Lightning Bugs and the Beauty of July

Across the Fence #554


Sometimes life boils down to simple pleasures, like watching lightning bugs (Fireflies to some people) as they light up our backyard. Observing them is like a simple, childlike experience, filled with curiosity. How can all those little bugs light up? As children we’d run after them, catch them, and put them into a Mason jar with air holes punched into the lid. After we had captured several and watched in wonder as they lit up the jar like a lantern, we released them so they could be free to fly again. Off they would go into the dark, but always letting us know where they were headed as they continued to light up and glow.

The warm, humid evenings of July are when lightning bugs love to become active. Many people don’t like the heat. I like it. I think we tend to over air-condition our lives. As a result, it feels so much hotter when we do venture outside. I’ve been some places where I have to go outside to warm up. 

Along with that, if you don’t go outside in July, you’re missing so much. You need to sit in the cool shade and listen to the wind in the trees. Watch and listen to the wind moving through tall grass along fence lines. Listen to the joyous sounds of all the birds. Watch butterflies darting among the flowers. Enjoy the evenings when the night comes alive with wonderful sights and sounds. Watch the fireflies put on their light show, lie back and gaze up at the star-filled sky, and let the crickets, frogs, and tree toad chorus serenade you. July evenings are something special.

Sometimes I think we all need to get back to the innocence and curiosity about the world around us that we had as children. We lose much of our wide-eyed wonder about the world as we grow older and more skeptical and cynical.

It's curiosity and wonder at the world around us that keeps the creative juices flowing. Without creativity we’re just a bunch of robots following the lead of those embedded in old thinking and ideas, and afraid to venture outside the safety of the box and try new things and embrace new ideas.

Watching lightning bugs is a good place to start. They remind me that I don't need to know how something works to enjoy the beauty and mystery of it. Again, it’s still the simple things in life that are the big things that make life magical. Those are the moments we don't want to miss. For me they become spiritual experiences.

If I could begin the calendar year, I’d never begin the year on January 1st. It’s often bitterly cold, the world is covered in a layer of white, and very few people or animals are active. Animals and birds with any sense, are either hibernating or have flown south for the winter. I’d start at the halfway point… I’d start with July. It’s a beautiful time of year. The world is alive with color and life. Trees and bushes are filled with leaves of every shade of green. I like to say 101 shades of green. Crops in the fields are growing. Corn is usually knee-high or more by the 4th of July. This is when the earth is alive, and it rubs off on all who inhabit the land. Who could venture along a tree-lined country road, where the ditches are filled with colorful wildflowers, and feel depressed?

But I’m also a realist and know that not everything about July is positive to everyone. I don’t care much for all the mosquitoes and pesky bugs either, especially the gnats. After the rain we’ve had lately, there should be no shortage of mosquitoes. On the positive side, the birds love them. The barn swallows have a field day as they swoop and dart about snatching the bugs out of the air as I walk through the grass stirring them up.

*

Living In Rural America Is Special

Across theFence #553


I like to think back to the way it was when people were still visiting across the fence and their neighbors were like family. If someone became ill or got hurt and couldn’t do their chores or harvest their crops, neighbors quickly pitched in and helped harvest the crops for them.

Howard and Pete Erikson visit across the fence.

You often hear people say that when you live in a small town, everybody knows your business. They know what you’re doing and if they don’t know what you’re doing, they make something up. That’s OK too. As long as you’re not doing something illegal, or causing harm to people, why should we care what people are saying about us. Who knows, maybe they’re saying positive things.

When I was young most of us cousins lived close together. Everybody was like one big extended family. Now we’re scattered to the four winds of the country. It’s a global world and sometimes in the global world the small contact between people gets lost as we all get caught up in our lives. Nobody knows what we’re doing or what’s going on in our lives. We tend to drift apart. Those close family ties get harder to maintain.

