Spring Fever Comes Knocking

Across the Fence #284

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bill, Willie, and Joe

Across the Fence #283

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Calling All Smith School Alumni

Across the Fence #282

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exploring Rock Shelters and Caves

Across the Fence #281

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Very Special "Long Friday"

Across the Fence #280

I've written before about the Good Friday we spent in Norway, but thought this story was very appropriate for this week.

Our trip to Norway in 1999, included Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday weekends, or Paske, as it’s called in Norwegian. We attended the Palm Sunday service at Salemkirken in Oslo where our relatives Per and Esther Søetorp were members.

On Good Friday, or Long Friday as it’s called in Norway, we attended the service at the Lund Lutheran Church in Moi, where all my Østrem and Sherpe ancestors had been members. Our relatives, Arne Olav and Vivi Østrem, and Vivi’s parents attended the service with us. We appreciated them accompanying us to the service. They knew it would be a special experience for me because of my ancestral connection. Per and Esther were taking part in services at the Pentecostal Church in Moi, while we were at the Lund Church.

The alter painting was the first thing Linda and I noticed when we sat down. It was the same painting as the one in the Country Coon Prairie Lutheran Church in Westby. It’s a copy of the one in the Oslo Trinity Church painted by Adolf Tidemand showing the baptism of Christ. Many people from the Moi area settled around Westby and my ancestors helped start the Coon Prairie Church. I imagine they wanted something familiar from their church in Norway and had Norwegian emigrant artist, Herbjorn Gausta, paint a copy for the Coon Prairie Church.

As we sat there, I looked around at the alter, the baptismal font, and pews, and thought of all my ancestors who had worshiped in this same church. They were baptized, confirmed, and married here, and many funerals were conducted here for them. It was the one place that was central to the lives of all the Sherpe’s and Østrem’s who lived around Moi before immigrating to America. They had spent time here during both happy and sad occasions, and probably sat through some long-winded, fire and brimstone sermons too!

The Long Friday service included a communion service where everyone went and kneeled at the alter rail. I watched how others took the offering of wafer and wine. It was the same way we did communion at the Coon Prairie Lutheran Church in Westby when I was young. As I knelt at the rail, I thought, “This is the same place where my Sherpe and Østrem ancestors once knelt for communion.” That made it very special for me.

The service lasted about an hour and a half and of course was in Norwegian, so Linda and I were rather lost most of the time! Jeg snakker ikke Norske! (I don’t speak Norwegian!)

After the service, they had arranged for a member of the church to show us around and explain the history of the Lund Church. It was first mentioned in 1429. There’s an old burial vault under the church where several clergy members and their families are buried. Twenty-four coffins lie in the vaults under the church. They’re from the 1600’s and 1700’s and the coffins are well preserved. I couldn’t help but wonder if some were my ancestors, since at least one was the minister of this church in the 1600’s during the funeral when Hothead Sven got into trouble.

A model ship hung from the ceiling in the center of the church. This is quite common in Norway and symbolic of the ship of life. In 1877 a wood stove was installed. It must have been cold sitting through a winter service before that time. Perhaps the fiery sermons added enough heat to keep everyone a bit warm!

After our tour and history lesson, we went outside and I wandered off through the cemetery to look at tombstones. It was a beautiful, sunny day and the view was magnificent as I looked toward Lundevatnet (Lund Lake), at the far end of the cemetery, with the mountains in the background. In the days of the Vikings, my ancestors pulled their long ships onto boat landings on the shore where the church now stands. Two, large Viking burial mounds are nearby.

I was walking among the bones of my ancestors and relatives, probably hundreds of them. However, there were no tombstones with their names on them. As is the practice in Norway, after a hundred years the tombstones are removed and the graves reused, if no perpetual care has been arranged. Below the newer coffins, with new headstones of newer generations, lie the remains of many ancestors. The wood coffins have long since deteriorated. It’s not like today where we use vaults to hold expensive coffins. It would be hard to piggy-back them!

As I came back around a tall hedge at the front of the church, everyone had disappeared. They had also taken a stroll through the cemetery and I didn’t see them because they were in another part, looking at the resting place of Arne Olav’s father.

Just then I saw Per and Esther coming up the path toward the church to meet us. I asked if they had seen where the others had gone. Per smiled and answered in a booming voice, “Why do you seek the living among the dead!?” It was a very powerful and appropriate statement on a very special “Long Friday.”

March Madness and Observations

Across the Fence #279

When many people think of March they think of high school basketball playoffs and the college “Big Dance.” There’s a madness in all of that, but March is also a time that can drive us mad as we yearn for spring, but winter doesn’t want to end its long stay.

March came in like a lamb this year. By the time you read this, we’ll know if the lion is getting ready to make an appearance as March makes an exit. After the beautiful spring weather we had today, I’m ready to put away my skis, snowshoes, and snowblower and start tuning up the bike and lawnmower.

March is that transitional month when we’ve got to be ready for anything. March is what guys referred to as a tease in the dating game. Just when you were getting your hopes up and you thought spring was just around the corner, you got a cold blast of winter to cool you off again. That’s March.

We just endured a week of heavy fog and rain. The sun was nowhere to be found. It was case weather without any tobacco to take down. That kind of weather does have a way of beating your spirit down after a while. I can understand how some people suffer from depression when sunshine takes an extended vacation.

That’s March; cool, drab, and dirty… the month of transition. As the snow retreats into the safety of the wooded, northern slopes, it exposes what the snow had hidden from our sight for the past several months. As I was out walking today, the ditches were filled with more than running water. Pop cans, beer cans and bottles, water bottles, crumpled up McDonald’s bags and cups, and animal carcasses in various stages of decomposition. The animals I can understand. They didn’t look both ways before crossing the road and it was lights out. All the discarded cans, bottles, and paper bags is another story. It’s maddening. Littering is just lazy and thoughtless behavior on the part of a few people, but it sure makes a mess.

