The Never-ending War

Across the Fence #545

On April 30, 1975, forty years ago, the Vietnam War ended with a whimper, not a great victory celebration with people dancing in the streets, cheering, and celebrating. Few people took notice of the news reports that Saigon had fallen and was in the hands of the North Vietnamese Army (NVA). The photo symbolizing the end shows a lone helicopter perched atop a building in Saigon, with people trying desperately to get aboard. It was the bitter end of a long, painful, and costly war that tore this country apart.

The war may have ended 40 years ago, but for those who were there, it will always be a part of us. I asked several Vietnam vet friends for their thoughts on the war after all these years. Here are a few comments.

–Kenny Lee, 4th Infantry 66-67: “Doc, it’s hard to reflect on “our” war after all of these years. Our memories seem to fade from reality and take on a sense of did we really go through that or was it just a bad dream? The war still comes back to haunt us as time goes on. I remember both the good and bad times you and I spent together. I’ll never forget those we knew and lost. I love you brother and always will.”

Kenny Lee washing clothes in a stream with Montagnards.

Doc's got your back "Big Lee."

–Steve Piotrowski, 173rd Airborne 69-70: “When I watched the evacuation of Saigon, I found myself bouncing between crying and “screaming” in anger over the waste of lives, emotions, limbs, and sanity. We should never have been there, and we wasted so much of our generation on that war. The wounds still haven't healed since we keep trying to find easy slogans to explain a generation wasted in a terrible mistake.”

Steve Piotrowski with a Choi Hoi (watch your back, Steve!)

–David Giffey, 1st Infantry 65-66: “My thoughts about the Vietnam War aren't very happy or enlightening. The war in Vietnam didn’t end in 1975. It continues to this day in the traumas and tribulations of people in Vietnam and the United States. Did mental illness (PTSD) end magically in 1975 for U.S. soldiers? Were the 300,000 U.S. wounded magically healed in 1975? Did the war end in 1975 for generations of Vietnamese children who were born with birth defects caused by Agent Orange? My participation in Vietnam, which I regret, taught me that truth is the first casualty of war and wars really don’t end.”

–Bob McCurdy, Navy PBR 65-66: “I’m still not very open about having been there. When people do find out and thank me for my service, I usually respond by saying, ‘It’s not something I’m proud of.’ For a while I thought our involvement there was a case of bad judgement. With things that have been revealed over the past few years, it’s now clear it was deliberate and diabolical.”

Navy Patrol Boat on the river

–Lou Wagner, 1st Cav 65-66: Ho Chi Min played our media and politicians like a fiddle, dooming his people to Communism for another 40 years. We lacked the political will to win.

–Ted Fetting, 9th Infantry 67-68: “I think of all the Gold Star families and what they had to go through with their loved ones gone, and, for the longest time, the country confused the war with the warriors–the shame, the indifference, and for some the outright hostility they had to deal with!”

–John Cotter, 9th Infantry 68-69: “Pictures from our Vietnam days are posted on the unit website. I remember those places and people. The time I spent with those guys in the service was some of the most intense and rewarding. I couldn’t think of a better group of people I’d rather have been with. After Vietnam, I never kept in contact with anyone, even those I was closest to. At the time it was better to not let anyone know my past. I put my head down, and went on with my life. Now I look at pictures of unit reunions and see a bunch of old guys. I don’t know who they are. Now I feel it's too late to go back, embarrassed that I didn't keep up with them. There are people who say we should just get over it (Vietnam). I have a problem with that.”

John Cotter, center. 

Guy on right was killed shortly after photo was taken.

When author Ben Logan was alive, I talked to him about his World War II experiences. I think his words address so well the statement that John Cotter has heard people say, “Just get over it.” Ben said, “War is a life changing experience. War becomes memories.” His eyes were moist as he talked. I could tell he was back in Italy, remembering his experiences. I asked Ben if he could ever forget his war experiences. “No!” he said. “I tell people… they talk about coming home from the war, and I’ll say, ‘Nobody comes home from a war… you come partway home from a war.’”

Smoke break - My buddy, "Doc" Nagl, on left.