This new adventure I find myself on has given me a chance to sit back and re-evaluate a lot of things. One thing I’ve learned these past couple weeks is that the spirit of helping and support from family, friends, and neighbors is still very much alive and well in small town, rural America. I’m proud to be a small part of that culture. It’s something we should all wear with great pride. I’ve always been proud of being a country boy, a farm boy at heart.

We hear and see so much on the news about the cruelty and intolerance of people to each other. It’s all about me and what I want. There’s a divisive, non-cooperative attitude that seems to have invaded politics and has spread like a cancer into society. People need to visit rural America. I have seen a positive side in people that gives me much hope again.

I once heard a saying by the Dali Lama that pretty much sums up how I feel about things; “The purpose of life is to help people, if you can’t help them, at least don’t hurt them.” I’ve tried to make that a goal in my life since the first time I heard it. That would make a pretty good epitaph on anyone’s tombstone too.

We need to become better, more caring, supportive, and tolerant neighbors. Not just across the fence, but to people around the world. I was lucky when I was in the army, because they decided I would be a medic. That put me in a position where I was able to help people, instead of just hurt them. I think I’m still in medic mode a lot of the time. I may not be able to help them medically anymore, but I can be there to listen and offer support when needed. I’m still Doc and always will be to my Vietnam Brothers. I can’t tell you how supportive they’ve been since they found out about my health problems. We need to look for the positives in every situation–even a very negative experience like Vietnam. In a way it was a blessing. I would never have made those close friendships that are just as strong today as they were almost 50 years go.

I received a phone call from a friend of our son, Erik, who battled cancer for many years. He’s now cancer free. He said he’s come to view his cancer as a blessing because it changed his life and what is now important to him. I’m starting to look at this cancer in the same way. Instead of it being a curse, I hope to emerge as a better person who looks at the world in a very positive light. We can’t let negative people and their thinking bring us down. 

I feel that living here in small town, rural America where neighbors still care and we can visit across the fence with each other, gives me an advantage. Life is good and I don’t want to waste a moment. There is so much to do and experience in all the small moments in life, that really add up to the moments that mean something, the ones that touch our soul and lift our spirit; the beauty of a sunset, rain gently falling on the leaves, the wind blowing through the trees, watching rabbits in our yard chasing each other–after all it is spring, watching a newborn fawn totter along behind it’s mother on wobbly legs, appreciating the beauty of wild flowers along the roads and lanes, hearing the frog chorus down by the pond, watching as darkness begins to envelop the land and solitude arrives. There is a peacefulness that comes over me as the stars come out and I gaze around and observe the majesty and mystery of it all. It’s all those small details in our lives that we need to appreciate. Those of us who live in rural America have the advantage because nature is a big part of who we are.

*

The Empty Haymow

Across the Fence #552

Haymows around the country will soon be filling up with hay again. Most people look at the haymow of an old barn as a place where hay was stored, and then fed to the cows during the long, winter months when cows were kept in the barn.

But, the haymow was also a playground for farm kids, especially on rainy spring days, when it was empty before haying began.

We had an old barn with a timber frame structure, just like most barns were constructed in those days. Now barns are built different and don’t lend themselves to the activities we engaged in.

I know we weren’t the only kids who played in an empty haymow and I bet many of you could tell me stories about the things you did. Of course you always hear stories about farm boys and neighbor girls playing in the haymow and perhaps that’s where they experienced a first kiss. In order to protect the guilty, I won’t ask any of you to divulge your secrets and I’ll plead the 5th amendment also!

Our barn had heavy timber beams that ran the width of the barn. They were probably about ten feet above the floor of the haymow. We’d climb up the wood timber braces to reach that horizontal beam. Then the fun began and it was just high enough to be a little scary too. You could pretend you were a circus high-wire aerialist and walk the beam from one side of the barn to the other.

I should point out that there was just enough loose hay left on the floor of the haymow to cushion your fall if you lost your balance. I guess we never considered the possibility of falling headfirst and breaking our neck!

