Hunters and Gatherers

Across the Fence #254

It's hard to believe it’s already October, the month of the Hunter’s Moon. Where did the summer go? Where did this year go? I feel like Rip Van Winkle, who suddenly woke up after a long sleep and wondered where the time had gone.

As I drive around the countryside, I notice a lot of leaves already starting to turn. Fall is a beautiful time of year, but it goes by much too quickly. I’d like to spread fall out so it lasts as long as winter does here in the upper Midwest. However, that’s about as likely as Brett Favre retiring for good and not un-retiring when training camp is over. As my friend, David Giffey, would say, “But that’s another story.”

Fall triggers memories of harvesting crops and helping Ma bring in vegetables from the garden, back when I was young. By the time the Hunter’s Moon was hung in the sky, the tobacco crop, hanging in the shed, was slowly curing and turning brown.

Silo filling was the next great adventure. When I was young, Dad didn’t have his own chopper, wagons, and silo unloader. He hired a farmer who had the equipment and went from farm to farm, doing the harvesting.

It was always an exciting time when they arrived with the silo unloader and started running the pipes up into the silo. We were usually in school when silo filling took place, but got to help out when we got home. I got to drive the John Deere B or 50 and hauled wagons from the field to the silo. Then helped unload the wagons by pulling the silage from the back end of the wagon into the unloader. An auger would push the silage into the blower and it would shoot up the pipe into the silo with a rattling sound. It was a dangerous job and you had to be careful not to get your clothes caught in the auger. That could lead to a quick amputation of a limb. Many farmers are missing an arm or a leg because of silo filling accidents.

When I think of silo filling. I can still smell the sweet scent of the silage. There’s something about smells that conjure up all kinds of memories associated with that smell. The smell of silage brings back memories of silo-filling, throwing down the silage in the middle of winter, and finally that sickening smell from the fermented silage in the bottom of the silo at the end of the year. I bet those same smells come drifting back from your memory bank as you read this.

This time of year was also canning time for Ma and Grandma Inga. They put up a wide variety of vegetables and fruits in Mason jars. The sealed jars sat on shelves in the cool cellar until it was time to retrieve them and bring the rewards from the summer garden, upstairs to enjoy in the dead of winter. It also helped remind us that there was a world beyond all the snow and cold weather that surrounded and imprisoned us. When I went down in the cellar a couple years ago to look around, there were still unopened jars filled with vegetables that Ma had gathered together and canned many years ago. She’s been gone for seventeen years now. Those cans were filled many years ago, while she was still healthy.

I can picture her working and slaving over the hot stove, preparing the food for canning. Like so many guys, I never paid much attention to the canning process, but I know it was a lot of work. I just reaped the benefits of all her hard work. Unfortunately, I never thanked her for all she did to keep her family fed. Each fall when harvest and canning time comes around, I’m reminded of my taking those things for granted. Now when I see those old Mason jars sitting on the rotting shelves in the cellar, they aren’t just jars of food. They carry the imprint of the caring, skillful hands of Ma as she prepared and carried them down the cellar steps so her family would never go hungry.

Yes, the images and smells of fall certainly bring back memories for all of us. The birds are flocking together in preparation for their trip to warmer climates for the winter. We’ve seen power lines full of birds. When they take to the air, it’s like a black cloud. I always wonder how they keep from having mid-air collisions. I also heard a flock of geese flying overhead. I’ve said many times that I consider it one of the great sights and sounds of nature.

Along with the Hunter’s Moon will come the sound of gunfire and smell of gunpowder in the air. Fall certainly brings out the hunter/gatherer in man as we store up food and meat for the long winter ahead. Most city inhabitants do their hunting and gathering in big supermarkets. Many rural people still do their hunting and gathering just like their ancestors did, and their ancestors before them.

The world and attitudes are quickly changing as we go from a rural to an urban society. But out here in the countryside, you still find people gathering a bountiful harvest from their gardens and preparing their equipment for the upcoming hunt. Hunters and gatherers… they’re still a part of life.

