Across the Fence #389
Does anyone go the speed limit anymore? A lot of speeding goes on between Westby and Viroqua on the new four-lane highway they built last summer. Germany has the Autobahn, but here in Norskie country we have what I call the Uff Da Bahn. The speed limit is 55, but woe to the person who tries to adhere to the lawful speed. You’ll have someone riding your bumper if they can’t get around you. I think 70 miles per hour is closer to the average speed.
I’ve discovered another interesting thing about the Uff Da Bahn. The D.O.T. had a little problem deciding the distance between Westby and Viroqua. According to the sign on the south side of Westby, it’s six miles to Viroqua. However if you’re going from Viroqua to Westby, it’s seven miles. I haven’t quite figured this out yet, but I’m working on it. I’ve always said that if I was going to be cast as one of the twelve disciples in a play, I’d have to be Doubting Thomas, because I’m always questioning things. So it’s just natural that I should be the one to question how far it really is between our communities.
We also have the new MUT (Multi-Use Trail) alongside the new highway. It’s important that people walking, running, and biking that trail know how far they’ve gone. They’re probably looking at their watches now and thinking they’re really making good time, however according to the signs, it should take them longer to go from Viroqua to Westby. I’ll tell you the reason why they’re making such good time.
I decided to use the speedometer in our car and check the mileage. First I drove from the Westby sign to the Viroqua sign. It wasn’t six miles. Then I drove from the Viroqua sign to the Westby sign. Well, it wasn’t seven miles to Westby either. I thought maybe the D.O.T. knew something I didn’t, but this mile discrepancy has me puzzled. After all, these are official traffic signs and we’re always supposed to go by what the signs tell us. My road test showed that the distance is only four and a half miles! At least my distance in both directions was the same and not a mile off. Now I was faced with a three-way discrepancy. I was really getting confused. I hope the road construction company didn’t charge the seven-mile rate for only four and a half miles of new road!
I used to run six miles almost every day. During my better days I could run at an 8 minute per mile pace. That means I could run six miles in 48 minutes. So if I had run from Westby to Viroqua it would have taken me 48 minutes, but it would have taken me 56 minutes to run back to Westby. Remember that’s seven miles, not six. However, since it’s really four and a half miles, I could have run the MUT along the Uff Da Bahn, and cut my time down to 36 minutes. Where was the D.O.T. with their mileage measurements back when I was trying to run faster?
Now that we know it’s only four and a half miles, people can slow down and not be in such a hurry, since the trip between towns is not six or seven miles like they thoughts. That should eliminate the speeding problem.
In defense of the D.O.T., maybe they’re still using the mileage from 50 years ago, before the curves and hills were straightened out. After all, we are dealing with a government agency headquartered in Madison. Maybe they should take a road trip up here and do a few measurements. Let’s hope they don’t charge us for mileage from Madison based on the same formula they used to measure the Uff Da Bahn.
All you readers who don’t live in the area, need to take a road trip, so you can say you’ve traveled on the Uff Da Bahn. While you’re at it, you might want to check out the mileage and see for yourself.
You know, all this talk about speed limits reminds me of retirement. “Oh boy,” you say, ”he’s been spending too much time on the Uff Da Bahn.” Anyway, my questioning mind has been contemplating the similarities. The speed limit on Interstate highways is 65. However, many people are doing 5 miles over the limit. So we’re talking around 70 miles an hour. Some people even go 3 miles under the limit¬, 62 miles an hour. Many people take the 55 highway, so they have more time to look around and enjoy the scenery.
It’s just like retirement and Social Security. You can quit at 65 and enjoy yourself and the scenery, or keep going until you hit 70 or beyond. Of course there’s always that chance that you might get stopped.
I guess it’s too late for me to go the 65 speed limit, or under it. By the time you read this, I’ll be cruising along at three miles over the 65 limit. That’s 68 for anyone that’s mathematically challenged. Hopefully I won’t get stopped for going too many miles over the speed limit. I’d like to coast for a while after I take my foot off the gas. Until then, it’s pedal to the metal. Uff Da Bahn, here I come.
*
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Lessons Learned On Birch Hill
Across the Fence #388
During my walk one weekend in early spring, I left the road and entered the tangled web of vines and brush that led to Birch Hill. I decided to hunt for any remnants of our old ski scaffold before the vegetation of summer made the area impassable. Even then it was a tangled mass of brush and thorns that tried to block my entrance to the past. It almost succeeded. The vines entangled me, the thorns drew blood, but I pushed on, and eventually gained entrance into the heart of Birch Hill.
I finally reached the top of the hill where we had built a rather crude ski jump scaffold around 55 years ago. I searched the area, now overgrown with trees and brush. Large trees also stood in the middle of our ski jumping hill. Trees can get very big after 50 years of growth. As I looked around, everything had changed. The memory that my mind holds of those winter days, skiing with Trygve and Joel Thompson, and my brother, David, is still there, but the physical past is long gone, replaced by the reality of new life and growth all around me as I stood where our ski jump was located. Not a trace of it remained. 55 years of decay had returned the wood to the earth. It was now providing nourishment to new growth.
I thought about the circle of life. Those boards we used to build our scaffold had come from trees. Now new trees grew where the decayed remains of those trees from 55 years ago are part of the soil. The circle of life continues.
The past lives only in my mind. Loren Eiseley said in the Immense Journey, “My memory holds the past, yet paradoxically knows, at the same time, that the past is gone and will never come again. It cherishes the dead faces and silenced voices, yes, and the lost evenings of childhood.”
Another memory of our days playing on Birch Hill also returned as I exited the thick brush. I remembered the great ant war that we witnessed there. Truth be told, we started the war. I think we had been studying about ants in school and knew that red and black ants would fight each other. One day we found several ant mounds on Birch Hill, including a colony of red ants. We decided to have an ant war. I can’t remember how we transported the ants from one colony to the other. We probably gathered up the ants on sticks and quickly transported them to the enemy camp. At that time we hadn’t heard about helicopter assaults, or we could have pretended our sticks were choppers taking the troops to a hot LZ (Landing Zone), where they would engage the enemy. As we arrived over the black ant colony, we swooped down and the red ant warriors quickly exited the choppers, I mean sticks, and we were airborne again and headed back for another load of warriors. After several loads of red ants had been deposited at the entrance to the black colony, we settled in to watch the battle.