Those cross beams were also the perfect place to pretend you were a paratrooper, jumping boldly out of an airplane. Of course we were tough Norwegian kids. We jumped without a chute. Or maybe that shows a lack of brains instead of courage! When you’re young, standing on a narrow beam ten feet above the landing area, it seemed like a long way down. Add another five feet or so above that, up to where our eyes were looking down from, and it was downright scary. We yelled, “Geronimo!” when we jumped. That must have been something we picked up from war movies of real paratroopers jumping out of airplanes. Even with all that practice I never had the desire to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. More power to all of you who did go airborne, but for me, I’ll stick to ground-pounding.

Another source of fun and adventure in an empty haymow was the hay rope. It ran the length of the barn up in the peak, but the end hung down and we could climb on it or swing from it. We played Tarzan with that rope. Standing on that cross beam again, we’d grab the rope, and swing out over the empty haymow. If we were lucky, we’d swing back far enough to grab the beam again, although sometimes we crashed into it.  I’m really surprised we never hurt ourselves seriously.

Other times we’d make a mound of hay on the floor. As we swung out and reached the highest point of the arc, we’d let go and try to land in the middle of the pile below. It worked best if you gave the Tarzan yell as you launched out into the air, but it turned into a scream as you plummeted to the floor of the haymow! I don’t know how to spell the Tarzan yell, so you’ll just have to yell it out as you read this to get the full affect. Then add a very long, blood-curdling “Aaaaahhhhhh!” as you let go of the rope. Next, imagine a loud thud and the air being suddenly forced out of a body as it smacks into the floor, just short of the pile of hay. We’d stagger to our feet, fighting for breath and say, “Uff da, that was really a dumb thing to do,” and then climb back up and do it again!

But, that wasn’t the most dangerous or dumb thing we did. Sometimes, we shimmied up the rope to the peak of the barn and grabbed hold of the wooden track that ran the length of the barn. That’s what the pulley that carried the hayfork ran on. From that point we could boost ourselves up into the tin cupola on the top of the barn, where the pigeons lived. Did I mention this was very high up in the air in an empty haymow.  If we’d fallen from that height it would probably have killed us… not the fall, but that sudden stop at the bottom. We must have thought about that possibility, but when you’re young, you know it could never happen to you.

If Dad had known some of the stupid things we did in that empty haymow, we’d have had bigger things to worry about than falling!

Now, the kind of adventures and fun we had in those old haymows, where our imaginations created our world, seems to be another thing of the past. As I drive by an old, abandoned barn, I like to imagine kids playing in the empty haymow and I wonder, “What kind of wonderful adventures did they have?”

*

Stop and Smell the Dandelions

Across the Fence #552


This is the time of year when all those little yellow flowers start appearing in lawns all over the country, including ours, but we live in the country now and don't have any close neighbors that have to worry about our dandelion seeds blowing onto their yards.

 I'm not going to worry about the dandelions this year. I might even go out, pick a few, and smell them. When we lived in Madison, we had neighbors surrounding us. If their lawns were nice and green, they didn’t appreciate dandelions. I also spent a lot of time, money, and effort trying to kill them. But this year things have changed. 

I recently came across a speed bump on the Uff Da Bahn of life. Everything looks a lot different to me right now. As some of you already know from comments made by editors, I’m dealing with some health problems.

 I’d like to address those problems so you have an idea what’s going on. I don't plan to hide anything. I can tell you right now, before I go any farther, I plan to keep writing this column as long as I can and as long as there are people who want to read it. 

During the past couple months, I started having problems with the left side of my body and my left hand. I always write my stories longhand first on a yellow pad and then type it into the computer. My handwriting greatly deteriorated. I’d try and reread what I had written so I could type it into a file. I had problems using my computer. Everything came out wrong. I thought something was wrong with my computer and had that checked. Linda could use it just fine. I started knocking over coffee cups, and dropping things. It was like carpal tunnel in my left hand. I’ve had that before and couldn't open a gas cap or the top of a bottle. Many little things were piling up. Then I noticed my thinking and reasoning was not as clear. Linda realized when we were out driving that my decision-making was slow. The light would turn green and I'd still be sitting there. A lot of little things were cropping up. I was still walking 2 to 3 miles a day, but found it was getting harder and harder to find the energy to start. I was unsteady on my feet. 