–Howard “Doc” Sherpe, 4th Infantry 66-67: “Somewhere in a dark corner, in the attic of my mind, I see them, faces from a distant past, young men, old beyond their years. Sad eyes with a thousand yard stare, searching, waiting on ambush for dark figures to emerge–cautiously, from a tree line, and float silently though the tall grass and ground fog of the evening. No invitations are ever sent. They just show up, unannounced, at all hours of the night. You can hear them up there, huddled behind the attic door. They’re older now, gray-haired, balding, heavier, some bent with the weight of too many hard years. Who are those old guys? I don’t recognize them. Somewhere trapped inside those aging bodies are the young souls I used to know and still see. The fog of 48 years has blurred and altered the images, but hasn’t erased them. They still occupy the attic of my mind.” 

"Doc" Sherpe is tired of war and wants to go home.

I leave you with this positive comment from my brother, also a Vietnam vet.  

–Dave Sherpe, 9th Infantry 68-69: “Vietnam is now a popular tourist destination. It’s hard for me to think of Vietnam as a country, and not as a war. The fall of Saigon lives on in old newsreels showing the iconic helicopter atop a building, with people scrambling to get out of the country. Perhaps we can use this as a symbol to never forget the sacrifices our veterans and their families have made. Thankfully the culture of our country has changed in the past 40 years. We now honor all veterans with respect and gratitude. Wouldn’t it be great if someday we can all consider every country as a place to visit and not just conjure up memories of another war?”

David Sherpe -machine gunner

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Spring Has Sprung

Across the Fence #544

The weather has been wonderful lately. The sun is shining, the temperature is rising, and green is starting to replace the drab, brown landscape. Spring is in the air and I see people outside working, walking, running, and biking, after being cooped up inside during the long winter.

It reminds me of the days when farmers kept their cows inside the barn all winter. When spring arrived they were finally allowed outside again. I can still smell the barn and cows when I think about it. As we unhooked their stanchions they seemed to know that spring had arrived and they were free to go outside again. At first they stumbled on weak, unsteady legs, as they hurried to get to the door. I can still see them running and jumping around in the barnyard, free of the confining stanchions after a long winter. 

Then the head-butting and fighting began as they reestablished the pecking order to see who the new leader of the herd would be. They would put their heads together and push against each other, first in one direction and then the other, until one cow was able to dominate the other and she finally gave up and went looking for a weaker adversary. Eventually, all 22 cows would go running down the cow lane, their tails in the air and their udders swinging from side to side. When they reached the pasture they’d turn around and come running down the cow lane, back to the barnyard. Then back to the pasture they’d go, running and jumping with pure joy at being free of the confines of the stanchions and their stall in the barn. We knew their milk production would be lower that evening.

That’s how we feel when these first lovely days of spring arrive, as free as the cows being let out to pasture again. Shorts and t-shirts come out of storage, snowblowers and shovels are put away and lawnmowers are fired up to see if they still work. People venture outside without three layers of clothing to get the mail, and they don’t have to walk like a penguin to keep from slipping and falling on the ice and snow. Yes, spring is a glorious time. If we had tails like the cows, we’d lift them in the air and go skipping and running around our yards, yelling, “It’s Spring! It’s Spring!” at the top of our lungs.

Soon the smell of manure being spread on the fields will be replaced by the wonderful smell of a new-plowed field. There’s a freshness that goes right along with spring’s arrival. When I encounter that smell, I see a deep, long furrow in my mind; the cool, black, turned-over soil on one side of the furrow and old vegetation or last year’s corn stalks on the other side, waiting to be turned under. Birds follow the plow, looking for a meal, as the worms and grubs suddenly find themselves exposed. Once again, nature provides, and some must die so others might live. The fresh smell of earth turned bottom-side-up also brings images of arrowheads, as a young boy follows the plow, hoping to spot one in the new-turned soil.

Many fields seem to grow stones in the spring. We never had a problem on our farm, but many farms harvested a good crop of stones each spring. They sprang from the ground as if the farmer had seeded them in the fall. A stone boat pulled behind the tractor was soon piled high with the new harvest on some farms. Those stones were usually taken to the edge of the field where they were piled up and became the stone fences you can still see in some places. 