It was just as we had learned in school; rival ants really do fight each other. Black ants exited their holes to confront the red invaders in vicious hand-to-hand combat. Or in this case, mandible-to-leg combat? Whatever it was, they were locked in mortal combat. It was a fight to the death. Even though the invading ants were larger, they were greatly outnumbered by the black ants that swarmed out of their holes to protect their territory.
Looking back, I realize it was a cruel thing to do. I can try to justify my actions by saying, “They’re just ants. People poison and kill them every day as a destructive nuisance in their homes.” But we took ants from one colony that were going about their day-to-day business, uprooted their lives, and sent them to fight against another colony of ants. It was a fight where most of them would die in a foreign colony in a fight they didn’t want to be in. It’s much easier being the observer, than the ants on the field of battle that are locked in a fight to the death.
After pausing for a while to remember that ant battle, I left Birch Hill and continued on my walk. I didn’t find any evidence of the ski scaffold from my childhood that I had gone in search of. What I did discover was something deeper and more profound.
Lessons learned on Birch Hill… Some things never change. Ants still go into battle when ants from another colony, that have a different scent, invade their territory. Men still engage in wars with other men over territorial disputes, and governmental, religious, and ideological differences. Just as we did in the ant war, we still send our troops off to fight our wars, while the majority of us sit back as observers, watching the battle from a safe spot, just as we did on Birch Hill. Conflict and death have always been a part of the circle of life. My memory still holds the past, both the good times and the bad. We can’t change the past, but we can try to make the world a more peaceful place for future generations to live.
*
During my walk one weekend in early spring, I left the road and entered the tangled web of vines and brush that led to Birch Hill. I decided to hunt for any remnants of our old ski scaffold before the vegetation of summer made the area impassable. Even then it was a tangled mass of brush and thorns that tried to block my entrance to the past. It almost succeeded. The vines entangled me, the thorns drew blood, but I pushed on, and eventually gained entrance into the heart of Birch Hill.
I finally reached the top of the hill where we had built a rather crude ski jump scaffold around 55 years ago. I searched the area, now overgrown with trees and brush. Large trees also stood in the middle of our ski jumping hill. Trees can get very big after 50 years of growth. As I looked around, everything had changed. The memory that my mind holds of those winter days, skiing with Trygve and Joel Thompson, and my brother, David, is still there, but the physical past is long gone, replaced by the reality of new life and growth all around me as I stood where our ski jump was located. Not a trace of it remained. 55 years of decay had returned the wood to the earth. It was now providing nourishment to new growth.
I thought about the circle of life. Those boards we used to build our scaffold had come from trees. Now new trees grew where the decayed remains of those trees from 55 years ago are part of the soil. The circle of life continues.
The past lives only in my mind. Loren Eiseley said in the Immense Journey, “My memory holds the past, yet paradoxically knows, at the same time, that the past is gone and will never come again. It cherishes the dead faces and silenced voices, yes, and the lost evenings of childhood.”
Another memory of our days playing on Birch Hill also returned as I exited the thick brush. I remembered the great ant war that we witnessed there. Truth be told, we started the war. I think we had been studying about ants in school and knew that red and black ants would fight each other. One day we found several ant mounds on Birch Hill, including a colony of red ants. We decided to have an ant war. I can’t remember how we transported the ants from one colony to the other. We probably gathered up the ants on sticks and quickly transported them to the enemy camp. At that time we hadn’t heard about helicopter assaults, or we could have pretended our sticks were choppers taking the troops to a hot LZ (Landing Zone), where they would engage the enemy. As we arrived over the black ant colony, we swooped down and the red ant warriors quickly exited the choppers, I mean sticks, and we were airborne again and headed back for another load of warriors. After several loads of red ants had been deposited at the entrance to the black colony, we settled in to watch the battle.
It was just as we had learned in school; rival ants really do fight each other. Black ants exited their holes to confront the red invaders in vicious hand-to-hand combat. Or in this case, mandible-to-leg combat? Whatever it was, they were locked in mortal combat. It was a fight to the death. Even though the invading ants were larger, they were greatly outnumbered by the black ants that swarmed out of their holes to protect their territory.
Looking back, I realize it was a cruel thing to do. I can try to justify my actions by saying, “They’re just ants. People poison and kill them every day as a destructive nuisance in their homes.” But we took ants from one colony that were going about their day-to-day business, uprooted their lives, and sent them to fight against another colony of ants. It was a fight where most of them would die in a foreign colony in a fight they didn’t want to be in. It’s much easier being the observer, than the ants on the field of battle that are locked in a fight to the death.
After pausing for a while to remember that ant battle, I left Birch Hill and continued on my walk. I didn’t find any evidence of the ski scaffold from my childhood that I had gone in search of. What I did discover was something deeper and more profound.
Lessons learned on Birch Hill… Some things never change. Ants still go into battle when ants from another colony, that have a different scent, invade their territory. Men still engage in wars with other men over territorial disputes, and governmental, religious, and ideological differences. Just as we did in the ant war, we still send our troops off to fight our wars, while the majority of us sit back as observers, watching the battle from a safe spot, just as we did on Birch Hill. Conflict and death have always been a part of the circle of life. My memory still holds the past, both the good times and the bad. We can’t change the past, but we can try to make the world a more peaceful place for future generations to live.
*
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Long Live Local Journalism
Across the Fence #387
What if your local high school’s sports team was in an important game and the only mention in the paper was the final score in the box scores listing? There were no details and no photos showing the action.
What if you held a big community event and the only mention in the paper was one, small paragraph of coverage? No photos of local people or activities accompanied the short paragraph.
That’s what happens when communities lose their local newspaper. Times are changing as we all know. The day of locally-owned businesses, whether banks, grocery stores, hardware stores, clothing stores, or newspapers, is fading into the sunset. They’re being replaced by larger and larger conglomerates and big box stores, that buy up and force out small, locally-owned businesses. It’s a fact of life. Stop for a moment and think of businesses in your community that have been lost because of this.