We were scheduled to leave on a 8-day bus trip to NewYork City on May 16. I knew it was not a good time to be going on a trip. Thankfully, we decided to cancel.                                                                                                       

On May 21, I tried getting off my riding mower and couldn't move my left leg. I came in the house and Linda said we’re going right to the clinic. Dr. Fouts was there and able to see me. They did some testing and blood tests. It was decided I should have an MRI. On Saturday, May 23 at 12:30, I had a full body and brain MRI scan. An hour later I was on my way to Gundersen Health Center ER in La Crosse. I would spend the next week at Gundersen on the neurology science floor. I walked in. The nurse said to me, “People don't usually walk in here. They ride in a wheelchair.” I told her, “I plan to walk out too.” 

Steroid treatment was begun immediately to shrink the swelling in my brain. Other tests were done to see what kind of movement I still had left on my left-hand side and they did therapy sessions twice a day to help me do things I had trouble doing. I had another MRI scan to better isolate what was going on. The surgeons had a very good idea what I had from studying the scans. The plan was to do exploratory surgery and a biopsy. On Thursday, May 28th, I had surgery that confirmed what the doctors expected. I have a malignant brain tumor called Glioblastoma. To put it mildly, if you're going to have a brain tumor it’s not the one you want. It’s probably the most aggressive, fastest-growing brain tumor you can have. It’s situated on the right hand side of my brain on the control panel for the left-hand side of my body. Surgical removal is not an option. The plan is to use radiation and chemo drugs to try and slow down the growth and hopefully reduce the size to keep more pressure off my control center. Now it ‘s wait until June18th when they remove the staples and make sure the incision in my skull has healed properly. Then we can begin radiation treatments every day for six weeks. At the same time, I’ll also be undergoing chemotherapy treatment every day. After that we go to chemo only for the next month and then another MRI to see where we are.

I’m in full fighting mode! I come from a long line of Viking warriors. The VC and NVA in Vietnam couldn‘t kill me, and I plan to battle this hitchhiker in my brain and kick the crap out of it too.  

People who thought I didn’t have brain, will now have to eat their words. The surgeon found one. 

By the way, I did walk out, when I was released after surgery. The nurse let me walk out my door into the hall, where I agreed to ride in the wheelchair so she wouldn’t get in trouble. That was important to me.

So that's where we are. There are many things I can't do with my left hand at this point, including operate a computer. Just drinking a cup of coffee can be a challenge. 

The worst part has been not being able to write. I couldn’t write longhand or on the computer. I'm very lucky, this past weekend my son-in-law Tim, installed the Dragon program on my computer, a voice recognition program, so I'm writing this story by sitting here and talking into a microphone and it converts what I say into words. It will take some practice getting used to, but it’s working great. Across the Fence is back in business.

Photo by friend and relative, Jon Olav Andersen in Toten, Norway.

Meanwhile, I urge everyone to stop and smell the dandelions. Look around you and enjoy all the little details in your life. Live life to the fullest and don’t waste a precious moment.

*

Ellis Tobacco Planters Stir Memories

Across the Fence #548

“Summertime and the livin’ is easy.” Those words from an old song certainly didn’t apply to life on the farm. There was always work to do, especially if you had dairy cows and raised tobacco!

Recently at the Senior Meal site in Westby, we got talking about tobacco planting, and the subject of Ellis tobacco planters came up. Every farm that raised tobacco had one. 