The Dog Days of Autumn

Across the Fence #253

A friend recently asked, “How come you’ve never written about dogs?” “Perfect timing,” I said. “We’re dog-sitting this week for our daughter, Amy, and Tim’s dog.

Welcome to the world of Sweeney, a rambunctious, nine month old, loveable bundle of energy, German Shepherd/Collie mix. They adopted Sweeney at the Milwaukee Humane Society when she was three months old.

She’s been having fun exploring and running around the fields near our house. She’s used to country air and long walks because Amy and Tim take her on walks almost every day.

I’m a dog lover and I love to see dogs able to roam and explore the world, and interact with people around them. When you include a dog in your daily activities, give them attention and love, they’ll return that love to you. You can be gone for an hour and when you return, your dog greets you like you’ve been gone for a month. What other creature will greet you with such enthusiasm every time they see you?

I hate to see dogs penned up or chained day and night. That would be like being in prison for me. Dogs aren’t meant to be imprisoned like a criminal. That’s for someone who’s done something wrong.

One of the papers where Across the Fence runs is the Standard-Gazette in Fairfax, Minnesota. Another of their columnists is Suzy Wurtz. I think she said it best in a column she wrote entitled “Dog Days,” about a barking dog she was contending with. Suzy said, “ Your dog’s barking bothers people daily. Your dog does not get enough human interaction and does not get enough exercise. He is confined to a kennel or a leash (chain) for long periods. He may not have enough food, water, or shade as well. Your dog is lonely, bored, frustrated, and not well trained. Naturally your dog barks. I would bark too!”

She goes on to say, “If you don’t exercise your dogs daily, spend some time with them each day, and just keep them chained or penned up all the time, you shouldn’t own a dog.”

I agree with everything Suzy said. Dogs, especially large dogs, hunting dogs, are not meant to be confined and imprisoned all the time. If we did that to a fellow human being we’d be hauled off to jail for cruel and inhuman treatment. Unfortunately, a lot of dogs do suffer that fate.

If I was one of those dogs, I’d rather you take me out and euthanize me or just shoot me. That would be the more humane thing to do. The only alternative is to howl and bark constantly, and hope someone hears you and comes to your rescue. Dogs like to be free just like we do.

The dog days of summer and autumn that I remember on the farm, were ones where our dogs were always with us. A dog loves to be included in the action. On the farm, our dogs helped get the cows from the pasture, and were always around at milking time. They rode on the hay wagons with us, in the back of the pickup, and even on the tractor. They laid beside us in the shade of the maple tree, and followed us when we got up and returned to work. They didn’t bark constantly, but they did bark when someone came to the house. That’s what a good watchdog does. If they kept barking, we’d make them be quiet and not disturb all the neighbors. People need to have respect for their neighbors. This is especially true for dog owners.

When we lived in Madison we had a Sheltie for eleven years when the kids were young. Toby was a wonderful dog and an important part of our family. He loved to run. Madison had a leash law and you were supposed to have your dog on a leash at all times. When we went for walks and runs, I carried the leash along, but never had to use it. He was well-trained, or maybe he was just smart and let me think I had trained him. When I said, “Stop,” he stopped and waited until I said, “Go.” Then he’d take off and run again. He loved the interaction with our family. We also trained him not to bark all the time and disturb our neighbors when he was out in the yard. If that had happened, I have no doubt the police would have been frequent visitors at our home. I can’t imagine us ever chaining him up or confining him in a pen with no human contact except at feeding time. That would have been cruel. When Toby died from cancer, it was like losing a member of our family.

Anyone who’s ever owned a dog knows how smart they are. Dogs seem almost human at times. Sometimes I think they’re smarter than a lot of people. Sweeney’s a smart dog and often seems to know what you’re saying. Amy and Tim have done a good job of training Sweeney and giving her love and affection. She returns that love and affection back to them.