Spring was also the time for farmers to mend their fences. Fence lines were checked and new posts replaced old and rotting ones. New wire was strung where needed. Today you can hardly find a fence anywhere that would need repairing. Most have been torn down to make larger fields. 

When I think of the title of this column, “Across the Fence,” I think of fences in a positive way. It’s where neighbors on both sides of the fence met and talked. The main reason for fences on the farm was not to fence your neighbor out, just to keep your cows from straying onto his land. There’s nothing like a herd of cows, trampling and eating their way through a cornfield, to add a bit of tension between neighbors! Heaven forbid if they got in your tobacco field. A herd of dairy cows trampling my father’s tobacco field would have brought out the heavy artillery! As Robert Frost said, “Good fences make good neighbors,” and they keep stray critters from being harmed too.

Yes, the call of spring is in the air, telling us to come outside, soak up the sun, splash through puddles of water, breath in the many smells of the awakening earth, and refresh our spirit after a long winter. There’s something uplifting about a spring day. It reminds us that life is always changing and renewing itself, and a new day is coming. It’s just over the horizon. You can hear it in the sound of the running water and the many smells that remind us that spring has sprung.

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We Make Everything Too Complicated

Acros the Fence #543

Confucius said, “Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated.”

I received this from my good friend and old army buddy, Don Hanson. 

“Some years ago, there was a Mensa convention in San Francisco. Mensa is a national organization for people who have an IQ of 140 or higher. Several of the Mensa members went out for lunch at a local cafe. When they sat down, one of them discovered that their salt shaker contained pepper, and their pepper shaker was full of salt. How could they swap the contents of the two bottles without spilling any, and using only the implements at hand? Clearly – this was a job for brilliant Mensa minds. The group debated the problem and presented ideas and finally, came up with a solution involving a napkin, a straw, and an empty saucer. They called the waitress over, ready to dazzle her with their solution. 

They told the waitress, ‘We couldn't help but notice that the pepper shaker contains salt and the salt shaker contains…’ But before they could finish, the waitress interrupted, ‘Oh, I’m sorry about that.’ She leaned over the table, unscrewed the caps of both bottles and switched them. There was dead silence at the Mensa table.”  

After reading that story, I thought, this is so true of where we are today. We make things too complicated when there are simple solutions. I think we all have that feeling at this time of year after doing our taxes. It seems to get more complicated and harder to understand every year. By the way, if you haven’t sent off your tax forms and money to the IRS, they were due on the 15th. You better get down on your knees and plead for mercy before they come and haul you off to debtor’s prison. I’m always relieved when I have all my tax forms filled out and sent off in time. Mine is about 35 pages long. I think it’d be a lot simpler if I just sent them all my money and they can send back what they don’t want. Don’t think I’d waste my time sitting by the mailbox waiting for that return check to arrive.

When I think back, so many things are much more complicated now. Lets look at how we communicate.

When was the last time you had a great conversation? I don’t mean a one-sided, you listen and I’ll talk, type of conversation. I mean a real give and take, two-sided conversation, an across the fence type exchange of ideas.

Today people communicate with e-mail, text messaging, instant messenger, Twitter, Facebook, cell phones, landline phones, blackberries, voice mail, answering machines, and who knows how many other means of communicating I’m not even aware of. About the only things not used are two tin cans connected with a string, and smoke signals.

We had a phone attached to the wall.

Now people have phones attached to their ears.

Many people seem to have cell phones permanently attached to their ears. They let their fingers do the talking as they type and send text messages on their cell phones. It’s a changing world.

I know what you’re thinking. Those are all ways to communicate, so what’s the problem? Yes, those are all ways to communicate, but the technology keeps getting more complicated. Nothing is simple anymore. 

I know many people prefer to send e-mails or text messages, but where is the personal interaction in that? I prefer to talk face to face with a person or pick up the telephone and give them a call. At least that way, you can have an instant, back and forth conversation, instead of an impersonal, one-sided, question and answer session.

