a daughter, Esther, who is Vivi’s mother. The Moen family is related to us on the Sherpe (Skjerpe) side. 

Osmund now runs the Moen Bell Factory, along with his family. They have been making bells for 91 years. Bells are needed in Norway so the farmers can find their animals in the country’s hard-to-reach mountains and valleys. Originally made to be worn by animals, mainly the sheep, goats, and cows, the bells have gradually become adopted as “cheering bells” at sporting events. 

Moen Bells were extremely popular as the official bells at the 1994 Lillehammer Winter Olympics. Crowds of spectators rang bells to cheer on the ski racers. The bell ringing motivates the athletes and adds to the spectator’s fun. If you’ve watched the Winter Olympics since 1994, you may remember the sound of spectators ringing bells. Those were Moen Bells.

The Moen Bell Factory was asked to produce 220,000 bells for the 1994 Winter Olympics in Lillehammer. That was quite an accomplishment for the small factory in Moi that had been making bells for animals to wear before that time. 

During our trip to Norway in 1999, Linda and I had the chance to visit the Moen Bjøllefabrikk (Bell Factory) in Moi. Vivi and Arne Olav took us there to meet her uncle and see how the bells are made.

We were fortunate that we were able to meet Osmund because he had a bad accident two months before our visit. On February 6, 1999, he was working in the forest in the mountains above their home with his tractor when it slid and rolled 150 feet down a rocky hillside. He was thrown through the front glass of the cab and the tractor rolled over him. It’s a miracle that he’s still alive! He was hospitalized with injuries, but appeared in good shape when we visited him. 

People said, “He has more work to do. It was not his time to leave this world yet.” No one could understand how he had survived. We saw the mangled John Deere tractor at his home when we were there and it was hard to believe that he wasn’t killed. 

Since our visit, those bells have gone from the mountains of Norway to sporting events around the world. They were produced for the Olympic Games in Japan, but it wasn’t known how bells would go over in Japan so they hadn’t placed a large order. They sold out the first day and the organizers called Osmund to see if they could get more bells. They worked night and day and shipped more bells that arrived on the next to last day of the games. They also sold out immediately!

They are now made for many sporting events, including: World Alpine Championships, soccer games, Grand National Rodeo, and many other events worldwide. The U.S. Ski Team has also adopted Moen Bells as their official “cheering bell.”

While we were at the factory, they were busy producing bells for the 2002 Winter Olympic Games in Salt Lake City. They had orders for 300,000 bells. That’s a lot of bells to produce! 

Osmund showed us how the bells are made and engraved. They are cut from iron sheets, formed, the handle and bell soldered on, and then coated with brass that is recycled from spent ammunition cartridges from Norwegian military practice ranges. Osmund calls his bells coated with melted down bullets, “Bells for Peace.”

After the bells reach this stage, they’re engraved by a machine that does several bells at a time. The designs and imprinting are computer generated of course! While we watched, he engraved the Salt Lake City Olympic logo on one side of a bell, and then engraved Howard and Linda Skjerpe (the original Norwegian spelling of the Sherpe name) on the other side, and presented it to us. 

It was a real pleasure meeting Osmund and getting a tour of the bell factory.  He has developed a very successful international business and the name, Moen Bells, is becoming known around the world. 

Now when you hear bells ringing during the next Winter Olympic games, or any sporting event, you can tell people you know all about those bells. They are “Bells for Peace” and come from the little town of Moi, nestled at the base of the mountains in southwestern Norway.

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Richard "Dick" Brockman

Across the Fence #442

Richard "Dick" Brockman, age 65, died April 22, 2013 at his home in Platteville, Wisconsin, after a long battle with cancer. He was Linda’s second cousin. I owe Dick a lot. If it wasn’t for him, there would have been no “Across the Fence” column for these past “almost” ten years.

Dick’s family owned and published The Platteville Journal for 70 years. Dick was associated with the paper since he was five years old, and purchased it from his parents in 1971, shortly after graduating from UW-Platteville. He sold it to the Morris Newspaper Corporation of Wisconsin in 2003. 

Then in January, 2004, Dick wrote to tell us he and his wife, Kathy, were getting back into the newspaper business. 

He said, “I thought I would drop you a note and let you know that I have purchased another newspaper. I’m closing today on the purchase of the Linn Newsletter (circulation 2,500) in Central City, Iowa. I will be over there one or two days a week. It’s a lot of work running businesses in two states, but I’m excited about it. I guess printer’s ink really does replace the blood in your veins.”