During these Dog Days of Autumn, do your dogs a favor. Treat them the same way you would want to be treated if the roles were reversed. It’s the humane thing to do. Your dog will love you for it.

The County Fair, A Magical Place

Across the Fence #252

There’s nothing like a county fair for sights, sounds, and smells. When you mix them all together, they make for a magical, enjoyable time for children of all ages. Whether you’re five or one hundred and five, the county fair is a special place for everyone.

This week is the Vernon County Fair. It’s always the last fair of the season in Wisconsin. When I was young, we always attended the fair. We were members of the Seas Branch Smithies 4-H Club, and when I was in high school I was in the FFA. Every year I showed dairy cattle and hogs. The fair was the culmination of all the work we put into our projects. It was a fun and exciting time.

After I left the farm, I was seldom around during the fair. When our kids were young, we took them to the Vernon County Fair a couple of times. Somehow, the fair, and especially the midway, seemed a lot smaller than it was when I was young. But there was still a magical quality about it.

Now I’m back to spending every day at the fair again. I don’t show cattle any more, but I’m at our company’s booth in the co-op building ten hours a day. I don’t spend all the time at our booth talking business. I still take time to enjoy the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes, especially the tastes. By the time the midway is shut down for another year and the last cow is on a truck headed home, I’ll probably have eaten at every food stand more than once. I’ll have sampled Hub’s Fries, fried cheese curds, hamburgers, cheeseburgers, Bar-B-Qs, baked potatoes with chili or pork, and several kinds of pie–some with ice cream. Uff da, it’s a tough job eating fair food for five days! I should probably have my cholesterol levels checked after fair week is over.

One thing that’s as scarce as hen’s teeth at the fair is decaf coffee. If any food stand is serving decaf, let me know. A friend tells me, “If you’re not going to drink real coffee, why bother drinking it at all.” He has a point. There’s no caffeine kick in decaf! But that’s another story.

I also like to walk through the barns and watch some of the cattle judging. It brings back memories of when I showed cattle. I like to watch how the kids show off their animals. A good showman can make an average animal look better than a fine animal in the hands of a poor showman. An award I’m proud of is the top showmanship award I received one year at the fair.

After showing our cattle, we were able to take more time to explore the other aspects of the fair. I wasn’t much for the rides. The tilt-a-whirl was enough excitement for this old midway warrior. It was best enjoyed when in the company of a girl you wanted to get to know better. Sharing the ride with a bunch of your guy friends just wasn’t the same. The fair was the one time of year when you could get up the nerve to ask a girl to accompany you on a ride, without feeling like you were going to throw up. That part came after going in too many circles on a ride, or upside down. That wasn’t the way to impress a girl! In our defense, I should note that the rides usually followed eating too much fair food. Large amounts of fair food and wild, midway rides just don’t mix.

At least now I don’t have to worry about going on the rides. I can just concentrate on eating my way from one side of the fair to the other.

While I’m doing that, it’s also fun to stroll down the lane in front of all the carny barkers and hear them trying to entice people to play their game and win a prize. I mentioned earlier that this is the last fair of the year, and many of the carny people look like they can hardly wait to pack up and head south for the winter. I imagine it’s been a long, hard season for them. It doesn’t help that it’s often cold or wet during a Mid-September fair.

I often wonder how these people got involved in following the midway from one fair or festival to the next. Maybe it’s the writer in me, but I want to know their story. I’ve seen some of these same people at the fair for many years. Maybe this is the year when I’ll strike up a conversation with some of them and find out their story. Everyone has one. I think I’d find some interesting and fascinating life stories around the midway. I’ll probably have to play a few games first, in order to start a conversation. If you see me walking around with a teddy bear under my arm, you’ll know what I’ve been up to.

I love observing people at the fair. I think we older generations are in search of the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes that live in our memories from earlier fairs. This year we’ll add some new ones. County fairs are one of the remaining staples of rural America. It’s a melting pot of the past, present, and future. Experience it and enjoy it!