The newspaper business has also changed. Most local papers were owned and published by a person or family that lived in the community. Today, very few weeklies are locally-owned. They’ve been bought out and are under the management of larger corporations that own and publish many newspapers. Some of the larger papers have fallen on hard times. But I’m happy to report that local, weekly newspapers are alive and well, and are holding their own. Some have even increased their circulation base. I think this reflects the importance of the hometown newspaper. They’re the only paper that gives full coverage of the events and stories that are important to you. They cover local activities and photos accompany the in-depth stories.
Many of those stories are clipped and saved. I recently came across some stories that my mother had clipped and saved from my 4-H days. It was great to see those photos that included friends, and to read the stories. I was glad our local Westby Times had covered those events from my younger years.
Having been in the advertising, marketing, and journalism business most of my working life, I have an understanding of the problems newspapers are facing today. We’re told that people have a much shorter attention span than they used to have. They want their information now, fast, and short. Think of a television newscast where each story receives a brief mention. There’s very little in-depth reporting. We’ve become conditioned to accepting short, sound bites. The exception seems to be when they’re dealing with another celebrity or sports star who has gone off the deep end.
But lets return to your local newspaper, the one you’re reading this column in. Chances are, you take your time and read many of the stories in their entirety, not just the intro paragraph. Why? Because this is your community. This is your paper. These stories are about your friends and neighbors. These are your people. The photos are of people you know. Even family members can be found on these pages. These are stories and subjects that mean something personal to you. This is where you check for upcoming events in your community, where you find an ad for a local pancake supper put on by a community organization or church; maybe even a lutefisk dinner is advertised; a benefit event for a local person may be listed; specials at local businesses, along with want ads and garage sales can be found, and the list goes on and on.
The local newspaper is very important to the community. It’s your voice. It’s your link to what’s happening in the community. I was witness to the importance of the local paper one day when I was traveling through Boscobel. I decided to stop at the Boscobel Dial office and say hello to David and the staff. The paper had just been delivered from the printer and was available for sale. There was a steady stream of people coming and going to get their paper hot off the press. Don’t tell me that a local paper isn’t important to a community.
Norbert Blei, a writer who lives in Door County, Wisconsin, is a champion of local papers and local journalism. He says that a community needs a newspaper that provides full news coverage, interesting features, concerned columnists, good writing, good stories, and an editor/publisher who knows the place, the people, the problems, and how to put it all down in words (and good photography). He says the past is the future when it comes to local journalism–which corporate owners of newspapers often fail to grasp. To maintain a viable, interesting, local paper, we need all those things, instead of shrinking the pages, the staff, the news, and starving the readership, by focusing solely on “bottom line” instead of the written line.
I agree with Norbert Blei. We need to support our local paper with our subscriptions and advertising so they can survive. If a community loses its newspaper, it loses its identity and voice. No community should let that happen. Once its gone, it won’t be coming back.
I like the Westby Times masthead slogan, “The only paper that gives a whoop for Westby, Coon Valley, and Chaseburg.” By substituting your community that could be the slogan for every local paper. Your local paper is your voice; don’t ever let it be silenced!
*
What if your local high school’s sports team was in an important game and the only mention in the paper was the final score in the box scores listing? There were no details and no photos showing the action.
What if you held a big community event and the only mention in the paper was one, small paragraph of coverage? No photos of local people or activities accompanied the short paragraph.
That’s what happens when communities lose their local newspaper. Times are changing as we all know. The day of locally-owned businesses, whether banks, grocery stores, hardware stores, clothing stores, or newspapers, is fading into the sunset. They’re being replaced by larger and larger conglomerates and big box stores, that buy up and force out small, locally-owned businesses. It’s a fact of life. Stop for a moment and think of businesses in your community that have been lost because of this.
The newspaper business has also changed. Most local papers were owned and published by a person or family that lived in the community. Today, very few weeklies are locally-owned. They’ve been bought out and are under the management of larger corporations that own and publish many newspapers. Some of the larger papers have fallen on hard times. But I’m happy to report that local, weekly newspapers are alive and well, and are holding their own. Some have even increased their circulation base. I think this reflects the importance of the hometown newspaper. They’re the only paper that gives full coverage of the events and stories that are important to you. They cover local activities and photos accompany the in-depth stories.
Many of those stories are clipped and saved. I recently came across some stories that my mother had clipped and saved from my 4-H days. It was great to see those photos that included friends, and to read the stories. I was glad our local Westby Times had covered those events from my younger years.
Having been in the advertising, marketing, and journalism business most of my working life, I have an understanding of the problems newspapers are facing today. We’re told that people have a much shorter attention span than they used to have. They want their information now, fast, and short. Think of a television newscast where each story receives a brief mention. There’s very little in-depth reporting. We’ve become conditioned to accepting short, sound bites. The exception seems to be when they’re dealing with another celebrity or sports star who has gone off the deep end.
But lets return to your local newspaper, the one you’re reading this column in. Chances are, you take your time and read many of the stories in their entirety, not just the intro paragraph. Why? Because this is your community. This is your paper. These stories are about your friends and neighbors. These are your people. The photos are of people you know. Even family members can be found on these pages. These are stories and subjects that mean something personal to you. This is where you check for upcoming events in your community, where you find an ad for a local pancake supper put on by a community organization or church; maybe even a lutefisk dinner is advertised; a benefit event for a local person may be listed; specials at local businesses, along with want ads and garage sales can be found, and the list goes on and on.
The local newspaper is very important to the community. It’s your voice. It’s your link to what’s happening in the community. I was witness to the importance of the local paper one day when I was traveling through Boscobel. I decided to stop at the Boscobel Dial office and say hello to David and the staff. The paper had just been delivered from the printer and was available for sale. There was a steady stream of people coming and going to get their paper hot off the press. Don’t tell me that a local paper isn’t important to a community.
Norbert Blei, a writer who lives in Door County, Wisconsin, is a champion of local papers and local journalism. He says that a community needs a newspaper that provides full news coverage, interesting features, concerned columnists, good writing, good stories, and an editor/publisher who knows the place, the people, the problems, and how to put it all down in words (and good photography). He says the past is the future when it comes to local journalism–which corporate owners of newspapers often fail to grasp. To maintain a viable, interesting, local paper, we need all those things, instead of shrinking the pages, the staff, the news, and starving the readership, by focusing solely on “bottom line” instead of the written line.
