Across the Fence #353
Let’s take a trip back to the early 60’s… The 1960’s! Slip behind the wheel of your ’57 Chevy, crank the windows down, tune the radio to 890-AM on the dial, turn up the volume, shift into gear, pop the clutch, and we’re off for a night of cruisin’ and listenin’ fun.
It’s Saturday night, the chores are done, the cows have been milked, you took a spit bath to get some of the barn smell off, put on a clean shirt, pants, and shoes, and now it’s time to howl. In my case, that meant heading to Westby and stopping at the pool hall to see who was around. That was our meeting place on Saturday nights. After a couple games of pool, we headed out to see what kind of excitement or trouble we could find. That usually meant heading north to Lloyds’ in Cashton, also referred to by my folks as “the Snake Pit.” It was an 18-year-old beer bar. You could drink beer at 18 in Wisconsin in the 1960’s.
There actually was a lowered area at Lloyds’ where you could dance. I guess you could call that the snake pit. Saturday nights also had live, local bands playing the latest hits. I’ve always wondered why we call it “a live band,” as if a “dead band” would be playing. Although there was The Grateful Dead band, but they never made it to Lloyds’. I guess we could say it was live music as opposed to jukebox music.
I was returning home from Viroqua recently after televising baseball games. It was a beautiful summer night. The sky was filled with stars, and oldies music was playing on the car radio. It transported me back to those early 1960s nights. I didn’t have a car back then. I had to “borrow” the folk’s car if I wanted to go out, meaning any place off the farm. We usually had Chevy’s, except for a Pontiac Bonneville in the early 60’s.
AM radio was the standard in those days. I don’t remember if I knew what FM radio was. Whenever I went out at night, the radio was tuned to 890-AM, WLS in Chicago. That’s where you could listen to the Top 40 hits of the day. My favorite DJ was Dick Biondi, “The Wild Italian.” Another was Larry Lujack.
I spent many Saturday nights, cruisin’ the countryside and listenin’ to Dick Biondi. Does anyone remember him singing “On Top of a Pizza,” to the tune of On Top of Old Smokey? I used to know every word and we’d belt out the song, along with Biondi, as we cruised down the highway with the moonlight casting intriguing shadows on the countryside. There was a special magic to those times that still evokes good memories. “There’s A Moon Out Tonight” by the Capris, blasting on the radio, added to the magic of the moment. Who remembers “Dedicated To the One I Love,” and “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?” by the Shirelles. There’s also that song that eventually drove us crazy, “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor On the Bedpost Overnight?” There was “Crying” by Roy Orbison, and “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” by Ray Charles. We would also sing along with Dion as he sang “The Wanderer,” as we wandered around the back roads of Vernon County.
When I told Linda what I was writing about this week, she recalled how they would “cruise the gut” in Platteville. Main Street was a one-way street and cars would slowly cruise down the street side by side, with all the windows rolled down, as they talked back and forth until they reached the end of the street. Then they drove around and back to the top of Main and did it all over again. I suspect carloads of girls were talking to boys cruising in the other cars. We couldn’t cruise the streets of Westby side by side or we’d have been stopped and ticketed for driving on the wrong side of the highway. We just cruised over to Cashton to see what girls might be looking for a dancing partner at Lloyd’s or at Danceland between Cashton and Ontario.
I won’t go into details of our exploits or who my cruising buddies were on those Saturday night adventures, both to protect myself and my guilty friends! I’ll just say that it made it a bit awkward if one of us connected with a girl we’d like to take home, when there were three or four other guys riding in the same car. I guess we all could have driven separately, but who wants to cruise around alone?
Sometimes our night ended up like the song by The Angels, “My Boyfriend’s Back, and you’re gonna’ be in trouble!” If you asked the wrong girl to dance, a boyfriend might suddenly show up, and as the lyrics go, “So look out now cause he’s comin’ after you. Hey-la-day-la, my boyfriend’s back.” Then it was time to “Turn Me Loose” and “Hit the Road Jack.” You could always wave and say, “Save the Last Dance for Me,” as you became a “Travelin’ Man,” and cruised back to Westby with WLS radio blasting and Elvis asking, “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Sam Cooke would chime in with, “Another Saturday Night and I Ain’t Got Nobody!” But we kept on hoping and searching for that “One Fine Day,” the Chiffons sang about.
*
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Life Is Full of Surprises
Across the Fence #352
You never know when someone from your past will suddenly enter your life again.
This past week, the National American Legion - Central Plains Region Baseball Tournament was held for four days in Viroqua, Wisconsin. Part of my responsibilities at Vernon Communications is supervising our community channels. We did live telecasts of all 14 games. That included a couple of 16-hour days when it was hot and humid. It seems like we’ve had that same kind of weather for many weeks now.
Our television control booth was located upstairs in the press box at the ball field. The tin roof added to the accumulated heat. To say we were perspiring is a bit of an understatement. I was sweating. Perhaps this is more information than you need, but one day I went through a large coffee in the morning to start the day. I have Norwegian blood, you know, and it’s never too hot for coffee. I also downed two bottles of water, two large Gatorades, and a large bottle of iced tea, and never had to go to the bathroom during the day. That shows how important it is to keep drinking fluids on a hot day to stay hydrated.
The televised games were also streamed over the Internet on Ustream, where people all over the country could watch the games. We even had an e-mail from someone watching in Hawaii. People in Pahrump, Nevada, were watching the games on a large screen at a local store. They were thrilled to be able to watch their sons, grandsons, and friends play in a national tournament. For three days, food arrived at noon for everyone in the press box, compliments of the fans in Nevada who were able to watch the games. It made all the work and long hours seem worth the effort when we heard from appreciative people all over the country.
But the highlight of the games occurred for me on the first day. After the introduction of players before each game, a veteran was introduced and read the Athlete’s Code of Sportsmanship. These are all American Legion sponsored teams. I had been asked to read the code at the third game of the tournament, between Richland Center, Wisconsin and Eden Valley-Watkins, Minnesota. In the introduction, Pete Swanson, the tournament director, announced who you were, when you were in service, where you served, and what unit you served in.
When 4th Infantry and Vietnam were mentioned, I heard someone in the stands, shout, “4th Infantry!” As I came off the field, a man was there to meet me. He smiled at me and said, “Do you remember me?” I looked at him, but had no clue, and had to admit it. “Herb Willner,” he said. “Holy s…” were the first words out of my mouth. It had been 44 years since we had seen each other and that was in Vietnam.