Back To School Transitions

Across the Fence #251

It's back to school time, that transitional period that signals the end of summer and the beginning of the fall season. It’s also a transition between elementary and middle school, middle school and high school, and high school and college. Baseball season is winding down and football season is hitting full stride, although all the sports seem to overlap and go on forever these days. The birds are starting to flock together for the trip south and the wildflowers are losing their beauty. Soon the trees will be turning, as they transition from green to a full palette of fall colors.

Those transitions from one chapter of our life to the next, especially where school is concerned, can be both exciting and scary. I attended a one-room school as most of you know, and that eliminated a few of the transitions that city kids and the present generation of students have to go through. We didn’t worry about going from one grade to the next, where we’d have a new teacher and many new students. All our grades were taught in that one room and we knew everyone in school. Of course, when there were only twenty students in all eight grades, it was much easier knowing everyone. The only new students were the first graders. If a new family moved to a farm in the school district, we might get some new students, but they generally came in the spring when farmers would move from one farm to another.

I was lucky. We moved to a new farm when I was around ten years old. It was less than a mile away and I didn’t have to change schools. It must have been tough for students who had to leave old friends behind and go to a new school. I think of Margaret, Janice, Howard, and Anita Lee, who moved to our school district in the spring. Margaret and Janice joined Donna Gilbertson and me in seventh grade. That must have been hard for them. To their credit, they quickly fit in and we’re still friends.

In country schools, one teacher taught all eight grades. If you were lucky, the teacher might stay for several years. Then when you advanced to the next grade, you didn’t worry about who the new teacher would be. On the flip side, if you didn’t like the teacher, you were in for another long year. Fortunately, we had some wonderful teachers at Smith School while I was there. I have great memories of those eight years.

High school is another story. That wasn’t the best time of my life. One of my classmates, Monte Nelson, and I were talking about our high school experiences recently. Monte said, “High school was the worse 12 years of my life!” I can relate to that. It didn’t help that I was a shy, farm boy, and then broke my leg in football when I was a freshman. That put a real limp in those four years, or 12 years as Monte said. That broken leg, the ripped muscles, and the ankle that was torn out of the socket, pretty much put an end to high school sports for me. My ankle still goes out more than I do!

Those transitions were nothing compared to heading off to the big city of Madison and the University of Wisconsin. Talk about feeling like a fish out of water. Despite all the transitions we go through, we manage to survive and move on to the next chapter of our life.

When we were in school we never realized the pain our parents went through as we entered each new chapter. I discovered all those feelings when our children, Erik and Amy, started each new chapter. Before we knew it, they were graduating from high school and heading off to college. That was a big transition for them and also for us. I wrote the following in 1993 after we moved our daughter, Amy, into her dorm room at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater, and headed home to an empty nest.

When Did You Grow So Old?

“I stand in the door leading to the empty room. The boom box is silent now, no music fills the air. When did you grow so old? Wasn’t it only yesterday I carried you, just minutes old from delivery to the nursery, so small and helpless, every need dependent on us. Crawling, sitting up, standing on wobbly legs, first steps, first words, first tooth… so many firsts. Soon all the new things you learned became routine. Before we knew it, there was nursery school, then kindergarten. First grade, quickly became fifth. Middle school was a whole new adventure. Three quick years and the high school years began. Sweet sixteen and a license to drive. When did you grow so old? High school passed so quickly, and graduation was here. The road to a new adventure stretched out before you. And now you’ve begun the journey. That’s why I stand in the doorway leading to your empty room. You left for college today, and we went home without you. Things will never be the same. When did you grow so old?”

I think everyone can relate to those words. Each year at this time, the back to school transition opens new chapters in the lives of children, and for parents too.

Tobacco Worm Mystery

Across the Fence #250

Where have all the tobacco worms gone? We need some answers to this mystery. I guess that question could use a little explanation.