When we lived in Madison, our neighbor across the street was Homer Ellis. One day I told him about an Ellis tobacco planter we had used. He informed me that HIS company in Verona manufactured those planters we had spent so many, long hours on! Orville Clark, who mentioned the Ellis planters during our meal, also knew Homer, because he used to drive to the Ellis plant in Verona to pick up planters and bring them back to the Westby area. 

Our discussion about Ellis tobacco planters got me to thinking about the process of raising tobacco and how what was once such a common practice, will soon be only a memory. There’s little or no tobacco raised around here now, but for many years tobacco was the major cash crop on many farms in Vernon County. It paid the taxes and many other bills, but was a very labor-intensive crop. It started in the spring when the tobacco beds were steamed and seeded and didn’t end until the tobacco had been stripped and sold, which usually occurred in January.

Before tobacco seeds were sown in plant beds, the soil was sterilized by steaming. This helped control diseases, weeds and insects. 

I remember the excitement as I watched Bernard Ostrem’s big steam engine lumbering slowly down our road with billows of black smoke belching from the smoke stack. The driver stood in back on a platform between two large, steel wheels. When he pulled on a cord, the whistle would erupt with a loud, piercing sound that could be heard throughout the countryside.

One year when I was very young, the steamer blew up. My cousin, Sandy, and I were so frightened by the explosion, we didn’t venture outside the house for days. This was just after the end of World War II and Sandy thought the Germans were coming and had bombed our farm!

To steam the soil, a rectangular pan on wheels, around 4’x16’, was dropped down where the tobacco beds would be located. A hose running from the steamer to the pan provided the steam. After about 30 minutes the pan was moved and the process repeated.

After the soil had been steamed, the tobacco seeds were sown in wood-framed beds and covered with a muslin-type cover for protection. The beds were watered every day and the plants soon filled the beds. When they were 6”-8” tall they were ready to be picked and transplanted in the field.

Even before we were old enough to plant, we helped water the beds and picked plants, placing them carefully in boxes and bushel baskets. 

When I was nine years old, I learned to “drop” tobacco. I was left handed, so my mother didn’t have to change sides and continued to drop right-handed. My father drove the John Deere B tractor that pulled the planter.  

The Ellis tobacco planter consisted of a large barrel filled with water, mounted on two large iron wheels. The two “droppers” sat on low iron seats just inches off the ground behind the barrel with their feet stretched out in front of them and resting on foot pegs under the barrel. It was not very comfortable. A board rested on our laps and the tobacco plants were piled on the boards. As the planter went slowly across the field, the shovel or “shoe,” as it was called, located between the two droppers, made a small furrow in the soil. With each click, water filled the hole, and the dropper inserted a plant. The furrow then closed around the plant and the process was repeated for the other dropper. If you inserted the plant too deep, the stem would break, if planted too shallow, it would also die. There was an “art” to dropping tobacco! The droppers would get into the rhythm of the clicks, with never a moment to even scratch an itchy nose for fear of missing a plant. This went on for row after row, hour after hour, day after day, until all ten acres of our tobacco had been planted.

It was hot, dirty work with little time to talk, especially when learning to drop. Ma often took my turn also, when I became confused and was about to miss. Dad didn’t look kindly on missing plants and would stop when he saw a blank space in another row. He’d make me get off and plant it by hand and give me “H” if too many plants were missing.

David and Howard planting on the old Ellis planter.

Hans Sherpe on the John Deere B.

My brother, David, began dropping a couple years later and we planted many acres together over the next years. We were quite a team and hardly ever missed a plant. I think that came from our fear of catching it if we did! Janet and Arden took over the planting duties after we left for college.        

Arden and Janet planting on the new Ellis planter.

Hans Sherpe still driving the John Deere B.

By then Dad had a newer version of the Ellis planter. I wonder if Orville delivered that planter to our farm from Verona?