Herb was drafted out of Minnesota the same time that I was drafted. We were sworn in together in Minneapolis, went through the reception station at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri together, and were in the same basic training company in Fort Lewis, Washington. We then went to Vietnam together with the 4th Infantry Division. And now, 44 years later, we met up again in the most unlikely place. If I hadn’t read the code at the game that Eden Valley-Watkins was playing in, we’d never have connected. Herb’s grandson was a pitcher on the team, and Herb’s whole family was at the tournament.
Needless to say, neither of us looks like the lean, mean, fighting machine we were 44 years ago. When we went to Vietnam we both weighed around 175 pounds. I was 135 pounds when I came home a year later. Herb also came home a lot lighter. We both weigh a “bit” more these days! Is it any wonder that he didn’t recognize me either, until my name and unit were announced?
During the four-day tournament, we were able to reconnect as we visited between games. I’ve said it before, the phrase “Band of Brothers,” is so true when describing those of us who shared the experience of war. There’s a special bond that can’t be broken. It’s a shame that most of us never kept in contact after we came home. I guess we just wanted to put the whole experience behind us and try to forget about it.
Now after all these years, as several of us have reconnected, we find that a strong bond of friendship is still there. I called Larry Skolos, who lives near Viroqua, and he came to the ballpark to reconnect with Herb too. We’re just “three old vets” who, once upon a time, spent two “interesting years” together, sharing a common experience.
I have to admit that I was pulling for Eden Valley-Watkins, the Minnesota state champion, to win, after they beat Viroqua, our local host team, in a 3-2 thriller. Herb’s grandson won the game he pitched, and their team went undefeated in the tournament, defeating the Nevada state champion in the national championship game.
Life is full of surprises. 46 years ago we entered each other’s lives, and now 44 years after last seeing each other, we’ve reconnected. Now we’re even Facebook friends. Life never ceases to amaze me.
*
You never know when someone from your past will suddenly enter your life again.
This past week, the National American Legion - Central Plains Region Baseball Tournament was held for four days in Viroqua, Wisconsin. Part of my responsibilities at Vernon Communications is supervising our community channels. We did live telecasts of all 14 games. That included a couple of 16-hour days when it was hot and humid. It seems like we’ve had that same kind of weather for many weeks now.
Our television control booth was located upstairs in the press box at the ball field. The tin roof added to the accumulated heat. To say we were perspiring is a bit of an understatement. I was sweating. Perhaps this is more information than you need, but one day I went through a large coffee in the morning to start the day. I have Norwegian blood, you know, and it’s never too hot for coffee. I also downed two bottles of water, two large Gatorades, and a large bottle of iced tea, and never had to go to the bathroom during the day. That shows how important it is to keep drinking fluids on a hot day to stay hydrated.
The televised games were also streamed over the Internet on Ustream, where people all over the country could watch the games. We even had an e-mail from someone watching in Hawaii. People in Pahrump, Nevada, were watching the games on a large screen at a local store. They were thrilled to be able to watch their sons, grandsons, and friends play in a national tournament. For three days, food arrived at noon for everyone in the press box, compliments of the fans in Nevada who were able to watch the games. It made all the work and long hours seem worth the effort when we heard from appreciative people all over the country.
But the highlight of the games occurred for me on the first day. After the introduction of players before each game, a veteran was introduced and read the Athlete’s Code of Sportsmanship. These are all American Legion sponsored teams. I had been asked to read the code at the third game of the tournament, between Richland Center, Wisconsin and Eden Valley-Watkins, Minnesota. In the introduction, Pete Swanson, the tournament director, announced who you were, when you were in service, where you served, and what unit you served in.
When 4th Infantry and Vietnam were mentioned, I heard someone in the stands, shout, “4th Infantry!” As I came off the field, a man was there to meet me. He smiled at me and said, “Do you remember me?” I looked at him, but had no clue, and had to admit it. “Herb Willner,” he said. “Holy s…” were the first words out of my mouth. It had been 44 years since we had seen each other and that was in Vietnam.
Herb was drafted out of Minnesota the same time that I was drafted. We were sworn in together in Minneapolis, went through the reception station at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri together, and were in the same basic training company in Fort Lewis, Washington. We then went to Vietnam together with the 4th Infantry Division. And now, 44 years later, we met up again in the most unlikely place. If I hadn’t read the code at the game that Eden Valley-Watkins was playing in, we’d never have connected. Herb’s grandson was a pitcher on the team, and Herb’s whole family was at the tournament.
Needless to say, neither of us looks like the lean, mean, fighting machine we were 44 years ago. When we went to Vietnam we both weighed around 175 pounds. I was 135 pounds when I came home a year later. Herb also came home a lot lighter. We both weigh a “bit” more these days! Is it any wonder that he didn’t recognize me either, until my name and unit were announced?
During the four-day tournament, we were able to reconnect as we visited between games. I’ve said it before, the phrase “Band of Brothers,” is so true when describing those of us who shared the experience of war. There’s a special bond that can’t be broken. It’s a shame that most of us never kept in contact after we came home. I guess we just wanted to put the whole experience behind us and try to forget about it.
Now after all these years, as several of us have reconnected, we find that a strong bond of friendship is still there. I called Larry Skolos, who lives near Viroqua, and he came to the ballpark to reconnect with Herb too. We’re just “three old vets” who, once upon a time, spent two “interesting years” together, sharing a common experience.
I have to admit that I was pulling for Eden Valley-Watkins, the Minnesota state champion, to win, after they beat Viroqua, our local host team, in a 3-2 thriller. Herb’s grandson won the game he pitched, and their team went undefeated in the tournament, defeating the Nevada state champion in the national championship game.
Life is full of surprises. 46 years ago we entered each other’s lives, and now 44 years after last seeing each other, we’ve reconnected. Now we’re even Facebook friends. Life never ceases to amaze me.
*
Saturday, August 6, 2011
What A Tangled Web We Grow
Across the Fence #351
I come from a long line of farmers. My father, grandfathers, great grandfathers, and many generations that reach back to the Viking age in Norway were farmers. From my genealogy research, it appears the vast majority of my ancestors farmed the land. That’s a lot of DNA dirt under my fingernails. Is it any wonder that I feel an irresistible urge to dig in the dirt and try to make things grow?
Times have changed and today there are fewer farmers. I’ve become one of the many offspring who no longer follow the farming tradition that we grew up in. Fortunately, my brother, Arden, has continued the tradition and has the home farm. Chances are, he could be the last Sherpe, in a long, unbroken line, who knows what it’s like to plant and harvest a crop, and milk a cow.