I agree with Norbert Blei. We need to support our local paper with our subscriptions and advertising so they can survive. If a community loses its newspaper, it loses its identity and voice. No community should let that happen. Once its gone, it won’t be coming back.
I like the Westby Times masthead slogan, “The only paper that gives a whoop for Westby, Coon Valley, and Chaseburg.” By substituting your community that could be the slogan for every local paper. Your local paper is your voice; don’t ever let it be silenced!
*
Saturday, April 7, 2012
The Lighter Side of Rural Life
Across the Fence #386
My brother, David, remarked that he looked out the window one night last winter and saw the neighbors yard light with the snow coming down. It reminded him of the farm. As soon as he mentioned seeing the snow and yard light it also brought back memories to me.
It can be very dark in the country. The lack of streetlights and houses grouped together, as you find in cities, contributes to the darkness that envelops the countryside. We aren’t inundated with light pollution that’s very visible around urban areas. Linda noticed the darkness when we first moved to the country, compared to the light pollution we were used to in Madison.
At least those of us who live in the country, now have electricity and lights. Before the 1930s very few farms had lights. Lanterns provided the light for houses and barns. People carried a lantern when they went from the house to the barn, or the outhouse, in the evening. All the modern conveniences like electricity, running water, indoor plumbing, and telephones, didn’t become available to most rural people, until much later than their urban cousins. It was, and still is, much more profitable for companies to provide service to high population areas than to widely scattered rural areas.
I always remember having electricity on the farm, but lanterns were still used in some rooms when I was young. I remember because I got to help trim the wicks and clean the soot out of the glass chimney. Filling them with kerosene was a grown-up job.
The only light available in our barn came from a single light hanging from an extension cord in the center of the barn. We certainly didn’t waste electricity. It got pretty dark in the far corners of that barn.
I think most farms had a yard light. It was mounted at the top of a pole located between the house and barn. Our yard light could be turned on or off from the house or the barn.
That old yard light was an important part of our farm. We spent many nights sitting in the yard during the summer when it was unbearably hot inside the house. Most people didn’t have air conditioning. The evening breeze was a welcome relief as we sat in lawn chairs or reclined in the cool grass of the lawn. We usually had the yard light on and there were numerous bugs swarming around it. In early summer, the large June Bugs made their appearance. There were literally thousands of them. There were so many on the gravel driveway under the light that you couldn’t walk to the barn without hearing them crunch under your feet. I hadn’t seen any for years until last summer, when a few showed up on our driveway. They’re still just as ugly looking as I remembered. Although I guess I shouldn’t call a poor bug ugly. I’m sure they’re attractive to other June Bugs.
Other night visitors that swooped and dived over the lawn were bats. I suspect they were after the mosquitoes and not us, but we knew they often had rabies, so they weren’t a favorite night visitor. You could see their dark silhouettes darting into the light cast from the yard light and then disappearing into the darkness again. We sat in the dark shadows of the maple trees we rested under. I hoped they couldn’t see us, but bats have very good night vision.
Those summer nights sitting on the lawn, under the trees next to the yard light, also brought us all the sounds of the night. It’s very quiet in the country and you can hear the many sounds. The sound of the windmill pumping water was a welcome sound on a humid, summer evening. Pigeons in the haymow of the barn could be heard softly cooing. In early evening, the call of the Kildeers in the nearby fields was heard. When the wind was from the southwest, the sound of frogs serenading each other was heard from the pond in the back forty. Crickets always joined in the evening symphony. The night was filled with sounds, but they were natural, soothing sounds. I’d often lie in the cool grass in the darkness under the trees and enjoy all the sounds while watching the bugs and bats swirling around the yard light. On nights when the moon shone brightly, we’d leave the yard light off and let the moonlight provide our light. On those nights I also enjoyed the millions of stars overhead. Summer nights before air conditioning were special.
Winter provided a different magic. When we turned the yard light on we could see the snowflakes swirling in the light, just like David mentioned. The light made the snow on the ground sparkle like millions of diamonds. When it wasn’t a howling blizzard or bitterly cold, it created a magical winter wonderland. We always turned the yard light on before heading for the barn and it stayed on until the last person entered the porch after milking was done. I liked to look out the window from the shelter of the porch, and see the snow falling in the light before turning the yard light off.
That yard light really did create many magical moments for us.
*
My brother, David, remarked that he looked out the window one night last winter and saw the neighbors yard light with the snow coming down. It reminded him of the farm. As soon as he mentioned seeing the snow and yard light it also brought back memories to me.
It can be very dark in the country. The lack of streetlights and houses grouped together, as you find in cities, contributes to the darkness that envelops the countryside. We aren’t inundated with light pollution that’s very visible around urban areas. Linda noticed the darkness when we first moved to the country, compared to the light pollution we were used to in Madison.
At least those of us who live in the country, now have electricity and lights. Before the 1930s very few farms had lights. Lanterns provided the light for houses and barns. People carried a lantern when they went from the house to the barn, or the outhouse, in the evening. All the modern conveniences like electricity, running water, indoor plumbing, and telephones, didn’t become available to most rural people, until much later than their urban cousins. It was, and still is, much more profitable for companies to provide service to high population areas than to widely scattered rural areas.
I always remember having electricity on the farm, but lanterns were still used in some rooms when I was young. I remember because I got to help trim the wicks and clean the soot out of the glass chimney. Filling them with kerosene was a grown-up job.
The only light available in our barn came from a single light hanging from an extension cord in the center of the barn. We certainly didn’t waste electricity. It got pretty dark in the far corners of that barn.
I think most farms had a yard light. It was mounted at the top of a pole located between the house and barn. Our yard light could be turned on or off from the house or the barn.
That old yard light was an important part of our farm. We spent many nights sitting in the yard during the summer when it was unbearably hot inside the house. Most people didn’t have air conditioning. The evening breeze was a welcome relief as we sat in lawn chairs or reclined in the cool grass of the lawn. We usually had the yard light on and there were numerous bugs swarming around it. In early summer, the large June Bugs made their appearance. There were literally thousands of them. There were so many on the gravel driveway under the light that you couldn’t walk to the barn without hearing them crunch under your feet. I hadn’t seen any for years until last summer, when a few showed up on our driveway. They’re still just as ugly looking as I remembered. Although I guess I shouldn’t call a poor bug ugly. I’m sure they’re attractive to other June Bugs.