Another area that’s become more complicated is the simple act of watching television. In the ancient days of TV, you had a small screen with a black and white picture. If you were lucky you could get two channels. I know the younger generation will find this hard to believe, but to operate the TV, we had to get up from of our chair and use knobs, to turn it on and off, change the channel, turn the sound up or down, and adjust the vertical and horizontal lines that often interfered with the picture. It was quite simple to operate and we got some exercise at the same time. 

Now we have more channels than I can count. Most of them we never watch and never will, but in order to get the couple channels I like we end up with the whole package. All programs are in color now and you can also get HD (High Definition). You can add a DVR (Digital Video Recorder) to record programs so you can watch them later. If you go someplace you can “Watch TV Anywhere” on your computer and never miss your favorite show. Of course all these things require an army of remotes to program and operate. It helps to have a Doctor of Technology degree or a grandchild to operate them for you. We’ve come a long way in my lifetime from that small, black and white TV that could give you a hernia trying to lift, to the gigantic flat screens of today.

Life used to be simple, but we’ve definitely made it more complicated. I wonder what Confucius would think about all this paperwork and technology?

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Truth, White Lies, and Memories

Across the Fence #542

I recently did a day-long writing class for the Viroqua Women’s Literary Club. They’ve been in existence since 1899. That’s quite an accomplishment. I call my class “Truth, White Lies, and Memories.” I know it’s a strange title, but it sums up what reminiscence writing is all about. You rely on your memory to tell a story to the best of your recollection, and fill in the memory lapses with how you think it was, which in some cases will be little white lies.

Eleven women participated in the class. They were a wonderful group and I thoroughly enjoyed the day. Many wonderful stories were written that brought both laughter and tears to the group when they were read. Whenever I do a writing class, there are some people who don’t think they can write. I like to tell those people, “Think of yourself as a storyteller, not as a writer. Tell us a story about your life and don’t worry about grammar, punctuation, or spelling. You can work on that later during the editing process. Just, let your thoughts flow and get them on paper. Become a storyteller.

 Joanne Olson, left, and Pauline Buckland, right, were deep in thought 
and concentration when they took part in the Truth, White Lies, and Memories writing class.

As the day progressed, many stories found their way from memories to paper. People were surprised at how much they could write about a subject in a short period of time.

Everyone has stories to tell. Your memories are a history of the time period you occupied here on this earth. All your stories are important, especially to family members. What I wouldn’t give to have journals written by my parents and grandparents telling about their life, what they were doing, and what they were thinking. I love history so I’m always looking for accounts of what life was like during the time my great grandparents arrived in America and settled in the Coon Prairie and Bloomingdale area. If they had left writings behind, they would be priceless to me.

I think of my grandmother, Julia (Wang) Hanson. She was born Julie Vang in Norway. In 1900, at the young age of 13, she and her 17-year-old brother, Ole, left their home on the Vang farm near Skreia, Norway and sailed down Lake Mjøsa to Oslo, then known as Kristiania, where they boarded a ship to sail to America. They also left behind their parents and five younger siblings who would come to America three years later. What was my grandmother thinking as she left her family and everything she had known behind and set sail for a strange land across the ocean? What was that ocean voyage like? What did she think when she saw the Statue of Liberty and was processed through Ellis Island? How did they find their way to Wisconsin and Coon Prairie and reunite with three sisters who had left earlier? They had no concept of where or how far it was. They only spoke Norwegian. Remember, they were only 13 and 17 years old. Try to imagine what it must have been like for them. I have so many questions now. Why didn’t I ask them of her when she was still alive? 

Now do you see why it’s so important to write things about your life? The events may not seem that important to you now, because you’re living them. But someday, someone will be very grateful to you for providing a window into what life was like when you were here. That’s why I always tell my writing classes it’s important to write or record your memories and thoughts about things. Don’t take them to the grave with you. Our cemeteries are filled with countless untold stories.