I can’t call myself a farmer, but I’m still planting and harvesting. I have a garden. It helps keep some dirt under my fingernails. It’s not a big garden. Actually, it’s quite small as gardens go, but I still call it a garden. My mother had a huge garden when I was young. The rows were long and straight. She had a wide variety of vegetables and very few weeds in her garden. We got to help her plant and keep the weeds out.
She must be looking at my garden from the Spirit World and shaking her head in pity. My garden isn’t exactly a thing of beauty. Truth be told, it’s down right ugly. On the bright side, it’s such a tangled web of interwoven vines that even the animals and birds can’t find anything to pilfer.
The problem is that it’s a very small garden with way too much stuff, planted too close together. Ma’s garden was so large that Dad used our John Deere B tractor and pulled a disk and drag to prepare the soil for planting. My garden’s not that big.
I like to call myself frugal, but Linda claims I’m cheap. I know I should have rented a rototiller for half a day, but decided I could prepare the ground with a shovel and rake. I also told myself that I could use the exercise. It was a lot of digging and the size of garden I had in my mind, kept getting smaller the longer I dug. I eventually ran out of gas and decided I’d just plant shorter rows and put them closer together. In the end, I should have rented that rototiller, but I was too cheap. Ok, there I said it! I’m cheap.
After beating and raking the big lumps of dirt into little lumps, I planted sugar snap peas, green beans, cucumbers, radishes, onions, tomatoes, beets, and this year decided to try raising some pumpkins too. Not a good idea in a small garden. Those of you who know about gardens probably took note that many of the things I planted have vines that spread out.
My garden has turned into a battlefield as all the clinging, spreading, climbing vines attack each other. It’s become a tangled, green web that would be the envy of any spider. On the positive side again, it’s even strangled the life out of most of the weeds. Although, some very hardy thistles have managed to survive and come back every year, no matter how hard I try beating them into submission.
Despite the pitiful appearance of the garden, it’s actually producing. The problem is to untangle all the clinging vines and leaves in order to find the peas, beans, and cucumbers. When I planted the seeds, I wondered if pumpkins would grow in that area. I can now report that they’re thriving and spreading. If I get a pumpkin for every blossom, I’ll need to set up a stand down by the highway and sell pumpkins this fall. I’ll keep you posted on how they develop.
I didn’t plant any sunflowers this year, but there in the center of all the tangled mess, rising toward the sky, is a sunflower, produced from a fallen seed. It’s always surprising to see what springs forth from those tiny seeds. There’s also a sunflower growing next to the cornfield near our driveway. Probably a seed carried by a bird and dropped there last fall. Now it stands tall and colorful in all its glory. Many seeds we plant in our gardens never germinate under the best of conditions, and yet these wayward seeds took root on their own and produced sunflowers. I’m continually amazed by the life cycle of plants.
I guess that’s what brings out the farmer in all of us who attempt growing gardens filled with plants and vegetables. It’s always fun to watch those small seeds emerge and develop… in my case, into a tangled mess. Even if it’s not a thing of beauty to look at, there’s still something special about producing your own food. Those radish sandwiches taste so much better when you know they grew from seeds you planted and were nourished by some of the dirt under your fingernails.
I can’t break the chain of tradition, practiced by my long line of ancestral farmers. My contribution is only a small plot of land, with a tangled, unsightly, web of vines and veggies, but I still call it “my garden.”
I come from a long line of farmers. My father, grandfathers, great grandfathers, and many generations that reach back to the Viking age in Norway were farmers. From my genealogy research, it appears the vast majority of my ancestors farmed the land. That’s a lot of DNA dirt under my fingernails. Is it any wonder that I feel an irresistible urge to dig in the dirt and try to make things grow?
Times have changed and today there are fewer farmers. I’ve become one of the many offspring who no longer follow the farming tradition that we grew up in. Fortunately, my brother, Arden, has continued the tradition and has the home farm. Chances are, he could be the last Sherpe, in a long, unbroken line, who knows what it’s like to plant and harvest a crop, and milk a cow.
I can’t call myself a farmer, but I’m still planting and harvesting. I have a garden. It helps keep some dirt under my fingernails. It’s not a big garden. Actually, it’s quite small as gardens go, but I still call it a garden. My mother had a huge garden when I was young. The rows were long and straight. She had a wide variety of vegetables and very few weeds in her garden. We got to help her plant and keep the weeds out.
She must be looking at my garden from the Spirit World and shaking her head in pity. My garden isn’t exactly a thing of beauty. Truth be told, it’s down right ugly. On the bright side, it’s such a tangled web of interwoven vines that even the animals and birds can’t find anything to pilfer.
The problem is that it’s a very small garden with way too much stuff, planted too close together. Ma’s garden was so large that Dad used our John Deere B tractor and pulled a disk and drag to prepare the soil for planting. My garden’s not that big.
I like to call myself frugal, but Linda claims I’m cheap. I know I should have rented a rototiller for half a day, but decided I could prepare the ground with a shovel and rake. I also told myself that I could use the exercise. It was a lot of digging and the size of garden I had in my mind, kept getting smaller the longer I dug. I eventually ran out of gas and decided I’d just plant shorter rows and put them closer together. In the end, I should have rented that rototiller, but I was too cheap. Ok, there I said it! I’m cheap.
After beating and raking the big lumps of dirt into little lumps, I planted sugar snap peas, green beans, cucumbers, radishes, onions, tomatoes, beets, and this year decided to try raising some pumpkins too. Not a good idea in a small garden. Those of you who know about gardens probably took note that many of the things I planted have vines that spread out.
My garden has turned into a battlefield as all the clinging, spreading, climbing vines attack each other. It’s become a tangled, green web that would be the envy of any spider. On the positive side again, it’s even strangled the life out of most of the weeds. Although, some very hardy thistles have managed to survive and come back every year, no matter how hard I try beating them into submission.
Despite the pitiful appearance of the garden, it’s actually producing. The problem is to untangle all the clinging vines and leaves in order to find the peas, beans, and cucumbers. When I planted the seeds, I wondered if pumpkins would grow in that area. I can now report that they’re thriving and spreading. If I get a pumpkin for every blossom, I’ll need to set up a stand down by the highway and sell pumpkins this fall. I’ll keep you posted on how they develop.