Other night visitors that swooped and dived over the lawn were bats. I suspect they were after the mosquitoes and not us, but we knew they often had rabies, so they weren’t a favorite night visitor. You could see their dark silhouettes darting into the light cast from the yard light and then disappearing into the darkness again. We sat in the dark shadows of the maple trees we rested under. I hoped they couldn’t see us, but bats have very good night vision.
Those summer nights sitting on the lawn, under the trees next to the yard light, also brought us all the sounds of the night. It’s very quiet in the country and you can hear the many sounds. The sound of the windmill pumping water was a welcome sound on a humid, summer evening. Pigeons in the haymow of the barn could be heard softly cooing. In early evening, the call of the Kildeers in the nearby fields was heard. When the wind was from the southwest, the sound of frogs serenading each other was heard from the pond in the back forty. Crickets always joined in the evening symphony. The night was filled with sounds, but they were natural, soothing sounds. I’d often lie in the cool grass in the darkness under the trees and enjoy all the sounds while watching the bugs and bats swirling around the yard light. On nights when the moon shone brightly, we’d leave the yard light off and let the moonlight provide our light. On those nights I also enjoyed the millions of stars overhead. Summer nights before air conditioning were special.
Winter provided a different magic. When we turned the yard light on we could see the snowflakes swirling in the light, just like David mentioned. The light made the snow on the ground sparkle like millions of diamonds. When it wasn’t a howling blizzard or bitterly cold, it created a magical winter wonderland. We always turned the yard light on before heading for the barn and it stayed on until the last person entered the porch after milking was done. I liked to look out the window from the shelter of the porch, and see the snow falling in the light before turning the yard light off.
That yard light really did create many magical moments for us.
*
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Remembering A Farm Background
Across the Fence #385
I wrote a story about Corrine “Fredrickson” Zable after she died just before the new year began. She often commented on my stories. I’d like to share her thoughts about growing up on a farm.
She wrote: I enjoyed the barn story a lot. It brought back a lot of memories of my growing up on the farm. The large, old barn on the farm where I grew up was very well built! The foundation was made of large, cut blocks of stone; some of the stones were arranged in an interesting manner… so that cold air would not blow directly in. It had smaller blocks that would let in the outside air via a block left out. The “let-in-air” would travel upward a few feet to get into the barn via a block left out facing the inside of the barn wall. As a kid I was sure this was done so the cats could go in and out whenever they wanted to. However, I’m quite sure it was to let fresh air into the barn in summer and winter.
I also recall the beautiful barn swallows flying in and out of the barn; so beautiful and graceful. Then we must not forget those rather messy pigeons that insisted on cooing around the barn!
Coming into the barn in winter was a joy! The horse stalls were right there as one entered in wintertime. Our outside breath from the cold air soon stopped, and the barn felt warm and cozy; all the animals in winter were happy to see people. Little calves born in winter were a joy. They liked to play and run with me down the aisles where the milk cows stood. Most of the veal calves had to be sold and I knew it. When I heard the noise of that certain truck go past my country school, I always felt all chocked up inside, because I knew the little calves would not be in the barn any more. I knew the mothers of those calves would be upset and give out that mournful cry and their babies would not be there to answer.
The “haymow” was a wonderful place to play; the tall hay chutes were very high, like big ladders, so hay could easily be put down into the barn for the animals during the wintertime. The barn was rather cool in summer until the hayloft began to fill up with hay for the winter. Watching all the pulleys work, and the big hayfork, before Dad got a baler and worked with baled hay, was a fascinating thing to see.
As a very young child, I watched Dad pitch hay onto the hay wagon by hand! I remember the stacks of hay in the hay field and the horses moving from stack to stack as he filled the hay wagon! Mostly I recall his working with a small red tractor, but by the time he let us girls drive the tractor, we had a larger, gray tractor. Our neighbors had a bigger tractor, a John Deere, that had a putt-putt sound. Growing up in a family of four girls, we learned how to do lots of farm work! I often think of Dad living with five women. He had patience to teach us many things.
One job that wasn’t fun, was helping with the three acres of tobacco that we raised to pay the taxes! Uff da Nayman! Such a job, from raising the plants in the “tobacco beds,” to watering, pulling, and planting them, but this was only the beginning! Hoeing was not fun; replanting in case some of them had died; and picking off those fat, juicy, green worms with the little black horn on their heads was just yukky.
Dad kept one old horse to help with the cultivating of the tobacco before the plants got too large. I got to help him as I rode on the horse while he guided the hand cultivator. The horse, Old Bird, knew just what to do so it was not a problem for me. My two older sisters were busy hoeing the tobacco as I helped Dad. Their “Skinny Minnie” name for me came in right handy as I rode Old Bird. Dad was so kind to all the farm animals and Old Bird.
I remember a huge white owl, who each year on his migration to the far North, would stop to rest on top of the windmill at our farm. My dad was the one who usually spotted him first and he’d tell us softly about the owl as he pointed upward. The take-off of this big bird was as quiet as his landing. It was such a thrill indeed!
Being outdoors among those hills on the farm was wonderful. Our farm was the last one on the gravel road on Nottingham Ridge. When I close my eyes I can still see those beautiful hills that went down to the valleys on three sides of the farm. They were also wonderful for hiking.
Howard, thanks again for the pictures you paint so beautifully with words. I enjoy and appreciate your thoughts and writing, and how they took me on a wonderful journey back to my childhood on the farm.
Thank you Corrine. You painted a wonderful picture with words too, of your early life on the farm. I hope your Spirit is back there, walking among those hills and valleys.
*
I wrote a story about Corrine “Fredrickson” Zable after she died just before the new year began. She often commented on my stories. I’d like to share her thoughts about growing up on a farm.
She wrote: I enjoyed the barn story a lot. It brought back a lot of memories of my growing up on the farm. The large, old barn on the farm where I grew up was very well built! The foundation was made of large, cut blocks of stone; some of the stones were arranged in an interesting manner… so that cold air would not blow directly in. It had smaller blocks that would let in the outside air via a block left out. The “let-in-air” would travel upward a few feet to get into the barn via a block left out facing the inside of the barn wall. As a kid I was sure this was done so the cats could go in and out whenever they wanted to. However, I’m quite sure it was to let fresh air into the barn in summer and winter.