Another thing I do in my writing class is have people write their thoughts about a subject. We want to know not only what you were doing here, but also what you were thinking. There are many things we think or believe, but don’t express our opinions about, because the subject can lead to arguments, or we’re afraid of what people will think about us. I told the class I try to stay away from political and religious subjects in my “Across the Fence” column. It’s not that I don’t have strong opinions, but it’s not what people expect to read in my column. Most people want to take a walk with me down memory lane, back to how things used to be. My stories become their stories as they remember similar experiences in their life. I have many writings that are too long, too short, too controversial, or too “far out” as John Denver used to say. They’re the type of stories my late friend, Norbert Blei, would have loved. He wrote a book titled “Meditations On A Small Lake.” It’s a compilation of essays about life, or as he called it, “A small book of beauty and bitching.”

I don’t have a small lake nearby, but we have the wide-open Coon Prairie. I’m working on a book of stories that will never appear in Across the Fence. I told the writing class I’ll call it “Meditations On the Open Prairie.” Just like the open prairie, you’ll need an open mind to read it.

I hope I inspired the ladies of the Viroqua Women’s Literary Club to keep writing. They certainly inspired me.

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Three Snows On A Robin's Tail

Across the Fence #541

The Old Farmers says, “Spring will finally arrive after three snows on a robin’s tail.” I saw my first robin of the year last week. Along with temperatures in the 60s at the time, it gave me hope that spring was here. I should know better than to get too excited in March. I’ve lived in Wisconsin long enough to know that April snow showers often replace April showers.

Robin sightings and 60’s were last week. Today I’d have to dig through seven or more inches of snow to find a robin. I think we can safely count this snowfall as one snow on a robin’s tail. Only two more snows to go. I don’t think all those robins I saw last week are very happy with winter making a return engagement. Could we blame them if they up and fly south again? 

It’s been a busy week around our place with all the birds coming and going. The redwing blackbirds, grackles, and starlings all returned last week too. Large flocks have been occupying our lawn. They didn’t seem too happy this morning either, as they sat in the snow under our feeders and scratched in the snow trying to find the birdseed buried under drifts of new, white stuff. 

I also heard and saw many killdeers during my morning walks last week. I think all the migratory birds are wishing they’d spent a couple extra weeks down south. The arrival of all these migrating birds is a sign that spring is coming even if we can’t see or feel it. We just need a couple more snows on a poor robin’s tail. We’ll keep count and see if the Old Farmer is right.

There’s been no lack of feathered activity in Sherpeland. I spotted a bald eagle feasting on something in the field behind our house yesterday. A large crow was standing about three feet away and appeared to be rather irritated with the eagle. Three other crows circled overhead. I didn’t see what happened before I noticed them, but I suspect the eagle was an uninvited guest at the crow’s feast. The brave crow could only watch while the eagle dined alone. After several minutes the eagle lifted its great wings and flew off to the west. The crows then returned to see if any of their meal was left. They soon headed for our back yard feeders to see if there was anything to eat.

All the crow can do is watch and wait.

This is the time of year when activity around the bird feeders begins to change. The chickadees and white-breasted nuthatches have all but disappeared. Sparrows and a few juncos are still busy. Cardinals, blue jays, downy woodpeckers, northern flickers, and mourning doves have been our guests all winter. I love to hear the sound of the mourning doves as they talk to each other in the seclusion of the trees and brush. I hope everyone has had the pleasure of hearing the whistle made by their wings as they take flight. One day I counted 24 mourning doves dining on the ground under our feeders.

Mourning Doves visit us all year round.

This morning the birds couldn’t get at the seeds under all the snow until I was able to clear it away. I then spread fresh seed on the ground. Birds attacked the area like they hadn’t eaten in weeks. Flocks of grackles soon took over the area, strutting about in their shimmering coats of black, with purplish-blue iridescent heads and necks. They acted like they were royalty and owned the place. Sprinkled among the grackles were redwing blackbirds. The red and yellow patch on their wings made them stand out in a sea of black. There were also a few starlings among the invading army of birds. Many people lump the grackles and starlings together and refer to them all as starlings, but there are striking differences between the two. Starlings have a yellow bill, while grackles have a black bill. Starlings have an overall speckled appearance and a shorter tail. All three “black-colored” birds seem to travel together in large flocks when they migrate. Our yard seems to be a favorite stopover on their travel itinerary each spring and fall. They eat everything in sight. I think I should be allowed to claim them as dependents on my tax return each year. 