I didn’t plant any sunflowers this year, but there in the center of all the tangled mess, rising toward the sky, is a sunflower, produced from a fallen seed. It’s always surprising to see what springs forth from those tiny seeds. There’s also a sunflower growing next to the cornfield near our driveway. Probably a seed carried by a bird and dropped there last fall. Now it stands tall and colorful in all its glory. Many seeds we plant in our gardens never germinate under the best of conditions, and yet these wayward seeds took root on their own and produced sunflowers. I’m continually amazed by the life cycle of plants.
I guess that’s what brings out the farmer in all of us who attempt growing gardens filled with plants and vegetables. It’s always fun to watch those small seeds emerge and develop… in my case, into a tangled mess. Even if it’s not a thing of beauty to look at, there’s still something special about producing your own food. Those radish sandwiches taste so much better when you know they grew from seeds you planted and were nourished by some of the dirt under your fingernails.
I can’t break the chain of tradition, practiced by my long line of ancestral farmers. My contribution is only a small plot of land, with a tangled, unsightly, web of vines and veggies, but I still call it “my garden.”
Saturday, July 30, 2011
The Dark Side of Humanity
Across the Fence #350
This past week, a bomb, bullets, and a deranged mind, brought death, destruction, and shock to the people of Norway. Peaceful Norway, where gun violence is almost unheard of, where most policemen don’t carry guns, will never be the same. The people of Norway have now been touched by the violence that is so prevalent in the rest of the world.
Anders Behring Bleivik, a 32 year old, native Norwegian, has admitted that he carried out both attacks that killed, at latest count, 76 people.
Breivik described his bombing of an Oslo government building and his shooting spree at a youth camp, run by Norway's Labor Party, as “atrocious” but “necessary” in his crusade against liberal immigration policies and the spread of Islam.
This sounds all too much like one of the most famous quotes to come out of the Vietnam War. “We had to destroy the village in order to save it.” It was attributed to an officer referring to the decision to bomb and shell the village of Ben Tre in 1968, in order to rout the Viet Cong from the village. They were willing to destroy the village and sacrifice civilian casualties in order to kill the enemy.
In both cases, many lives were lost and altered due to twisted thinking and differing ideologies. Both situations involved the killing of innocent people.
The teenagers who were at the camp and survived, will never see life in the same light again. Man’s inhumanity to man has once again shown its dark side. It reminded me of something I wrote while still in Vietnam back in 1966. These same words can apply to the young people in Norway who underwent the horror of that day and the killing of their friends.
This is what I wrote:
It doesn’t take long to age a boy in Vietnam. Young, in both age and spirit, we arrived in this war-torn land, full of the ideals and bright dreams of youth. Life has been good. There have been more flowers than thorns along our path.
We have a child’s confidence that all will be well, and as the fairy tales always end, “They lived happily ever after.”
Suddenly young bodies and hearts are thrown into war. Death stalks among us, plucking at random, the life and spirit from a chosen few, leaving the rest saddened, bewildered and frightened. You see bodies torn and ripped apart, voices that only a short time ago had been filled with hope and joy, now scream in pain. Others will be silent forever.
Rain pours. Mud envelopes the land. Mud that seems to reach out and pull your feet out from under you, that captures you and pulls you in. You struggle, you fall in the mud. Bullets fly and you try to bury yourself in the mud. You crawl through the mud and filth. This mud of war seems to cover everything, your eyes, your mouth, even your mind.
Where only a few short weeks ago a young boy full of hopes and dreams stood; now a dirty, bedraggled old man crawls on his belly through the mud. His hopes have turned to fear and frustration, his dreams to nightmares, his joy to sorrow, light has turned to dark, and life will never be the same for him again.
Survival is all that matters now. Life has lost its sense and meaning. The youthful zest is gone, replaced by sobering thoughts. Life has been stripped of the many centuries of civilizing and we are thrust again into the evolution of our past, and I see man as the animal he is, simply fighting to survive. It’s when this stage is reached, that men are changed and will never see things in the same light again.
I’m no longer the same person that arrived such a short time ago. It doesn’t take long to age a boy in Vietnam!
Those words were written a long time ago, but history keeps repeating itself and the dark side of humanity keeps raising its ugly head. Wars and killings, too often fought over religious and political differences, continue to cause death, pain, and suffering, for people around the world. I keep hoping that things will change, but it seems that everything is becoming more polarized all the time. A case in point, our own political parties and their differences.
I try to look for something positive in every situation, and try to keep “Across the Fence” positive too. I’ve agonized over even running this story, but there is a positive note.
My relative, Jon Olav Andersen, is the editor of the newspapers in Toten and Gjovik, Norway. He wrote to let us know that he and his family were safe. He said, “We are safe, but all are affected.” A classmate of his 18-year-old daughter was killed and another one escaped unharmed. He said a young Norwegian girl who survived the killings on the island said, “If one man full of hate can do so much, think what an entire nation full of love can do.”
I will leave you with that positive comment from her. Our hope for the future rests with the younger generation, if they can develop an attitude like she expressed. Perhaps they can show the rest of us the road to a more peaceful world.
This past week, a bomb, bullets, and a deranged mind, brought death, destruction, and shock to the people of Norway. Peaceful Norway, where gun violence is almost unheard of, where most policemen don’t carry guns, will never be the same. The people of Norway have now been touched by the violence that is so prevalent in the rest of the world.
Anders Behring Bleivik, a 32 year old, native Norwegian, has admitted that he carried out both attacks that killed, at latest count, 76 people.
Breivik described his bombing of an Oslo government building and his shooting spree at a youth camp, run by Norway's Labor Party, as “atrocious” but “necessary” in his crusade against liberal immigration policies and the spread of Islam.
This sounds all too much like one of the most famous quotes to come out of the Vietnam War. “We had to destroy the village in order to save it.” It was attributed to an officer referring to the decision to bomb and shell the village of Ben Tre in 1968, in order to rout the Viet Cong from the village. They were willing to destroy the village and sacrifice civilian casualties in order to kill the enemy.
In both cases, many lives were lost and altered due to twisted thinking and differing ideologies. Both situations involved the killing of innocent people.
The teenagers who were at the camp and survived, will never see life in the same light again. Man’s inhumanity to man has once again shown its dark side. It reminded me of something I wrote while still in Vietnam back in 1966. These same words can apply to the young people in Norway who underwent the horror of that day and the killing of their friends.