*

Name Your Great Grandparents

Across the Fence #547

I once read a statement that said, “100 years from now, even our direct  descendants won’t remember our name.” I’ve been involved with genealogy and researching our family history for many years, so that seemed like a rather harsh statement to me. 100 years ago some of my great grandparents were still alive. I know their names. Then I started asking people to tell me the names of their great grandparents. Very few people could give me an answer. I didn’t ask them to tell me any details about their lives, not even when or where they were born and died. I didn’t ask if they knew where they were buried. I just wanted them to tell me their names. Most people couldn’t even name one.

How quickly we are forgotten, once our journey on planet Earth is over. I was wrong. That statement wasn’t being overly harsh. It was true. I guess if I wasn’t involved in family history research, I’d be clueless too.

During this season of Syttende Mai, when those of us with Norwegian roots celebrate those roots and our Norwegian heritage, lets take some time to look back and discover who our great grandparents were. At least try to find out what their names were. Even if you don’t have Norwegian roots, it’s still a good time to discover where your roots are and who the people are who had an important part in your being here today. 

When we talk about great grandparents we’re only dealing with eight people. We should be able to remember eight names. On my father’s side I have Hans Hanson Sherpe who married Lisa Larsdatter Tomtingen, and Jonas Tonneson Ostrem who married Ane Jensdatter Mageland. On my mother’s side I have Ole Hanson Rustaden who married Anna Christiansdatter Gulseth, and Christian Evenson Borgen who married Lene Evensdatter Vang (Wang).

Granted, Norwegian ancestry can be a bit confusing until you understand the Norwegian naming system. Then it all makes sense. I know the names of my great grandparents, when and where they were born, and when they died. They were all born in Norway and I know where each of them is buried in Vernon County, Wisconsin. What I regret is that I know so little about their lives between their birth and death dates. That – (dash) between the birth and death dates contains the story of their lives. It’s the dash that we know so little about.

What will people know about the dash in your life 100 years from now? Or doesn’t it matter? 

So many times I’ve read the obituary of someone I knew and discovered things about them that I never knew. If only I had known while they were alive, I could have asked them questions about it. We all know, and have known, a lot of people, but did we really know them? When I realize how little I really knew about someone after reading their obituary, “I can’t help but ask myself “Why didn’t I know?” Was I too busy talking about myself instead of asking questions and listening to what they were saying? We can learn more with an open mind and ears, than we can with an open mouth.

This Syttende Mai, start a journey in search of your roots by learning the names of your great grandparents. Then find out when they were born and when they died. Find out where they were buried and take a road trip in search of their graves. Bring a flower and place it on their grave. Chances are; no one has remembered them with a flower for many years. They aren’t just names on a tombstone. They are part of who you are. I think it’s important that we take a few minutes out of our lives to remember our ancestors and families who are no longer with us.

About 20 years ago we found the grave of my great, great grandfather, Hans Hanson Skjerpe, who came to America with his second wife and family in 1864. We were exited to find the original Norwegian spelling of the Sherpe name on his tombstone. I don’t know how long it had been since anyone had paused for a second at his stone to reflect on the life of this man, but no one could even remember hearing his name mentioned, including my father, who was still alive at the time. This was my father’s great grandfather, and he had never heard of him. No one even knew his final resting place was at Bethel Cemetery between Westby and Viroqua, let alone that he had once existed. This was another case of “100 years from now, even our direct descendants won’t remember our name.”  He‘s no longer forgotten. Several years ago, my brother, Arden Sherpe, our cousin, David Ostrem, and myself, with our father doing the supervising, straightened up his tombstone, which had tilted and was in danger of falling over. It still looks great. We have also remembered him with a flower at his grave. 

Three Sherpe descendants at the grave of their Great, Great, Great Grandfather, Hans Hanson Skjerpe in the Bethel Cemetery. Kneeling in Front: Katelyn Sherpe, standing: Amy Sherpe Davis, on right: Erik Hans Sherpe. They remembered their ancestor by helping plant flowers.

Memorial Day will soon be here. It’s a good time to remember your ancestors by leaving a flower on their grave. It’s a small gesture, but an   important one.