We always enjoyed Dick’s weekly column “The Gospel According to Eddie Tor.” He was a wonderful writer with a great sense of humor. I would comment on his stories and send him things I had written too.

For Veteran’s Day, 2004, I wrote a story about all the lives lost to war over the years, lost lives, lost potential. Dick was one of the people who received my writings and would comment on them. That same day, I received this message back from him:

“Hey, Howard, have you ever thought of writing a newspaper column? I own this great paper in Iowa. . . I would love to have a column every week. I’d like to run the Veteran’s Day story you sent today.”

I wrote back, “Dick, funny you should ask. I was just thinking earlier this week, that it would be nice to have an outlet or column in a paper for some of the many things I write. I love writing. I would love to write for your paper! I’ll try not to write things that offend people, or that are overly political one way or another. I’ll leave my politics out of it, although I’m sure there are people who will be offended by what I say about war and killing in my Veteran’s Day story. It’s meant to make people think, but some people have a hard time thinking!”

Dick wrote back, “Don’t worry too much about having a differing viewpoint. That’s one thing I really enjoy about your writing. I don’t always agree with you, just as you don’t always agree with me, but that’s healthy. I especially enjoy your viewpoint on Vietnam because you were there. . .you walked the walk. . .and that’s important to me. If a few people are offended, so what! Just keep on writing the way you do now. You are great about telling things from the heart and that is good.”

Thus, the journey began and “Across the Fence” was born. 

Dick and his wife, Kathy, were there to help when Linda’s parents, Dale and Virginia Bartling, who lived in Platteville, were having health problems. Dick told us that if he could help by getting them to doctor’s appointments, we should let him know. Dale was his first cousin. When both of them ended up in an assisted living facility in Platteville, Dick picked up their newspaper each morning and took it to them, until Dale was able to return home.

Dick and Kathy were there for us every day, when Linda’s mother was in her final days at the hospital and we were spending long days with her. They came to visit every day and brought food to the house for the family. They were caring, compassionate and concerned for others. Qualities that are often in short supply in this “What’s in it for me?” world.

Dick had a great respect for veterans. He once wrote to me, “I hope the years have brought some peace in your mind about what you went through in the war. Those of us who were not there, will never be able to understand the emotions and feelings of those who were there.”

What I went through in Vietnam couldn’t hold a candle to the battle and pain that Dick went through as he fought to beat the cancer that attacked him these past several years. He was a gentle, quiet man, but a real fighter. They say the pen is mightier than the sword. How true that was in Dick’s case. He knew how to wield a pen and use words to make people think, and that sometimes made people uncomfortable. He said to me, “I think some of your best columns are the ones that some might call controversial, because they make people think. People may disagree with what we write, but they should respect our opinions, just as we should respect theirs. We are not a great country because we all agree, but because we honor the right to disagree.” 

Those words say so eloquently, who Dick was and what he stood for. He lived by those words. Even in death his actions and words live on. We can all be better people if we take his words to heart. 

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Look for the Helpers

Across the Fence #441

The events of this past week have many people wondering if there’s any hope that mankind will survive all the violence that’s occurring around the world. I’ve heard the question asked, “How can people be so cruel to each other and have so little regard for human life? 

I was struggling with the same questions as I tried getting to sleep on the Monday night of the Boston Marathon bombings. People seem to be intent on killing everyone who doesn’t think, believe, or do what they think, believe, and do. We could take away every gun, bomb, knife, bat, club, pointed stick, rock, broken bottle, or any other item that we could use to kill each other and the last two people left on earth would still find a way to strangle or break the neck of the other. Those are some pretty pessimistic thoughts.

Then I thought of something Mr. Rogers said his mother told him when he saw scary things. “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” Yes, we can’t understand how someone could hurt innocent people, but look at all the good people who jumped in and helped the injured, with no regard for their own safety.” 

Some people ran to get away from the area, afraid that more explosions would take place. Others ran to help the wounded, comforted them, and saved lives by performing emergency first aid. A friend wondered which person they would have been if they had been there.

I told my friend that no one knows the answer to that question unless they’re confronted with the choice. I didn’t tell them that I had once wondered the same thing. In an emergency situation, would I react and try to help, or would I panic and do nothing?

Many of you know that I was an army medic during the Vietnam War. After twelve months of intensive training we graduated as 91B20’s–army medical specialists. But I think we all wondered how we would react and perform our duties when a real situation presented itself and bullets were flying. It didn’t take long to find out the answer.

After medical training, twenty of us returned to Fort Lewis, Washington and rejoined the units of the 4th Infantry that we had gone through basic training with. Everyone received a two-week leave to go home before returning to Fort Lewis and shipping out for Vietnam.