I also recall the beautiful barn swallows flying in and out of the barn; so beautiful and graceful. Then we must not forget those rather messy pigeons that insisted on cooing around the barn!
Coming into the barn in winter was a joy! The horse stalls were right there as one entered in wintertime. Our outside breath from the cold air soon stopped, and the barn felt warm and cozy; all the animals in winter were happy to see people. Little calves born in winter were a joy. They liked to play and run with me down the aisles where the milk cows stood. Most of the veal calves had to be sold and I knew it. When I heard the noise of that certain truck go past my country school, I always felt all chocked up inside, because I knew the little calves would not be in the barn any more. I knew the mothers of those calves would be upset and give out that mournful cry and their babies would not be there to answer.
The “haymow” was a wonderful place to play; the tall hay chutes were very high, like big ladders, so hay could easily be put down into the barn for the animals during the wintertime. The barn was rather cool in summer until the hayloft began to fill up with hay for the winter. Watching all the pulleys work, and the big hayfork, before Dad got a baler and worked with baled hay, was a fascinating thing to see.
As a very young child, I watched Dad pitch hay onto the hay wagon by hand! I remember the stacks of hay in the hay field and the horses moving from stack to stack as he filled the hay wagon! Mostly I recall his working with a small red tractor, but by the time he let us girls drive the tractor, we had a larger, gray tractor. Our neighbors had a bigger tractor, a John Deere, that had a putt-putt sound. Growing up in a family of four girls, we learned how to do lots of farm work! I often think of Dad living with five women. He had patience to teach us many things.
One job that wasn’t fun, was helping with the three acres of tobacco that we raised to pay the taxes! Uff da Nayman! Such a job, from raising the plants in the “tobacco beds,” to watering, pulling, and planting them, but this was only the beginning! Hoeing was not fun; replanting in case some of them had died; and picking off those fat, juicy, green worms with the little black horn on their heads was just yukky.
Dad kept one old horse to help with the cultivating of the tobacco before the plants got too large. I got to help him as I rode on the horse while he guided the hand cultivator. The horse, Old Bird, knew just what to do so it was not a problem for me. My two older sisters were busy hoeing the tobacco as I helped Dad. Their “Skinny Minnie” name for me came in right handy as I rode Old Bird. Dad was so kind to all the farm animals and Old Bird.
I remember a huge white owl, who each year on his migration to the far North, would stop to rest on top of the windmill at our farm. My dad was the one who usually spotted him first and he’d tell us softly about the owl as he pointed upward. The take-off of this big bird was as quiet as his landing. It was such a thrill indeed!
Being outdoors among those hills on the farm was wonderful. Our farm was the last one on the gravel road on Nottingham Ridge. When I close my eyes I can still see those beautiful hills that went down to the valleys on three sides of the farm. They were also wonderful for hiking.
Howard, thanks again for the pictures you paint so beautifully with words. I enjoy and appreciate your thoughts and writing, and how they took me on a wonderful journey back to my childhood on the farm.
Thank you Corrine. You painted a wonderful picture with words too, of your early life on the farm. I hope your Spirit is back there, walking among those hills and valleys.
*
Sunday, March 25, 2012
The Day I Rode the Eagle
Across the Fence #384
I climb the bank, through the tangled trees and brush to reach the place where the eagle soars. I climb on the back of the eagle. The cold wind caresses my face. I ride on the back of the eagle between the outstretched wings, and we soar.
This eagle, a thousand years old or more, and I, just sixty-seven years; together we ride the earth on windswept wings, heading I know not where.
Built by Native Americans long ago, I ride it’s back as once they did. The wind flows through my hair; sounds of nature reach my ears. I close my eyes as the eagle and I soar together. We ride the earth on windswept wings, heading I know not where.
I listen to the wind, hoping I will hear an answer. A thousand years ago they walked this ground, carrying baskets filled with soil. They dumped them here to build this soaring eagle. This eagle on which I now stand and ride upon it’s outstretched wings. We soar together, as we ride the earth on windswept wings, heading I know not where.
Why was it built? Who built it? What were their names? What were they like? What were their hopes and dreams? What was it like to live in those days? They are long gone now, but do their spirits still linger here and ride this eagle beside me?
A thousand years have come and gone and yet this eagle survives. The years could not destroy its flight. We ride on through the wind, this eagle and I, listening and searching, back over a thousand years to its beginnings, and ahead a thousand years into it’s future. We soar together, as we ride the earth on windswept wings, heading I know not where.
The eagle and I are searching, looking for answers as we soar together. We ride the earth on windswept wings, heading I know not where, one with the earth, on this cosmic ride through space.
The eagle I rode that day, is located in Madison. It’s one of many effigy mounds that are still preserved. Countless more have been destroyed by opening the land for farming in the early days and to urban sprawl and development in more modern times. Now the surviving mounds are protected. There are numerous mounds in the Madison area and I have visited many of them, especially those located in and around the Arboretum. The eagle mound I write about is located in a quiet, secluded area in one of Madison’s cemeteries. Modern tombstones now surround it. At one time the entire area was home to Native Americans. I tried to imagine what the area looked like when they walked upon the ground where I stood.
That day as I stood on the eagle’s back, I couldn’t help but marvel at how those mounds had survived for centuries. Structures we build come and go, possessions come and go, people come and go, but these mounds built from earth survive as long as man doesn’t destroy them. Everything comes from the earth and it all goes back to the earth. I thought about that as I rode the eagle that day. I made the statement earlier, “we’re heading I know not where.” As I listened to the wind in the trees that day, the answer suddenly became very apparent to me. Physically we’re all headed back to the earth to become part of it. Is it any wonder that the Native Americans honor the earth? The earth is part of them and of all of us. If we don’t respect the land, we don’t respect ourselves. If we abuse the land, we harm ourselves. It’s all very simple. If we destroy the environment of the earth, we will destroy ourselves. It’s all connected. The Native Americans have it right. It is a circle of life. Destroy part of that circle and we hasten the death of the circle.