Spring migration. Notice all the birds on the lawn.

I almost forgot to mention the pair of ring-necked pheasants I’ve seen and heard many times, usually early in the morning. Red-tailed hawks also like to circle lazily over the field behind our house. They appear suspended on a column of invisible air as they slowly rise and fall so effortlessly as they search for mice and voles in the fields. When they perch in the large tree along the fence line, the woods suddenly become quiet as all the birds seek shelter. They don’t want to become a happy meal for a hungry hawk.

Winter giving way to spring is a transition time for our feathered friends. Our yard becomes like an airline terminal with new arrivals and departures each day. It’s a fun time to observe the comings and goings. Last week when the weather was still mild, I heard the wonderful sound of geese heading north. That’s a sure sign that spring can’t be far behind. Now we just need those two more snowfalls on a robin’s tail and we’re almost there.

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Recess Was Having Fun Playing

Across the Fence #540

While Linda and I were having lunch with her brother, Lon, in Madison recently, we started talking about games we used to play during recess in grade school. Lon is a retired 3rd grade teacher. 

We told him how we liked to drive around the Amish areas near us and watch the children out playing during noon recess. One day before the snow all melted we drove by the school on Pa’s Road near Bloomingdale to watch the children sledding and skiing. You could tell they were having so much fun as they slid down a long hill into the woods. There was constant activity as some kids were sliding down the hill and others were running back up, pulling their sleds behind them. It reminded me of our days in a small, one-room country school where one teacher taught all eight grades and the children created their own fun during recess.

Another day we watched children chasing each other around the school house at another school in the area. It was a cold day and our car’s temperature said it was seven degrees below zero. A little cold weather didn’t stop these children from having fun and getting lots of exercise. These same Amish children walk to and from school every day too, just like many of you did when you were in school. There are no buses to haul them door to door.

Now the weather is milder and spring is on the way. The sleds and skis are put away and have been replaced by balls, bats, and gloves. We enjoy seeing them playing ball on their small playgrounds too. Boys and girls of all ages play together, just like we did at Smith School. We didn’t need a teacher telling us what to do at recess. We always came up with some sort of game or activity to keep us busy.

Lon told us that things have changed on the playground since those days. Today, children have become accustomed to an adult leader telling them what to do, because children become involved in organized sports and activities at an early age. One day when he was on playground supervision duty during recess, the kids were standing around and not doing anything. They told him, “We’re bored.” “Then lets all get together and play a game,” he suggested. “What game?” they wanted to know. Lon told them about a game called “Pom Pom Pull Away” that he used to play in grade school. He showed them how it was played. Two goal lines were established. Then one person was chosen to be “It” and stood halfway between the two lines. Everyone else lined up on one line. When the “It” person yelled “Pom Pom Pull Away” everyone took off running and tried to cross the other line before they were touched by the “It” person. If you got caught you joined “It” as one of the catchers. The last person caught was “It” for the next game. Everyone thought it was a great game and they had fun playing during the remainder of the recess.

The next day Lon wasn’t on playground duty and when the kids returned from recess, he asked if they had played Pom Pom Pull Away again. “No,” they said, “We were bored.” He asked them why they didn’t play. “You weren’t there to tell us what to do,” they replied. “Why didn’t you just pick a person to be ‘It’ and play the game?” They didn’t seem to think they could do that without an adult in charge. We think those early, organized sports and activities don’t give kids a chance to just be kids, choose up sides, play a game, and have fun. They could even make up their own games and rules, just like we did.

Do you remember choosing up sides using a baseball bat? Two older kids would pick each team. They put one hand over the other on the bat. Whoever ended up holding the knob on the bat handle got to choose first. It was always tough to be chosen last, but even that person had a chance to score the winning run or make a big catch. In our small, country schools there weren’t always enough older kids to make two teams. We often had to play “Workup.” I think most people who attended a one-room school know what that is. You rotated positions every time there was an out. The person who was out, headed for the outfield and the catcher became a batter. In “Workup” you got to play every position. If you had at least 13 players you had four batters and nine fielders. If you only had 11 players, you had two batters. If one was on base they had to reach home during a hit or they were out. It made for some exciting games. Needless to say, there was no score and no one lost. Everyone was a winner because everyone got to play and have fun.