This is what I wrote:
It doesn’t take long to age a boy in Vietnam. Young, in both age and spirit, we arrived in this war-torn land, full of the ideals and bright dreams of youth. Life has been good. There have been more flowers than thorns along our path.
We have a child’s confidence that all will be well, and as the fairy tales always end, “They lived happily ever after.”
Suddenly young bodies and hearts are thrown into war. Death stalks among us, plucking at random, the life and spirit from a chosen few, leaving the rest saddened, bewildered and frightened. You see bodies torn and ripped apart, voices that only a short time ago had been filled with hope and joy, now scream in pain. Others will be silent forever.
Rain pours. Mud envelopes the land. Mud that seems to reach out and pull your feet out from under you, that captures you and pulls you in. You struggle, you fall in the mud. Bullets fly and you try to bury yourself in the mud. You crawl through the mud and filth. This mud of war seems to cover everything, your eyes, your mouth, even your mind.
Where only a few short weeks ago a young boy full of hopes and dreams stood; now a dirty, bedraggled old man crawls on his belly through the mud. His hopes have turned to fear and frustration, his dreams to nightmares, his joy to sorrow, light has turned to dark, and life will never be the same for him again.
Survival is all that matters now. Life has lost its sense and meaning. The youthful zest is gone, replaced by sobering thoughts. Life has been stripped of the many centuries of civilizing and we are thrust again into the evolution of our past, and I see man as the animal he is, simply fighting to survive. It’s when this stage is reached, that men are changed and will never see things in the same light again.
I’m no longer the same person that arrived such a short time ago. It doesn’t take long to age a boy in Vietnam!
Those words were written a long time ago, but history keeps repeating itself and the dark side of humanity keeps raising its ugly head. Wars and killings, too often fought over religious and political differences, continue to cause death, pain, and suffering, for people around the world. I keep hoping that things will change, but it seems that everything is becoming more polarized all the time. A case in point, our own political parties and their differences.
I try to look for something positive in every situation, and try to keep “Across the Fence” positive too. I’ve agonized over even running this story, but there is a positive note.
My relative, Jon Olav Andersen, is the editor of the newspapers in Toten and Gjovik, Norway. He wrote to let us know that he and his family were safe. He said, “We are safe, but all are affected.” A classmate of his 18-year-old daughter was killed and another one escaped unharmed. He said a young Norwegian girl who survived the killings on the island said, “If one man full of hate can do so much, think what an entire nation full of love can do.”
I will leave you with that positive comment from her. Our hope for the future rests with the younger generation, if they can develop an attitude like she expressed. Perhaps they can show the rest of us the road to a more peaceful world.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
A Dark and Stormy Night
Across the Fence #349
It was a dark and stormy night. I’ve always wanted to start a story with that line. Even Snoopy used it in the Peanuts comic strip when he was writing stories, sitting on top of his doghouse.
I’ve talked about darkness before, but it’s usually been associated with a story about looking at the stars at night. Unless you’ve looked at a night sky in the country, you’ve never really experienced the majesty and beauty of the universe. It’s a sight I’ll never get tired of seeing. When the stars and moon are shining, it may be dark, but I never feel like the darkness is oppressive or gloomy. It’s just the opposite; it’s uplifting.
Darkness is defined by Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary as “The absence of light; blackness; obscurity; gloom.”
I’ve experienced darkness in the country too, when clouds obscure the moon and stars. One summer night I decided to go for a walk on our road. It was really dark; like walking in a tunnel with no light at the end. Our road is straight, but as I walked slowly, I couldn’t tell where the road was and the ditches began. It was a very strange experience. It was definitely a dark night, but it wasn’t stormy.
The only lights in the country are from neighboring farms. Even most of those lights were either out or not visible from where I walked that night. I became so disoriented in the dark, I had to feel with my foot to see if I was about to step into the ditch. I could no longer tell which direction I was heading. I finally had to give up trying to walk and turned back toward our house where I could see lights in the windows.
I heard a quote that went something like this: “There’s not enough darkness in the world to put out the light of even one small candle.” I sure could have used a candle or a small flashlight that night.
I’ve got to admit, I like the darkness found in the country at night. The fewer lights the better, because the night sky then comes alive. I’m not a big fan of those yard lights that turn on automatically when it gets dark. There’s enough light pollution without them. Most evenings we can see the glow on the southern horizon from the lights in Viroqua. But that’s nothing compared to the lights around Madison when we lived there. In order to get a good view of the stars and universe we had to drive several miles into the country. We could never walk outside as we do now; look all around us and go “Wow, look at all the stars!”
Actually, we’ve had some dark and stormy nights this summer. That’s also awe-inspiring. Nature is impressive if you take time to observe and drink it all in. Lightning lights up the sky, revealing the massive storm clouds rolling across the prairie. A couple nights it seemed like there was constant lightning as it illuminated the towering cumulonimbus clouds in the distance, that seemed to reach for the stars.
It reminded me of the days of my youth when my cousin, Sandy, and I used to sit and look at the clouds. When we saw a hole in the clouds we thought we were looking into Heaven. If the bright sun suddenly shined through that hole, we thought we had caught a glimpse of God. When lightning flashed and the sound of thunder rolled across the heavens, we thought that God was angry about something we’d done. We often got into trouble together so we probably had a few things to feel guilty about. Those images and the fears we had, were instilled in us as young kids.
In my lifetime so much of that thinking has now changed, as we’ve gained more information about the universe. Now we know that we’re inhabitants on a tiny, blue dot in a universe too large for the human mind to comprehend. It stretches far beyond those holes in the clouds we used to peer through. I’m fascinated with the photos the Hubble telescope has taken of the universe. I’ve always had a curiosity to know what’s out there and keep an open mind to all the possibilities as new worlds are discovered. I’ve also adjusted my thinking to reflect our expanding knowledge and what we now know about life and the universe. My Heaven behind the clouds thinking is long gone.
It’s been said that character, like a photograph, develops in darkness. The same is true of the world around us. It only comes into focus when we allow it to develop. Then we begin to see the picture come to life. In art school we learned how to develop photos. As I stood in the dark, peering into the tray, the photo began to take shape. I was always fascinated by the process. At first the developing images didn’t make sense. Then more pieces began filling in and eventually the picture came to life. I’m still in the developing process of my thinking. Pieces are still filling in as I discover and learn more about life and the world around us.
And it all came into focus one dark and stormy night. Thanks to Alice in Arizona, for the genesis of this story.