*

The Importance of the Kitchen Table

Across the Fence #546

The kitchen table was the central point of the family universe in almost every home. It was the heartbeat of a family. Think of the importance that simple kitchen table played in your life. Think of all the activities that took place around it. It wasn’t just a place to eat your meals; it was where news was shared, where you talked about what was going on in the world and in your lives, where the day’s activities were discussed, and yes, where arguments sometimes took place.

The thing that put this story idea about kitchen tables in my mind, was a video I watched on the Internet. It showed a family sitting around a table and eating. I should say; the mother and father were eating. The two teenage children were checking their cell phones, busy receiving and sending text messages. The father couldn’t get their attention to pass the salt. The next scene shows the father sitting at the table with an old-fashioned typewriter in front of him. He’s busy pounding away at the keys and hitting the return bar. It makes a lot of noise, as anyone who’s used a typewriter knows. The two kids look at their father like he has gone nuts. ”What are you doing?” He doesn’t answer. He keeps pounding the keys. Suddenly a light bulb seems to go on for the kids. They both take their cell phones and put them in their pockets. The father then asks once more, “Could you please pass the salt?” They pass the salt and everyone resumes eating. How many households can say, ”That’s mealtime in our home.” I guess times have changed. We didn’t have cell phones when we were young, or we would probably have been on them too. We also didn’t have a TV to distract us during mealtime. We did have a radio, but I don’t remember it being on while we ate, unless Dad was trying to hear what the weather forecast was for the next few days. Was it safe to cut hay or was it going to rain?

The kitchen table. Ma, Janet, Dad, Linda, Frank Servais.

Three meals a day were eaten at that simple kitchen table. There were seven of us most of the time, Ma, Dad, Grandma Inga, who lived with us, David, Janet, Arden, and me. During the summers when I was young, Cousin Sandy also lived with us. The table wasn’t very big, but it never felt crowded. Ours wasn’t fancy. It was functional. It was oval-shaped and had a Formica top. The legs were round, stainless steel, tapered at the bottom. It was often covered with an oil cloth that could be easily wiped clean. So many family gathering photos we have, were taken with people sitting around the table, eating, drinking coffee, and visiting. It’s where we sat and did our homework. We didn‘t have individual rooms where we could go, shut the door, and sit at a desk. David, Arden, and I shared a bedroom upstairs. In the summer it was beastly hot and in the winter it was cold enough to have a thick coat of frost on the windows. It wasn’t a good place to sit and do homework. The kitchen table next to the wood-burning kitchen stove was much more comfortable.

We played card games like Whist and Dirty Clubs at the kitchen table, especially when company came. It was a great place to lay out the pieces of a picture puzzle and try to put it together, but you had to work fast because the table would be needed for the next meal. New Years Eve saw some marathon Monopoly games played there as we tried to stay awake to see the New Year arrive. Over the years many birthday cakes took center stage on that table as we turned another year older. During the “pesky” fly season, a curled fly strip hung over the center of that kitchen table. We thought nothing of it. I think most farm kitchens had fly strips as summer accessories. Better to have them stuck to the strip than walking through your food. That kitchen table was usually piled full of wonderful things to eat. During big family gatherings, the men would dish up a plateful and go in the living room where the lucky ones would sit at a card table and the rest would balance the plate in their lap while they ate. Conversation continued as they ate. The children would sit on the floor or go outside and sit at the picnic table or on the ground in the summertime. The women would sit at the kitchen table, where conversations would continue.

The advent of television changed the dynamics around the kitchen table. Instead of conversations, people started watching sports events as they ate. How many Thanksgiving dinners are now sandwiched around a football game?

I still like the use of a kitchen table as a place to sit and visit when company arrives. It’s a place for a cup of coffee, something to eat, and good conversation shared among family or friends, uninterrupted by electronic gadgets. That’s what kitchen tables are for. The next time you sit down at your kitchen table, think of the many things that have taken place around yours, and the importance that simple table has played in your life.

*