As the end of August nears and a new school year approaches, my thoughts wander back to the days when tobacco was king in this area. As I drove by the cornfield west of the farm buildings, I remembered the days when it was covered with large tobacco plants waiting to be harvested, instead of corn. Those days are now but a memory for all the old tobacco farmers around Vernon County. This used to be one of the largest tobacco producing counties in Wisconsin. Last year saw the end of those days when only a few acres were grown. This year there are no tobacco fields waiting to be harvested.

By late August, if the growing season had been a good one, plants with large green leaves, without any tears or holes, stood waiting to be cut down, piled, speared, and hauled to the tobacco shed where it would be hung for curing.

I mentioned leaves without tears or holes. If there had been windstorms or hail, the leaves could become torn, shredded, or full of holes. Depending on the severity of the storm, it could quickly destroy a tobacco crop and render all that hard work for naught. It would have to be disked down because no tobacco buyer would want it. That could spell financial disaster because tobacco was the cash crop that paid the taxes and many other expenses. It also paid off the mortgages on many farms.

Another enemy of tobacco was the tobacco worm. It was a large, dark green, nasty-looking worm with a horn protruding from the back end. Some places referred to them as tobacco hornworms. They could grow up to four inches in length and be as thick as your thumb, especially if they’d been feasting away on your tobacco leaves. They could cost a farmer hundreds, even thousands, of dollars in lost revenue if they weren’t controlled.

We would watch for worms as we topped tobacco. Topping is where we broke off the smaller, top portion of each plant so the main leaves would get bigger and you’d have a better crop. You could easily tell when a plant had been chewed on by a tobacco worm. When we came across the signs of destruction we checked the leaves and the culprit was usually still there, inflicted with a serious case of the munchies. If there was no worm, you could usually find him on a neighboring plant.

This is the point where things got interesting. If you didn’t like picking up a squishy, squirming, green worm, you could try knocking it off the leaf and then stomping on it. But they could be hard to dislodge as they clung to the leaf with all their little feet. My preferred method of disposing of them was to grab them around the middle of their body and pull them off the leaf. Then as they struggled back and forth between my fingers, I’d throw them down on the ground as hard as I could. They would explode in a sea of green tobacco juice. We usually kept score to see who ended up with the most tobacco worm splats.

If you did a good job of disposing of them while topping, it saved a lot of tobacco. Some years the worms were worse than others and Dad would have us walk through the tobacco looking for them. When you raised ten to twelve acres, that’s a lot of looking. As an incentive he gave us a penny for every worm we found. We carried a glass mason jar to drop the worms into. When the jars were full we’d empty them out so Dad could count them. Then we scooped them back in and filled the jars with water. I know it sounds cruel, but this was all a part of life on the farm. You needed to destroy the insects and worms that could ruin a crop and cause financial disaster for farmers.

Sometimes we’d have a hundred worms or more in our jars. I know a penny doesn’t sound like much now, but back then you could buy a lot of ice cream cones at five cents for a single dip and ten cents for a double dip cone. A dollar was a lot of money to us.

Now, back to the mystery. I think we can all agree that fields filled with tobacco plants have gone the way of Passenger Pigeons, at least in most parts of Wisconsin. Other crops now grow in those fields that were home to thousands of tobacco worms. We tried to kill them all, but it never worked. Every year they were back in force. Now that their main food source has disappeared, have tobacco worms disappeared too? I haven’t seen one in many years. Maybe they all packed their bags and headed south where tobacco is still grown. It’s just like people moving on or starving when all the jobs dry up in an area. Or, maybe tobacco worms have acquired a taste for other plants for dinner. But if that’s the case, we can no longer refer to them as tobacco worms.

Yup, it’s quite a mystery to ponder on a late summer afternoon.