Winter throws a blanket of snow over all the accumulated junk around the countryside that becomes exposed like an unmade bed with the arrival of March. Our lawn is littered with sticks, clumps of grass, and small rocks. They seem to arrive each spring, like a rabbit out of an empty hat. They weren’t there in the fall.

Another thing the melting snow exposed on our lawn was a network of tunnels in the dried grass, created by little rodents, most likely voles and mice. It was certainly a safe and comfortable place for them under the snow in their little shelters, out of the wind and cold. Now that March has arrived, their tunnel systems stand exposed and unused. I wonder where they’re living now?

The birds are starting to return. I saw and heard my first flock of geese heading north. That’s always a welcome sight. A huge flock of Starlings and Red-winged Blackbirds also visited our back yard this week. There were several hundred birds in it and they all rose together, like a black cloud, each time something frightened them. I’ve yet to spot my first Robin of the spring, but other people say they’ve seen them. We always have Mourning Doves in the winter, but during the last week, up to fourteen have been feeding on the ground under our feeder at one time.

The melting snow has created a small stream in the little valley behind our house and filled the pond. Now I’ll keep track of how long it is before the pond is empty again. It held water all year round before, but now it seems to disappear into the ground. I suspect our pond has turned into a sinkhole. The area around here is cratered with sinkholes. That concerns me when it comes to manure runoff that could get down into our water table.

Seeing the water running, brought back memories of my younger days when playing in the water from melting snow was a March ritual. We made channels through the snow and mud so the water could run freely. We also got very wet and muddy, but never seemed to mind back then. What strange force attracts young kids and dogs to puddles of water and makes them stomp through them? It must be part of the March madness.

Another thing that’s a bit maddening in March is getting adjusted to Daylight Savings Time and trying to remember how to change all the clocks. I especially have trouble with my wristwatch. I lost the directions a long time ago. Another thing, how did we end up with so many clocks? There should be no excuse for anyone to ever be late to an appointment. When Ole first heard about Daylight Savings time he said, “Only a government official would believe you could cut a foot off the top of a blanket, sew it to the bottom, and have a longer blanket!” I think Ole’s right on that one. Ya, it’s March madness all right.

March, those sunny, water running, muddy, bird’s singing, uplifting, short sleeve, sixty-degree temperature days, followed by foggy, rainy, depressing, sleet-filled, wet, slushy, snowy days when the winter jackets come out of the closet again. It’s madness… it’s March.

Making Your Ancestors Come alive

Across the Fence #278

Sven ran his calloused, thick fingers slowly 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 now 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 to 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 it was light and it would all be over.

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.

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. He wished he could undo the events that had brought him to this moment, but there was no going back.

Sven Pedersen Skåland was my 10th generation great grandfather. Sven lived during the 1600s so I have no idea what he looked like or what he was thinking. Thanks to my longtime interest in genealogy I have many accounts about his life from history records in Norway. During our visit to Norway several years ago, I found out more about him from relatives, and visited the log jail where he was held before being executed.

The new TV program called “Who Do You Think You Are?” generated these thoughts about ancestry, and where we’ve come from. It follows celebrities as they discover their ancestry and roots. If you’re interested in your family history, this show is for you. If you aren’t, it might peak your curiosity to see what you’ll discover in your family tree.

I’ve been lucky enough to trace our family back to the Viking Age in Norway. I’ve also discovered many relatives here and in Norway through genealogy research. I find it sad when people can’t even tell me the names of their great grandparents. I once read, “In 100 years, most of our direct descendents won’t even remember our name.” After discovering how many people couldn’t name their great grandparents, I realized there’s a lot of truth in that statement.

That’s why it’s important for me to find my ancestors. I don’t want them to be forgotten. At least I’ll leave a record of their existence after I’m gone, in case anyone else is interested in our family’s roots. After all, I owe my being here to them, even those ancestors that many people don’t want to find, or include, in their family tree.

Sven Pedersen Skåland is one of those. He was known as “Hothead Sven.” I found why after researching his life. He had a quick temper that got him into trouble on several occasions. The first part of this column is the intro from a historical fiction story I’m writing about Sven. He killed two people in disputes over land. The first time he got off with a self-defense plea, but lost his farm. The second time, in 1639, he got into an argument and stabbed a man to death during a funeral. Sven was defending his younger brother, who had been thrown off a farm by the man so one of his nephews could live there. Sven’s hot temper got the best of him. Brynild, the man Sven killed, is also one of my 10th generation great grandparents. He’ll never make sainthood either. Brynild got into a fight with a man at a Christmas party and killed him, but got off on self-defense.

Sven wasn’t as lucky. He was arrested on the spot by the sheriff, another of my 10th generation great grandfathers, and was thrown into the jail we visited. He was found guilty and sentenced to death. Our relative, who showed us the jail, said Sven was pulled apart by horses. What a horrible way to die. The 1600s were tough and violent times.

That old jail, in Moi, Norway, has been preserved, right down to the simple cot, table, chair, and old handcuffs hanging on the wall. They put the handcuffs on my wrists, the same ones that once held Hothead Sven. I tried to imagine the thoughts that must have gone through his head on that morning of his execution. I took in every detail of that dark room. I knew there was a story I needed to tell about the life and death of this man, Hothead Sven, whose genes I carry. Even though they are dark genes, he’s part of me. Even those ancestors deserve to be remembered.