One evening, 1,000 of us who would be in the advance party of the 4th Infantry, were let loose to head for the Sea-Tac Airport where we would get flights and fly home. My friend Reagan, also a medic, and I managed to get near the front of one of the long lines at the ticket counter. Most of us were flying standby to save money. Can you imagine a thousand army guys trying to get a flight at the same time? 

When only a couple more people were ahead of me, gunshots suddenly rang out to the right of us. Our first reaction was to crouch down, just like we’d all been trained to do. Then many people started scrambling away from the shots. People were yelling, “Medic!” Reagan, I, and several of our friends, headed in the direction of the shooting. I don’t remember even thinking, “What should I do?” It was just instinct. I saw two of our guys struggling with another soldier. Our friends joined them and threw the guy to the ground as Reagan and I went to help two people lying on the floor. An MP had blood pouring from a wound in his thigh. We went to work, trying to stop the flow of blood. Then I went to the other man who had been shot in the hand. One finger was gone, and two others hung by shreds. We were oblivious to everything around us. We weren’t aware that airport security had arrived and cordoned off the area around us. Someone brought us a first aid kit. Soon the EMT’s arrived and took over. Reagan and I helped them until a policeman grabbed us and told us to get out of the way. We complied.

We stood there for a few minutes, our hands and clothes covered with blood. Then we retrieved our bags and went to a restroom to wash up and change uniforms. By the time we returned to the line, most people had their tickets. We had to buy full-fare, instead of stand-by tickets if we wanted a flight that night. It was a bittersweet moment. We had done what we had been trained to do, but in the end had been rudely told to get out of the area, and had to pay a lot more money for tickets because of it.

At least we both felt more confident that we’d be able to react and do what we had to in a stressful situation. Our friends told us later that the soldier who did the shooting had gone AWOL and was being returned by the MP’s. We never heard another word about the incident.

Yes, it’s easy to be cynical and pessimistic when so much violence seems to be occurring. But try to think of the many people who are trying to help others, not the few trying to hurt them. There’s still a lot of good in the world. 

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Package Delivered Hours of Fun

Across the Fence #440

Each day I waited anxiously for the mailman to arrive. Each day I was disappointed when I opened the mailbox and there was no package. I felt like Charlie Brown waiting for a valentine to appear in his mailbox, but it was always empty. The ad said to allow 3-4 weeks for delivery, but that seemed like an eternity when I was young. I probably started checking the mailbox after one week.

One day as we were hoeing tobacco in the big field alongside our road, I saw a cloud of dust to the west. It was 9:00 and that meant it was our rural mail carrier, Howard Crume. Unless there was bad weather, like a raging blizzard, you could set your watch by his arrival. In those days, very few cars used our road, now known as Sherpe Road. When I was young the road didn’t have a name. It was simply a gravel county road halfway between Tri-State Breeders and Smith School.

As Howard came alongside the tobacco field, he saw us hoeing and honked his horn to greet us. Then he held up a package so we could see it. He knew we’d been waiting for it to arrive for close to a month. It was only 9:00 but there was no way we could wait until noon to retrieve the package from the mailbox. The weeds in the tobacco would have to wait, even if Dad got mad at us for abandoning our hoes in the field. He was busy cutting hay in the back forty. Maybe he wouldn’t notice that we were AWOL from our post before we returned.

I pulled open the lid of the mailbox and there it was, a brown, paper package addressed to me. Standing in the middle of the road I tore open the package and there they were. A clear plastic bag containing 50 plastic army men. 25 were green and 25 were gray. They were 2-inch figures, molded out of hard plastic and came in several different poses. Those little plastic figures were relatively cheap compared to the action figures that were available in later years. They cost about a penny each. That pack of 50 was around 50 cents plus postage. There were riflemen standing, kneeling, crawling, and prone, throwing grenades, shooting machine guns, with bayonets, a radioman, and one with a pistol to lead them. We now had an army. 

World War II and the Korean War had been a part of my world during my early years and army men were my heroes. Now we could stage those battles that we had seen pictures of in newspapers and magazines. But first there was tobacco to be hoed and staging battles would have to wait. Work always came before play. That was the way of life for farm kids.

That little package of army men provided us many hours of fun. We played with them in the dirt and staged battles inside when it rained and we couldn’t work or play outside. When we had access to firecrackers around the 4^th of July we were able to add explosions to our battles, as we bombed the gray-colored German troops. Unfortunately, we found out that a direct hit on an army man could also damage them. You also learned not to leave them lying around outside when not playing with them. Dogs liked chewing on them and left them full of holes and mangled. Those figures became casualties in our battles after that, since they were already severely wounded.