Listen To the Voices In the Wind

Across the Fence #249

There’s a therapeutic quality to the wind, a soothing sound that can calm a weary mind. I’m sitting on our deck as evening begins to descend and envelop me. It’s been a hot, humid day that zaps your energy and slows you down.

But now as darkness slowly creeps across the landscape, the wind, a cooling wind, has arrived. It feels good. It feels refreshing. It lifts my spirits.

I’m not one who spends a lot of time sitting and watching television. I’d rather be living life, and watching and listening to the life taking place around me in the natural world. I took a walk along the fence line and listened to the wind in the tall grass swaying in the breeze. As I came to a grove of trees the sounds changed. I closed my eyes and listened to all the sounds around me, trying to distinguish the many subtle differences. The wind rustling the leaves in the poplar tree has a different sound than a maple or an evergreen.

As I stood and listened, I was reminded of a scene in the movie, “Dances With Wolves,” where the wind is blowing through the trees and tall grass as they talk about how many white men will be coming. I thought of how much this land I was standing on had changed since 1848 when the first white man set foot on this area called Coon Prairie. At that time, this land was covered with trees and tall prairie grass waving in the breeze. The Ho Chunk occupied the land. One of their villages was located a mile from where our house is. That area became known as Old Towne.

Even Olson Gullord, the first white man to explore this area, staked a claim to land southeast of our house, near where Smith School would later be located. I can see that spot from where I sit as I write this. So many changes have taken place since those days.

I wonder what the natives who occupied this land thought, as more and more white men arrived and started cutting down trees and building houses on the land they called home and had been home to their ancestors for many centuries?

How would I feel and what would I do today, if people suddenly arrived and began occupying our land, cutting down trees, building houses, and acting like they could do whatever they wanted with the area that’s now my home. This area has been home to my ancestors since the 1850’s. I know I’d try to stop intruders from moving in and pushing me off the land, even if I had to resort to taking up arms against them.

Those thoughts and images blew in with the wind today and rattled around in my mind.

Listening to the wind also made me think of Chief Joseph’s words, “The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of the pond, the smell of the wind itself cleansed by a midday rain, or scented with pinion pines…” I can certainly relate to those words.

As I observed the world around me, four hawks flew lazy circles in the field behind our house. Wings outstretched, they floated and circled effortlessly, like spirits returning from the distant past to a land long gone, but not forgotten. When I see birds gliding around like that, hovering on invisible shafts of air, I wish that I could fly. Such freedom. Such beauty.

I experienced more of the beauty of the land when we were in Woodville over the weekend for Uff da Days and a book signing at Lena and Ole’s Gifts, owned by Julie and Lane Backus. Julie is my cousin. On Sunday morning, Lane and I explored their seventy acres of rolling hills, wild flowers, woods, and pond on a two-mile path he’s made around the property. Wild flowers of all kinds were in full bloom and the trees were filled with colorful berries and fruit. There were some that neither of us could identify. We came to a wild patch of black caps and stopped to pick and eat some. The thorny vines tried to keep us out, but when those delicious berries were ripe for the picking, nothing could stop us.

The fields were filled with birds, and turtles cooled themselves in the pond. I’ve never seen as many Humming Birds as we saw that day at their feeders. We watched as wasps busily built a home in the ground. The sunlight allowed us to peer into the bottom of the foot-deep hole and watch as each wasp dug a mouthful of dirt, crawled back out of the hole, flew away, and deposited it elsewhere. We listened to the many sounds of nature around us, and of course, enjoyed the wind blowing gently through the wild flowers and leaves of the trees. There was such quiet and peacefulness. This was nature’s cathedral, as magnificent as any man-made cathedral you could enter. Stained glass windows can’t hold a candle to it.

This is a wonderful time of year in the Midwest. The trees and fields are alive with fruits, berries, and wildflowers. Don’t miss the sights, sounds, and smells. Go for a drive or walk in the country and be sure you listen for the voices of the wind.