Riding on the back of the eagle on that quiet day several years ago, listening to the wind, and letting my mind explore the world around me, brought clarity to many things about life. I think it helps being raised in the country on a farm. The importance of caring for the land and the earth are instilled in us at a very young age.
Coon Valley, located a few miles from where we live, played an important role in the proper care of the land. Erosion of topsoil on the hillside slopes had destroyed the productivity of the once rich agricultural lands. In 1933, as part of the New Deal, CCC crews planted trees, built check dams, fenced cattle out of forested areas, and installed contour strips for farming the hillsides. Those practices were expanded throughout the country with great success. Contour strip farming was also used on our farm. Proper care of the land saved the topsoil from erosion.
Today I see huge fields around the countryside where all the fences have been removed. Contour farming has been forgotten. Straight, long rows go up and down the rolling hills and erosion has returned. It’s a step backward in the care of the earth in my mind. I wonder what the people who built the effigy mounds would think of how we treat the earth. We soar together, as we ride the earth on windswept wings. I wonder where we are headed?
*
I climb the bank, through the tangled trees and brush to reach the place where the eagle soars. I climb on the back of the eagle. The cold wind caresses my face. I ride on the back of the eagle between the outstretched wings, and we soar.
This eagle, a thousand years old or more, and I, just sixty-seven years; together we ride the earth on windswept wings, heading I know not where.
Built by Native Americans long ago, I ride it’s back as once they did. The wind flows through my hair; sounds of nature reach my ears. I close my eyes as the eagle and I soar together. We ride the earth on windswept wings, heading I know not where.
I listen to the wind, hoping I will hear an answer. A thousand years ago they walked this ground, carrying baskets filled with soil. They dumped them here to build this soaring eagle. This eagle on which I now stand and ride upon it’s outstretched wings. We soar together, as we ride the earth on windswept wings, heading I know not where.
Why was it built? Who built it? What were their names? What were they like? What were their hopes and dreams? What was it like to live in those days? They are long gone now, but do their spirits still linger here and ride this eagle beside me?
A thousand years have come and gone and yet this eagle survives. The years could not destroy its flight. We ride on through the wind, this eagle and I, listening and searching, back over a thousand years to its beginnings, and ahead a thousand years into it’s future. We soar together, as we ride the earth on windswept wings, heading I know not where.
The eagle and I are searching, looking for answers as we soar together. We ride the earth on windswept wings, heading I know not where, one with the earth, on this cosmic ride through space.
The eagle I rode that day, is located in Madison. It’s one of many effigy mounds that are still preserved. Countless more have been destroyed by opening the land for farming in the early days and to urban sprawl and development in more modern times. Now the surviving mounds are protected. There are numerous mounds in the Madison area and I have visited many of them, especially those located in and around the Arboretum. The eagle mound I write about is located in a quiet, secluded area in one of Madison’s cemeteries. Modern tombstones now surround it. At one time the entire area was home to Native Americans. I tried to imagine what the area looked like when they walked upon the ground where I stood.
That day as I stood on the eagle’s back, I couldn’t help but marvel at how those mounds had survived for centuries. Structures we build come and go, possessions come and go, people come and go, but these mounds built from earth survive as long as man doesn’t destroy them. Everything comes from the earth and it all goes back to the earth. I thought about that as I rode the eagle that day. I made the statement earlier, “we’re heading I know not where.” As I listened to the wind in the trees that day, the answer suddenly became very apparent to me. Physically we’re all headed back to the earth to become part of it. Is it any wonder that the Native Americans honor the earth? The earth is part of them and of all of us. If we don’t respect the land, we don’t respect ourselves. If we abuse the land, we harm ourselves. It’s all very simple. If we destroy the environment of the earth, we will destroy ourselves. It’s all connected. The Native Americans have it right. It is a circle of life. Destroy part of that circle and we hasten the death of the circle.
Riding on the back of the eagle on that quiet day several years ago, listening to the wind, and letting my mind explore the world around me, brought clarity to many things about life. I think it helps being raised in the country on a farm. The importance of caring for the land and the earth are instilled in us at a very young age.
Coon Valley, located a few miles from where we live, played an important role in the proper care of the land. Erosion of topsoil on the hillside slopes had destroyed the productivity of the once rich agricultural lands. In 1933, as part of the New Deal, CCC crews planted trees, built check dams, fenced cattle out of forested areas, and installed contour strips for farming the hillsides. Those practices were expanded throughout the country with great success. Contour strip farming was also used on our farm. Proper care of the land saved the topsoil from erosion.
Today I see huge fields around the countryside where all the fences have been removed. Contour farming has been forgotten. Straight, long rows go up and down the rolling hills and erosion has returned. It’s a step backward in the care of the earth in my mind. I wonder what the people who built the effigy mounds would think of how we treat the earth. We soar together, as we ride the earth on windswept wings. I wonder where we are headed?
*
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Nature's Resurrection of Life
Across the Fence #383
Observers of nature are awaiting the resurrection. The snow has slowly retreated, leaving the exposed ground, bare and empty. It’s not a beautiful time of year. March is when we search through the debris of the past year for the first signs of spring and the return of life to the world around us. I like to call it “nature’s resurrection of life.”
As the snow retreats on a sunny, warm day, running water fills the ditches. When we feel the welcome warmth of the sun and hear the sound of running water, it always raises our hopes that spring has finally arrived. Then as quickly as that class tease in high school left you alone and bewildered, the cold winds of March come roaring in, leaving another blanket of snow on the ground. Suddenly spring is nowhere to be found.
March… that yearly tease of a month, that keeps getting our hopes up that spring has finally arrived, and then quickly sends them crashing back to earth and reality. Nature is fickle and is hard to figure out. The resurrection of spring is often delayed.
March is the month of strong, cold winds. They come roaring through the large evergreens with the sound of waves crashing against the shore. Wave after wave arrives with no letup. The bare branches of the hardwood trees scrape against each other with a grinding motion and sound. I love the sound of the wind in the trees. There’s a sense of power and life in the sound.
A walk through the woods may find the first hint of new life emerging from beneath the decaying leaves. The resurrection has begun. It’s a slow process at first, often suffering setbacks as another March snowfall arrives, but once the resurrection process has begun it’s hard to stop it.