Later, plastic army trucks, jeeps, and tanks also became available through the mail and at the dime store in Viroqua. We were able to add some men and vehicles to our army with money we earned mowing the lawn. Dad paid David and me 25 cents each week. It was a large lawn and we used a push mower and took turns. That was the only money we earned doing work around the farm, except for tobacco harvest when he paid us 50 cents an hour when we got older. That was big money for us. The men and women he hired got $1.00 an hour. Would anyone do that kind of back-breaking work for a dollar an hour today?

I was reminded of our army men days when I received a message from my friend John in the Madison area. My story about playing in the water reminded him of his days doing the same thing. He wondered if I also sailed boats down those rivers. They used sticks and pretended they were ships navigating the mighty river. They even lashed sticks together to make a small raft and had hours of fun and always ended up soaked to the bone.

Yes, we also had boats during those spring thaws. We used pieces of busted tobacco laths as boats. It seems everything we did was connected to tobacco in one way or another. For extra excitement, we put our army men on the lath boats and suddenly they were troops heading into battle. When the boats wedged against the side of the ditch the men would storm ashore from their landing crafts. 

Those simple army men provided us many hours of fun in all kinds of weather. Little did John, David, and I know that years later we would all become army men for real. 

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Transitional Games of April

Across the Fence 439

April was the month of transition from winter to spring when we were young students at Smith School. The snow and winter activities we had enjoyed, were pretty much gone. Dirty patches of snow were making last-ditch stands along the fence lines where big drifts had been.

When we were young, the winter seemed to last forever and we were ready for warm weather. That transitional period when we were restless must have been hard for our teacher. It reminds me of when we let the cows out in the spring after they’d been cooped up in the barn all winter. They ran around, jumped, and head-butted each other. Spring will do that to you if you live in the Midwest.

In spring we didn’t have to spend half the recess dressing and undressing in order to play outside without freezing to death. We were tired of winter and ready to start playing ball, but the ground was still too wet and muddy in many places. Our ball field had low areas that collected puddles of water. 

Our schoolyard wasn’t large enough for a regulation ball field so a lot of improvising was done. We sometimes used part of Iverson’s field that adjoined our schoolyard on two sides. It made it a lot tougher when they planted corn instead of hay. The two outhouses along one edge of the yard tended to get in the way of our ball field too. You didn’t want to run into the side of the outhouse while chasing a pop fly. Our ball field may have been lacking in sophistication compared to the ones kids play on today, but I don’t remember ever thinking it was inadequate. It was all we knew and we made it work.

While we waited for the ground to dry out, there were plenty of other games and activities to keep us occupied during recess. There was Annie-over, kick the can, jacks, Simon says, and the great game of “flip stick,” also known by the Norwegian name of “vippe pinne.”

The equipment needed was easy to obtain and cheap. We’d find a couple of sticks about an inch in diameter and make one about two feet long and the other six inches. We scooped out a small slit in the ground using one of the sticks. Then we chose up two sides and were ready to begin. The short stick was placed across the slit in the ground and the tip of the long stick was placed under it. The “batter” then flipped the small stick as far as he could and the people on the other team tried to catch it. That’s where the name of the game, flip stick, comes from. 

If someone caught the stick, the batter was out. If not caught, the person closest to where the stick landed threw it back in to see how close to the hole they could come. If it was within one length of the long stick, the batter was out.

Another part of flip stick was the “pinkle.” Don’t ask me why it’s called the pinkle. I have no idea. The art of pinkling was accomplished by balancing the short stick on the long stick and hitting it into the air as many times as you could, before swatting it as hard as you could into the field. Can you imagine having a sharp-pointed stick flying toward your head at 200 miles an hour? Well, it was probably a lot slower than that, but it seemed like a guided missile as it streaked toward your head. That’s when you had a choice. You could show off your bravery and try catching it, or duck and let it hit some poor soul behind you. The batter was out if you caught it, and you were congratulated for your bravery. I think points should have been awarded for having the good sense to get out of the way. All I know is that flip stick would be outlawed on any playground in this day and age. Someone could get hurt and sue the school. In our day if someone got hit it was, “Hey dummy, catch the stick or get out of the way!”