Boscobel Remembers Ben Logan

Across the Fence #248

Saturday, August 8th, 2009, was a special day. It was a day to recognize and honor Ben Logan, one of Wisconsin’s most popular authors.

The event, held at the historic Boscobel Hotel in Boscobel, Wisconsin, was conceived and organized by James Schneider of Gotham, Wisconsin. He stopped by my office one day last winter and asked if I would take part in the tribute and be one of the Wisconsin writers who would read from his book, The Land Remembers. I’ve mentioned in previous columns that it’s one of my favorite books. I have a copy of all the editions that have been printed; the first edition hard cover, the small paperback, the soft covers, the 25th anniversary edition, and even the collector’s edition with photos book. Needless to say, I was honored to be a part of Ben’s day.

At 89 years of age, Ben now lives in Viroqua instead of in the isolated farmhouse where he grew up on Seldom Seen Ridge between Gays Mills and Mount Sterling, Wisconsin. That’s been a tough transition for an independent individual like Mr. Logan.

On Saturday morning, I picked Ben up and we drove to Boscobel. The storm that had gone through the area earlier in the morning was retreating ahead of us. The colors of the hills around us were brilliant. We remarked about the many shades of green with the dark storm clouds as a background. It was a perfect setting for writers. Ben related how when he was young, his mother would have him look up at the sky above him and then slowly bring his eyes down to the horizon. She wanted him to observe how the colors changed as he looked at the different areas of the sky.

We talked about his mother, who died when he was young. Since he was the youngest child he worked more with her than his older brothers. She had a four-year college degree in teaching, which was unusual in those days. Even though she didn’t teach in a school after she was married and had children, she did a lot of teaching to her children. Mr. Logan is still filled with curiosity about the world around him, something he learned from his mother. It has served him well as a writer.

Ben said that he recently found an old essay he had written about Aldo Leopold. When Ben was a student in Ag Journalism at the University of Wisconsin, Leopold was one of his teachers and mentors. Ben said that he and Leopold often butted heads. He didn’t think that emotion should enter into writing and Ben liked to bring emotions into his work. Another of his teachers, English professor Rachel Salisbury, dared Ben to be even more emotional in his stories. Ben said he was very surprised when Sand County Almanac was published and Leopold had put emotion into his writing. Years later, when Ben was talking with one of Leopold’s daughters, she said she was also surprised to see the emotion in her father’s writing. Ben told her, “Maybe I taught him something too!”

Over the years, since we became friends, Ben and I have had many conversations about writing and life. The more we talk, the more parallels we find in our lives. As we drove along we both remarked about wanting to know the story behind every road name. There are so many interesting ones. He said, “I’m always searching and looking for answers. Curiosity is essential to be a good writer.” Then he quoted Robert Frost’s poem, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, “I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.” I was surprised to hear that line and told him that’s always been one of my favorite lines too.

The trip to Boscobel and back while visiting with Ben, was very enjoyable. The event at Boscobel was also great. I was the first reader, and read a couple of excerpts. The first one was about hearing the corn grow. I even admitted having tried to hear it growing after reading that chapter the first time. However I couldn’t hear anything. I suggested that perhaps a person needed to be much younger to hear it growing. But, who knows, maybe I’ll try it again this evening! The other story was about the changes in fall, bringing in the stove, and putting up the stovepipes. Anyone who’s experienced setting up an old stove and the pipes, knows what an exasperating time that can be.

Ben read the intro and last chapter of his book. It’s always special to hear him read the intro to The Land Remembers. There were many tears in the audience as he read the last chapter about planting the garden the spring after his mother died. In the discussion that followed, he talked about how important his mother had been to the family.

Boscobel Remembers Ben Logan was a fitting tribute for a man who has brought so much enjoyment to so many people. It was a wonderful day for him as he visited with his fans and signed their books. There’s something very special about The Land Remembers and the gentle man who wrote it. His story about farm and family life has touched the hearts of many people. It was very evident on Ben Logan’s special day.