It was a dark and stormy night. I’ve always wanted to start a story with that line. Even Snoopy used it in the Peanuts comic strip when he was writing stories, sitting on top of his doghouse.
I’ve talked about darkness before, but it’s usually been associated with a story about looking at the stars at night. Unless you’ve looked at a night sky in the country, you’ve never really experienced the majesty and beauty of the universe. It’s a sight I’ll never get tired of seeing. When the stars and moon are shining, it may be dark, but I never feel like the darkness is oppressive or gloomy. It’s just the opposite; it’s uplifting.
Darkness is defined by Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary as “The absence of light; blackness; obscurity; gloom.”
I’ve experienced darkness in the country too, when clouds obscure the moon and stars. One summer night I decided to go for a walk on our road. It was really dark; like walking in a tunnel with no light at the end. Our road is straight, but as I walked slowly, I couldn’t tell where the road was and the ditches began. It was a very strange experience. It was definitely a dark night, but it wasn’t stormy.
The only lights in the country are from neighboring farms. Even most of those lights were either out or not visible from where I walked that night. I became so disoriented in the dark, I had to feel with my foot to see if I was about to step into the ditch. I could no longer tell which direction I was heading. I finally had to give up trying to walk and turned back toward our house where I could see lights in the windows.
I heard a quote that went something like this: “There’s not enough darkness in the world to put out the light of even one small candle.” I sure could have used a candle or a small flashlight that night.
I’ve got to admit, I like the darkness found in the country at night. The fewer lights the better, because the night sky then comes alive. I’m not a big fan of those yard lights that turn on automatically when it gets dark. There’s enough light pollution without them. Most evenings we can see the glow on the southern horizon from the lights in Viroqua. But that’s nothing compared to the lights around Madison when we lived there. In order to get a good view of the stars and universe we had to drive several miles into the country. We could never walk outside as we do now; look all around us and go “Wow, look at all the stars!”
Actually, we’ve had some dark and stormy nights this summer. That’s also awe-inspiring. Nature is impressive if you take time to observe and drink it all in. Lightning lights up the sky, revealing the massive storm clouds rolling across the prairie. A couple nights it seemed like there was constant lightning as it illuminated the towering cumulonimbus clouds in the distance, that seemed to reach for the stars.
It reminded me of the days of my youth when my cousin, Sandy, and I used to sit and look at the clouds. When we saw a hole in the clouds we thought we were looking into Heaven. If the bright sun suddenly shined through that hole, we thought we had caught a glimpse of God. When lightning flashed and the sound of thunder rolled across the heavens, we thought that God was angry about something we’d done. We often got into trouble together so we probably had a few things to feel guilty about. Those images and the fears we had, were instilled in us as young kids.
In my lifetime so much of that thinking has now changed, as we’ve gained more information about the universe. Now we know that we’re inhabitants on a tiny, blue dot in a universe too large for the human mind to comprehend. It stretches far beyond those holes in the clouds we used to peer through. I’m fascinated with the photos the Hubble telescope has taken of the universe. I’ve always had a curiosity to know what’s out there and keep an open mind to all the possibilities as new worlds are discovered. I’ve also adjusted my thinking to reflect our expanding knowledge and what we now know about life and the universe. My Heaven behind the clouds thinking is long gone.
It’s been said that character, like a photograph, develops in darkness. The same is true of the world around us. It only comes into focus when we allow it to develop. Then we begin to see the picture come to life. In art school we learned how to develop photos. As I stood in the dark, peering into the tray, the photo began to take shape. I was always fascinated by the process. At first the developing images didn’t make sense. Then more pieces began filling in and eventually the picture came to life. I’m still in the developing process of my thinking. Pieces are still filling in as I discover and learn more about life and the world around us.
And it all came into focus one dark and stormy night. Thanks to Alice in Arizona, for the genesis of this story.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Tobacco Fields Are Now History
Across the Fence #348
If you grew up on a farm that raised tobacco, you probably had a love-hate relationship with the crop. It was a lot of physical work and labor intensive. Everything seemed to be done by hand. Much of it was back breaking work. But there was also pride involved. You knew you’d been up to the task and survived the many physical challenges. Even now, I look back on those days with nostalgia. I can’t say that I felt that way when we were slaving away in the heat and humidity in a large tobacco field with no end in sight to the work at hand.
Thoughts of tobacco came to mind the other evening as we were driving some back roads. I realized that many of the fields we passed, used to be filled with tobacco plants instead of corn and other crops. Deteriorating, unused tobacco sheds still stand on many farms. The poles are still in place but haven’t seen a tobacco-filled lath for many years. The sheds stand waiting to feel useful again, but only death and destruction are in their future.
I can’t pass a tobacco shed without thinking of the life that used to go on within its walls. Those sheds remind me of all the work that had to be done before the tobacco was hung in the shed to cure.
It seemed like there was always a job for us kids to do when tobacco was involved. You didn’t have to be very old to hold a water hose and water the tobacco beds each day. We had several long beds, covered with a white, muslin cloth. When the plants were ready to transplant in the fields, we helped pick them and then two of us sat on the planter, row after long row, planting one plant at a time, while our father pulled the planter with our John Deere B. That was about as mechanized as anything got with growing tobacco.
Rainy days didn’t offer much relief from work either. As soon as the rain stopped we picked plants, put them in a pail we could carry, and headed for the fields to replant. We walked between two rows and looked for any plants that were missing or had died. Using a pointed wooden stick, we made a hole, inserted the plant, and filled the wet soil in around it. I wonder whatever happened to those replanting sticks we used? They were probably made from old broom or fork handles that were cut to about 6” long and sharpened to a point on one end. The other end was rounded so it didn’t hurt our palm as we pushed it into the ground.
Replanting involved a lot of walking and bending over, so it was a great chore for us youngsters. As many of you know, bending over gets harder as we get older. We often went barefoot in the wet, muddy soil. I can still feel the mud oozing between my toes. It was the only time we were allowed to go barefoot.
Hoeing tobacco came next. We hated hoeing. This was also another part of growing tobacco that was usually relegated to us kids. Dad would cut or rake hay while we spent hours chopping the weeds out from between each plant. One of the fields we had was huge and the rows were very long. It seemed like we’d be old men by the time we finished hoeing that field. I know we were very young when we started hoeing tobacco because my cousin Sandy and I were chopping at weeds when she dropped a big bombshell on me one day. She said there was no Santa Clause! Talk about a double whammy. There we were, child labor, slaving away in the hot tobacco field, and I’m told that Santa doesn’t exist. I don’t think I’ve ever been the same since that fateful day. I don’t remember how old I was, but I couldn’t have been very old if I still believed in Santa.