Eventually the ground dried up enough to start playing ball. In small, rural schools like ours, there weren’t enough kids to have two teams with nine players on each team. Not all the kids would play, since our ages could range from six to fourteen. Because of that, the younger kids, and those who didn’t like playing ball, played other games while the older ones played “work-up.” Then you could play with seven or more players since that didn’t require teams. One person was the batter and continued batting until he made an out. Then he went to right field and the catcher became the batter. Everyone else rotated one position. It may sound strange but it worked.

The transitional month of April is a lot like playing flip stick or work-up softball. You had to adjust and make up the rules depending on the weather, the size of your playing field, and who wanted to play. It was a far cry from the adult-organized games that kids play today. Boys and girls all played together, and the older kids helped younger kids. That made it a great learning experience and everyone had fun.

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Spring Thaw Brings Running Water

Across the Fence #438

It’s April Fool’s Day as I write this and the snow is finally melting. Can I hear an “Amen” from everyone? It’s been a long winter and most people are anxious for spring to arrive. Now we’re experiencing the spring thaw and runoff as the melting snow heads for lower ground. Water is flowing like a river in the little valley behind our house. Actually, I shouldn’t call it a valley; it’s more like a swale, or just plain low area on the prairie. It’s where the water runs in the spring and during heavy rains, and can sometimes be fifty feet across.

The pond is filled to overflowing. I wish it would stay that way, but I know it will soon disappear. I really think it’s turned into a sinkhole. A dry waterhole isn’t much good when it comes to attracting wildlife.

The spring thaw also brings us soft, mushy ground and lots of mud. Most of the side roads have gravel or blacktop these days, but I bet many of you can remember when roads became a muddy quagmire in the spring. Those were the days when you went from being stuck in snowdrifts to being stuck in the mud. The ruts became so deep, that once your wheels dropped into them you couldn’t get out until you came to firmer ground. 

Spring was, and still is, a dirty time of year as the frost works its way out of the ground. It’s especially muddy around barnyards. We slogged through the mud doing our chores as we brought feed from the granary to the barn in a wheelbarrow. If you haven’t tried pushing a loaded-down wheelbarrow through the mud, you’ve missed out on one of the character-building moments in life. It ranks right up there with balancing a wheelbarrow full of manure on an icy plank as you push it from the barn to the manure pile outside. 

Spring was also when you got rid of that huge manure pile that had accumulated behind the barn during the winter months, when you couldn’t get out in the fields to spread it. We spent many days standing knee-deep in the fragrant manure pile and filling the manure spreader one forkful at a time. That was before Dad finally bought a front-end loader to do the job after I had graduated. That kind of hard, physical work would kill me now.

Another spring job was cleaning out the chicken house where droppings had accumulated a foot deep during the winter. Our chicken house was divided into two rooms. The front part was where we fed the chickens and where the nesting boxes were located along the walls. That was where the hens laid their eggs. 

The back room was where they roosted at night. Chickens liked to spend the night off the ground, where they roosted, not roasted, on horizontal poles that were supported by notched supports on the walls of the chicken house. The chickens flew up, sat on the poles, and slept during the evening. I always wondered how they could balance on those poles and sleep without falling off. I guess it’s easy if you have the DNA of a chicken. If chickens can think, they probably wonder how we can sleep in a bed. Chickens, like other birds, roost high in a tree at night to avoid predators, like foxes and coyotes, who are looking for a meal. That inbred survival instinct remains, even when chickens are kept in the safety of a hen house at night.     

Just like the Crooked River Country where we live, this story seems to have taken a few twists and bends too. I started telling you about cleaning out the chicken house in the spring and the next thing you know where sailing up a tributary of the fjord and talking about chickens roosting at night. Never let it be said that you don’t get a well-rounded education reading these meanderings.

Anyway, the droppings under those roosting poles had to be cleaned out too. It wasn’t much fun. The dry dust from all those droppings filled the air as you worked, and you breathed it all in. That’s not good for the lungs as I found out later. All that “chicken dust” settles in your lungs and can cause an infection resulting in calcified lymph nodes, which I’m now blessed with. Guess they were just getting even with me for beheading a few of their relatives so we could have them for dinner. Yes, there was a time when people didn’t depend on Colonel Sanders or the supermarket for a chicken meal.

Luckily there are some things that never seem to change. Young kids still like to go splashing through water and mud puddles and building snow dams when the water is running in the spring. I’ve always liked hearing the sound of rushing water. We would build dams and when enough water had backed up behind our dam, we would knock a hole in the dam and watch the water rush through it and quickly fill the ditch below it. 

Children love wading in the mud and playing in the cold water during the spring thaw. Maybe I need to get in touch with that playful side of me again, instead of complaining about all the running water and mud.  

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