With the arrival of spring weather, the crack of the bat, and the excited voices of children having fun will be heard again, especially on the small playgrounds of the one-room schools in Amish Country. Those sights and sounds bring back a lot of memories to many of us.

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Searching for Spring and Memories

Across the Fence #539

In the Driftless Area, when the temperature climbs to 40 degrees, the long underwear comes off and the shorts go on. We’re a hardy bunch who are ready to welcome spring and say good riddance to winter for another year.

The temperature has reached the 50s this week, the snow is disappearing fast, and the water is running. That’s a sign that spring has arrived, at least for the moment. Every spring, the little valley behind our house transforms into a flowing stream as melted snow converges from all directions. It forms one large stream in the lower part of our back forty and then continues its westward journey.

Today I set the snowshoes aside and broke out my knee-high rubber boots. I knew I’d need them if I wanted to hike around the back forty and watch the water flow. It’s something I did when I was young, and have done every spring since we moved back on the farm. For me it’s a rite of passage from the long, cold days of winter to the promise of spring and the emergence of new life.

It was in search of spring that I began my hike today. The warmth of the sun felt good. The temperature reached the mid-50s as I walked down the lane, along the fence line, where large drifts of snow still held their ground. I tried walking through the snow but sank in almost to the top of my rubber boots. I decided walking at the edge of the field would be easier. I quickly found that wherever I walked would be a challenge on this day. My boots sank into the soft, muddy earth and corn stubble. There was also a heavy layer of manure on the field…liquid manure. Every step I took was an effort as I sank deeper into the muck the farther down the field I went. After all, water and manure flow downhill. The smell was enough to gag a maggot, but I struggled on, determined not to let a manure quagmire stop me. My mind wandered back to the cartoonist I wrote about recently, who made fun of rubes down on the farm smelling like manure. There I was, an old farm boy, standing in a field of manure. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hard on him in the letter I wrote. He never did respond.

Sunlight shimmers on the water running through the back forty.

I finally reached the area where the water was flowing along through the lowest part of the valley. It created a marsh that was too deep and wide to cross. I backtracked along the old fence line that ran alongside the pond. At one time it was an electric fence to keep the heifers that we kept there all summer, from getting into the corn and hay. 

I always like to observe and examine things I find during my hikes. Most of the fence line was now gone but a few posts and wire remained. I looked at the old wood post with green fungus growing on it. I could still picture my father bending down on one knee next to the post, pounding the insulator on. Then stringing the wire across it and twisting another piece of wire around it to secure it to the insulator. So many years ago, and yet the work he did with his large, powerful hands is still there. I spotted some milkweed pods peeking out of the snow near the post. Most were empty, but two still had seeds in them. I stuck them in my pocket and will see if I can get them to germinate. I’ll plant them near our house to provide food for the Monarchs. My father always left weeds and brush along fence lines. He said the wildlife needed it for habitat. Maybe those seeds are descendants of plants he let live along that fence many years ago.

I continued my walk, past the pond that was overflowing. There was still evidence in the snow alongside the pond of a well-used deer trail. I kept going, but the melting snow and water became deeper. This is the point where water from the south joins the streams coming from the north and east. As I stood there watching the water rush by, with sunlight sparkling and shimmering on it, I was reminded of a time when I was young and standing in the same general area. I took a photo at that time of our dog, Duke, who loved to go exploring and searching for spring with my brother, David, and me. He was half German Shepherd and half Norwegian Elkhound, a big, powerful dog who protected his territory and us. He loved wading through the water and getting wet. 

Duke, taken around 1960 in the back forty.

This was also near the spot where David and I buried a box full of Dad’s old Indian head pennies while playing pirates. We made a great treasure map that fell down between the walls of our house when I tried hiding it in the attic. We never found where we buried the box and Dad was not a happy camper. One day we ran into a skunk near the pond and it chased David and me. But that’s a story for another day.

As I stood there, so many memories flowed by, along with the water. When I finally arrived home, I was muddy and tired, but felt renewed. I had created new memories for another day.

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