If we made a child that young work these days, we’d probably be hauled off to jail for child abuse. At that time it was standard operating procedure on every farm. Kids were expected to work, not just for a couple hours, but all day long. I believe it instilled a work ethic in farm kids that has served us well in whatever line of work we followed.
One subject I don’t hear discussed when talking about tobacco, is competitiveness. Just about every aspect of tobacco could develop into a race to show that you were the fastest. Think back to cutting tobacco. You were bent over for prolonged periods of time as you quickly grabbed each plant, bent it over, and with one swift swipe of the axe, chopped it off and laid it down. If you were fast enough, you had to stop every once in a while to let the person in front of you get ahead. You never wanted to hear that chopping sound behind you getting closer.
The same was true for piling and spearing tobacco. If someone else finished a pile faster than you did, you tried to speed up. You didn’t want to be the slowest one. It’s too bad they didn’t give out cash prizes for each event. That would have made the tobacco raising process much more interesting when we were young.
If you grew up on a farm that raised tobacco, you probably had a love-hate relationship with the crop. It was a lot of physical work and labor intensive. Everything seemed to be done by hand. Much of it was back breaking work. But there was also pride involved. You knew you’d been up to the task and survived the many physical challenges. Even now, I look back on those days with nostalgia. I can’t say that I felt that way when we were slaving away in the heat and humidity in a large tobacco field with no end in sight to the work at hand.
Thoughts of tobacco came to mind the other evening as we were driving some back roads. I realized that many of the fields we passed, used to be filled with tobacco plants instead of corn and other crops. Deteriorating, unused tobacco sheds still stand on many farms. The poles are still in place but haven’t seen a tobacco-filled lath for many years. The sheds stand waiting to feel useful again, but only death and destruction are in their future.
I can’t pass a tobacco shed without thinking of the life that used to go on within its walls. Those sheds remind me of all the work that had to be done before the tobacco was hung in the shed to cure.
It seemed like there was always a job for us kids to do when tobacco was involved. You didn’t have to be very old to hold a water hose and water the tobacco beds each day. We had several long beds, covered with a white, muslin cloth. When the plants were ready to transplant in the fields, we helped pick them and then two of us sat on the planter, row after long row, planting one plant at a time, while our father pulled the planter with our John Deere B. That was about as mechanized as anything got with growing tobacco.
Rainy days didn’t offer much relief from work either. As soon as the rain stopped we picked plants, put them in a pail we could carry, and headed for the fields to replant. We walked between two rows and looked for any plants that were missing or had died. Using a pointed wooden stick, we made a hole, inserted the plant, and filled the wet soil in around it. I wonder whatever happened to those replanting sticks we used? They were probably made from old broom or fork handles that were cut to about 6” long and sharpened to a point on one end. The other end was rounded so it didn’t hurt our palm as we pushed it into the ground.
Replanting involved a lot of walking and bending over, so it was a great chore for us youngsters. As many of you know, bending over gets harder as we get older. We often went barefoot in the wet, muddy soil. I can still feel the mud oozing between my toes. It was the only time we were allowed to go barefoot.
Hoeing tobacco came next. We hated hoeing. This was also another part of growing tobacco that was usually relegated to us kids. Dad would cut or rake hay while we spent hours chopping the weeds out from between each plant. One of the fields we had was huge and the rows were very long. It seemed like we’d be old men by the time we finished hoeing that field. I know we were very young when we started hoeing tobacco because my cousin Sandy and I were chopping at weeds when she dropped a big bombshell on me one day. She said there was no Santa Clause! Talk about a double whammy. There we were, child labor, slaving away in the hot tobacco field, and I’m told that Santa doesn’t exist. I don’t think I’ve ever been the same since that fateful day. I don’t remember how old I was, but I couldn’t have been very old if I still believed in Santa.
If we made a child that young work these days, we’d probably be hauled off to jail for child abuse. At that time it was standard operating procedure on every farm. Kids were expected to work, not just for a couple hours, but all day long. I believe it instilled a work ethic in farm kids that has served us well in whatever line of work we followed.
One subject I don’t hear discussed when talking about tobacco, is competitiveness. Just about every aspect of tobacco could develop into a race to show that you were the fastest. Think back to cutting tobacco. You were bent over for prolonged periods of time as you quickly grabbed each plant, bent it over, and with one swift swipe of the axe, chopped it off and laid it down. If you were fast enough, you had to stop every once in a while to let the person in front of you get ahead. You never wanted to hear that chopping sound behind you getting closer.
The same was true for piling and spearing tobacco. If someone else finished a pile faster than you did, you tried to speed up. You didn’t want to be the slowest one. It’s too bad they didn’t give out cash prizes for each event. That would have made the tobacco raising process much more interesting when we were young.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Horse Liniment and Bug Repellents
Across the Fence #347
I recently wrote about the pesky bug problem everyone is having this summer. It sure helps to talk across the fence, because I’m now “almost” bug-free. I’ve heard from several people and finally found a solution to what was bugging me.
The first response came from Paul Seeling, publisher and editor of the papers in Woodville and Spring Valley, Wisconsin. After he received my Across the Fence column for the coming week, he suggested I import some of their wonderful Spring Valley bats, because they do a wonderful job of keeping pesky bugs away. I’m not real fond of bats and figure it would take a small army of them to control the bug infestation around us. Sorry Paul, but I think I’d rather have bugs flying around my head than bats.
The first message that provided an answer came from Marilyn Brandel, copy editor at the Fairfax Standard-Gazette in Minnesota. After receiving my column, she wrote me with a solution. “If you’re still looking for something to ward off those pesky gnats, try Absorbine Jr. At least in this part of Minnesota it seems to be working.” She also told me that supplies had sold out in most stores in the area. For me, that was a good indication that it was either working, or it was a good marketing campaign by Absorbine Jr. to sell a lot of their product. It was worth a try. I was desperate.
After the bug problem story was printed, I heard from several people, and they all had the same solution, Absorbine Jr. By that time, I knew it worked, because I had purchased a bottle after getting Marilyn’s advice. As I mentioned earlier, this sharing of stories and ideas across the fence helps find solutions to problems.
I’d heard of it, but wasn’t very familiar with the product. I thought it was a liniment used on horses. When I looked it up on the Internet, I found out it was developed back in 1892 and called Absorbine Veterinary Liniment. It was used for treating lame and overworked horses. Sometimes I feel a bit stiff, lame, and overworked, so maybe we were heading down the right path, even though I’m not a horse.