For ice fishermen, it’s the time of thin ice and open water. As the ice retreats it opens up other possibilities as fishermen take to their boats and abandon the ice for another year. Even as snow still clings to the northern banks, fishermen pull on their waders, grab their flyrod, and head for the nearest trout stream.
March is the time of change. It closes one door, but opens another. I think of that every time I hear the sound of geese returning. The winter birds begin to disappear, replaced by the returning “snowbirds,” who abandoned us for warmer climates during the winter. We saw our first robins this week. Geese in large numbers, heading north, have been spotted. Red winged blackbirds have returned to the back yard after being AWOL all winter.
The long, dark, nights of winter are giving way to longer days. The sunlight seems to energize us, and like the hibernating animals, people begin to emerge from the warm, comfort of their homes and venture outside again. Life is slowly returning to the frozen north.
I shouldn’t complain. This has been a very mild winter for most of us in this part of the country. But even so, we get tired of the long, dark nights. There was just enough snow to hide the dead grass and broken branches that litter the yard and countryside. Now all the accumulated junk and debris lies exposed for all the world to see. Debris is also defined as the fragmented remains of dead or damaged cells or tissue. That’s about as good a definition of March as I can think of. It exposes the remains of the past year as the snow covering it recedes. March is a drab, brown, junk-strewn world. It will stay that way until the countryside comes alive and the color returns to the cheeks of nature. Perhaps those March winds help pump the life back into the earth… nature’s version of CPR.
March is a wet, dirty month as the ground gives up the frost and turns the bare ground into mud that will suck you in and slow your travels. March is when weight limits are posted on side roads. In years past, deep ruts through the mud where found on most country roads.
Come to think of it, there isn’t much that’s desirable about March. It’s the ugly duckling of months. It’s the relative who comes for a visit and you wonder if they’ll ever leave. It’s the salesman who comes on too strong and you want to show them where the carpenter made the door and don’t let it hit you in the butt on your way out. It’s March Madness and most of your picks get knocked out in the first round. It’s realizing that your taxes are soon due and you haven’t even started on them yet. That’s the month of March.
But, even with all the drabness, unpredictability, mud, and messiness of March, it’s also the month of hope and great expectations. We know that nature is at work below the surface and soon new life and color will emerge from the drab, tangled mess of decay. The days will lengthen, the warm sun will work its magic, April showers will arrive and freshen the earth, and nature’s resurrection will be complete. I’m ready for it.
*
Observers of nature are awaiting the resurrection. The snow has slowly retreated, leaving the exposed ground, bare and empty. It’s not a beautiful time of year. March is when we search through the debris of the past year for the first signs of spring and the return of life to the world around us. I like to call it “nature’s resurrection of life.”
As the snow retreats on a sunny, warm day, running water fills the ditches. When we feel the welcome warmth of the sun and hear the sound of running water, it always raises our hopes that spring has finally arrived. Then as quickly as that class tease in high school left you alone and bewildered, the cold winds of March come roaring in, leaving another blanket of snow on the ground. Suddenly spring is nowhere to be found.
March… that yearly tease of a month, that keeps getting our hopes up that spring has finally arrived, and then quickly sends them crashing back to earth and reality. Nature is fickle and is hard to figure out. The resurrection of spring is often delayed.
March is the month of strong, cold winds. They come roaring through the large evergreens with the sound of waves crashing against the shore. Wave after wave arrives with no letup. The bare branches of the hardwood trees scrape against each other with a grinding motion and sound. I love the sound of the wind in the trees. There’s a sense of power and life in the sound.
A walk through the woods may find the first hint of new life emerging from beneath the decaying leaves. The resurrection has begun. It’s a slow process at first, often suffering setbacks as another March snowfall arrives, but once the resurrection process has begun it’s hard to stop it.
For ice fishermen, it’s the time of thin ice and open water. As the ice retreats it opens up other possibilities as fishermen take to their boats and abandon the ice for another year. Even as snow still clings to the northern banks, fishermen pull on their waders, grab their flyrod, and head for the nearest trout stream.
March is the time of change. It closes one door, but opens another. I think of that every time I hear the sound of geese returning. The winter birds begin to disappear, replaced by the returning “snowbirds,” who abandoned us for warmer climates during the winter. We saw our first robins this week. Geese in large numbers, heading north, have been spotted. Red winged blackbirds have returned to the back yard after being AWOL all winter.
The long, dark, nights of winter are giving way to longer days. The sunlight seems to energize us, and like the hibernating animals, people begin to emerge from the warm, comfort of their homes and venture outside again. Life is slowly returning to the frozen north.
I shouldn’t complain. This has been a very mild winter for most of us in this part of the country. But even so, we get tired of the long, dark nights. There was just enough snow to hide the dead grass and broken branches that litter the yard and countryside. Now all the accumulated junk and debris lies exposed for all the world to see. Debris is also defined as the fragmented remains of dead or damaged cells or tissue. That’s about as good a definition of March as I can think of. It exposes the remains of the past year as the snow covering it recedes. March is a drab, brown, junk-strewn world. It will stay that way until the countryside comes alive and the color returns to the cheeks of nature. Perhaps those March winds help pump the life back into the earth… nature’s version of CPR.
March is a wet, dirty month as the ground gives up the frost and turns the bare ground into mud that will suck you in and slow your travels. March is when weight limits are posted on side roads. In years past, deep ruts through the mud where found on most country roads.
Come to think of it, there isn’t much that’s desirable about March. It’s the ugly duckling of months. It’s the relative who comes for a visit and you wonder if they’ll ever leave. It’s the salesman who comes on too strong and you want to show them where the carpenter made the door and don’t let it hit you in the butt on your way out. It’s March Madness and most of your picks get knocked out in the first round. It’s realizing that your taxes are soon due and you haven’t even started on them yet. That’s the month of March.
But, even with all the drabness, unpredictability, mud, and messiness of March, it’s also the month of hope and great expectations. We know that nature is at work below the surface and soon new life and color will emerge from the drab, tangled mess of decay. The days will lengthen, the warm sun will work its magic, April showers will arrive and freshen the earth, and nature’s resurrection will be complete. I’m ready for it.
*
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