It said that farmers soon realized it also relieved their own muscle pains. Probably while rubbing it on their horses, it also provided relief for their aching, arthritic hands. If it worked on their hands they probably rubbed it on other aching joints, and found the aches and pains were helped. Maybe all that liniment rubbed on their horses and their own bodies, kept the bugs away too. It mentioned that it was used for fly control. A double relief!
After word reached the owner of the company that farmers were rubbing horse liniment on their own bodies for pain relief, the company developed Absorbine Jr. for humans. It’s a natural blend of botanical extracts that provides temporary relief of muscle aches, pains, strains, backache and arthritis. It also soothes hot, tired, itchy feet and has antiseptic qualities to help prevent infections. Over the years, Absorbine Jr. has become so popular that today it’s in more homes in the nation than any other liquid pain reliever.
It may be a pain reliever in more ways than the company thought. Those pesky bugs had become a real pain in the “you know what,” and I found relief after applying liberal amounts to an old, dirty hat. I was my usual skeptical self at first, because nothing else had worked. I decided to go out and do some yard work using a regular, non-smelly hat first, to see how bad the bugs were. They were all happy to see me, and quickly formed a cloud around my head. They were as pesky as ever. Now for the real test, I went in the garage and donned my Absorbine Jr. hat. I was ready to go out and meet the enemy, and see if it would work.
At first the little buggers surrounded me again, but they quickly left. Occasionally a bug would do a fly-by, get a whiff of my new perfume, and depart for better-smelling places. It worked! Since that time, I always apply a fresh supply on my hat before working outside. It is rather fragrant, but at least it keeps the bugs off and even masks the smell of the liquid manure that was just spread on the cut hay fields around our house.
I should mention that I haven’t noticed any mosquito bites lately either. I think it’s keeping them away too. So for everyone who’s felt like a prisoner in their home this summer because you can’t stand all the pesky flies and gnats that harass you when you go outside, get yourself a bottle of Absorbine Jr. and venture forth to meet the enemy. It worked for me and I hope it will work for you. Thanks to Marilyn, Nathan, Howard, and all the others who told me about it. You’ve made my summer and outdoor adventures much more enjoyable.
I may even try rubbing it on my arthritic hips and other joints and see if it helps those pains too. If it doesn’t help the pain, at least I know I’ll be bug-free.
I recently wrote about the pesky bug problem everyone is having this summer. It sure helps to talk across the fence, because I’m now “almost” bug-free. I’ve heard from several people and finally found a solution to what was bugging me.
The first response came from Paul Seeling, publisher and editor of the papers in Woodville and Spring Valley, Wisconsin. After he received my Across the Fence column for the coming week, he suggested I import some of their wonderful Spring Valley bats, because they do a wonderful job of keeping pesky bugs away. I’m not real fond of bats and figure it would take a small army of them to control the bug infestation around us. Sorry Paul, but I think I’d rather have bugs flying around my head than bats.
The first message that provided an answer came from Marilyn Brandel, copy editor at the Fairfax Standard-Gazette in Minnesota. After receiving my column, she wrote me with a solution. “If you’re still looking for something to ward off those pesky gnats, try Absorbine Jr. At least in this part of Minnesota it seems to be working.” She also told me that supplies had sold out in most stores in the area. For me, that was a good indication that it was either working, or it was a good marketing campaign by Absorbine Jr. to sell a lot of their product. It was worth a try. I was desperate.
After the bug problem story was printed, I heard from several people, and they all had the same solution, Absorbine Jr. By that time, I knew it worked, because I had purchased a bottle after getting Marilyn’s advice. As I mentioned earlier, this sharing of stories and ideas across the fence helps find solutions to problems.
I’d heard of it, but wasn’t very familiar with the product. I thought it was a liniment used on horses. When I looked it up on the Internet, I found out it was developed back in 1892 and called Absorbine Veterinary Liniment. It was used for treating lame and overworked horses. Sometimes I feel a bit stiff, lame, and overworked, so maybe we were heading down the right path, even though I’m not a horse.
It said that farmers soon realized it also relieved their own muscle pains. Probably while rubbing it on their horses, it also provided relief for their aching, arthritic hands. If it worked on their hands they probably rubbed it on other aching joints, and found the aches and pains were helped. Maybe all that liniment rubbed on their horses and their own bodies, kept the bugs away too. It mentioned that it was used for fly control. A double relief!
After word reached the owner of the company that farmers were rubbing horse liniment on their own bodies for pain relief, the company developed Absorbine Jr. for humans. It’s a natural blend of botanical extracts that provides temporary relief of muscle aches, pains, strains, backache and arthritis. It also soothes hot, tired, itchy feet and has antiseptic qualities to help prevent infections. Over the years, Absorbine Jr. has become so popular that today it’s in more homes in the nation than any other liquid pain reliever.
It may be a pain reliever in more ways than the company thought. Those pesky bugs had become a real pain in the “you know what,” and I found relief after applying liberal amounts to an old, dirty hat. I was my usual skeptical self at first, because nothing else had worked. I decided to go out and do some yard work using a regular, non-smelly hat first, to see how bad the bugs were. They were all happy to see me, and quickly formed a cloud around my head. They were as pesky as ever. Now for the real test, I went in the garage and donned my Absorbine Jr. hat. I was ready to go out and meet the enemy, and see if it would work.
At first the little buggers surrounded me again, but they quickly left. Occasionally a bug would do a fly-by, get a whiff of my new perfume, and depart for better-smelling places. It worked! Since that time, I always apply a fresh supply on my hat before working outside. It is rather fragrant, but at least it keeps the bugs off and even masks the smell of the liquid manure that was just spread on the cut hay fields around our house.
I should mention that I haven’t noticed any mosquito bites lately either. I think it’s keeping them away too. So for everyone who’s felt like a prisoner in their home this summer because you can’t stand all the pesky flies and gnats that harass you when you go outside, get yourself a bottle of Absorbine Jr. and venture forth to meet the enemy. It worked for me and I hope it will work for you. Thanks to Marilyn, Nathan, Howard, and all the others who told me about it. You’ve made my summer and outdoor adventures much more enjoyable.
I may even try rubbing it on my arthritic hips and other joints and see if it helps those pains too. If it doesn’t help the pain, at least I know I’ll be bug-free.
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