Rhyme and Reason with Proud Papa

GREETINGS FROM EMIL SCHMIT

2012-07-31T16:54:00.000-07:00

Writing the great American dream

2011-02-09T08:32:00.000-08:00

Ask almost any writer, "How is the novel coming along?" Chances are the conversation will be off and running. Most writers "have a novel. Extremely rare, though, is the author who has actually had one published. Slightly less rare are those who have really finished such manuscripts. And then there are we plodders – some with practically finished stories and others who have yet to touch pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) but with a head full of ideas and a heart filled with good intentions.

Yes, every writer knows that one day he or she will find the time. When the kids are all in school. Or when the kids are all out of school, married and moved away. Or after retirement. Just wait and see. Most of us have a lot of great ideas - and have been taking notes. And have started working on an outline. Maybe next year we will enroll in a typing class - or a computer class.

My own magnum opus is about 80 percent complete, lying in a box, where it has remained, untouched, for almost 10 years. Who knows? Maybe when I've tamed and mastered this wild and headstrong computer...

Until then, we are all still "dreaming the dream" – which is pretty much what life seems to be all about.

THE NOVEL

The evening sun tires
Of its work in the heavens,
Beds down for the night
Beyond the western sea.

Blackness closes tight
'Round the sleeping wharf, quiet –
Waves murmur – telling
Strange old stories to me.

Tales from ageless days
Of time immemorial –
Until now, untold,
Mysteries yet unsolved.

Lost creatures of old
Now extinct and forgotten...
Dim, dark days before
Humankind had evolved.

Some yarns are about
Sailing ships and grave dangers,
How brave seamen once
Plied the deep with full sails.

Whalers and jailers,
Roving fierce cutthroat pirates –
Adventurers who
Bravely blazed strange new trails.

Soon clear, vivid scenes
Fill my imagination,
Breathe color and life
Into a growing tale –

Material destined
To be the next best-seller
A great masterpiece –
At last – my Holy Grail!

Small waves murmur on,
The half-moon surfs the cloud curls.
New chapters are born,
Quite enough to fill reams.

Then, too soon, my eyes
Close; my quick pen falls idle.
The novel takes form...
But only in my dreams.

ANOTHER NEW YEAR

2011-01-02T10:47:00.000-08:00

Now, having burned one week of Year 2011, it may be a good time to check out all of those great New Year’s resolutions we made and see just how well we are doing.

Sorry to say, I’ve never taken these promises to myself as seriously as I should. I’m sure that if I, and at least a few other folks, were to look very hard we’d be able to see at least several – or perhaps many – changes we could make in our lives that would result in our becoming better, happier, and even healthier people. And, in so doing, make a number of those around us happier, as well.

OK, why not? That shouldn’t be too difficult. So we make a mental list. But a few days into the New Year these resolutions are forgotten, old habits again hold sway, and life goes on just as before.

Robert Burns said, “The best laid plans o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley (go oft’ astray)” Many priests, ministers, politicians, and folks of various other walks of life make good and frequent use of the old saying, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

I’ve listened to a number of public speakers who claim to know the secrets of personal and financial success. Most of them advise their audiences to first study their lives, assess their current situation, and identify any problems that have been hindering them. Quite often when people zero in on the stumbling blocks in their path to success and happiness, they are surprised to find that the most harmful of these are really simple things such as laziness, procrastination, and/or their inability or refusal to take and carry out orders.

These obstacles are often just bad habits picked up along life’s way. Old ways of thinking and methods of doing things that have been built and strengthened by years of repetition. They can best be starved out, or crowded out, and eradicated by the constant, frequent practice of the good, new habits. First, a goal must be established, and a list made of the actions that will be required to reach that goal. This list of plans and resolutions must be written down and then kept in a prominent location. Some handy place where it will not be lost or forgotten, but will be seen every day, preferably at least twice per day, morning and evening. Plans for the day can be made in the morning. Then in the evening, successes and failures can be totaled up and compared, and plans made for more positive progress.

While some folks constantly seek improvement and perfection, a few seem perfectly content with the status quo. One old fellow constantly assures his friends and anyone else who will listen, “Sure, I could quit drinking any time I want to, but as flimsy as the national and local economies are right now, I don’t think anyone should do anything to upset the apple cart. The alcohol industry brings in a ton of tax money. And the owner of the Corner Bar here has just bought himself a new SUV and I know that ain’t paid for. And if I quit smoking and chewing, what would happen to all those small farmers who are growing tobacco up there in Vernon County? No sir, if our country slips into another Great Depression I don’t want a lot of people poking their fingers at me!”

Some optimists feel there is no need for major change, and are confident and content just going through life with a positive attitude.

ANOTHER NEW YEAR

At heart, I’m no “down and outer,”
Not a whiner or a pouter,
I’ve learned negative
Thoughts don’t pay worth a dime.

And, though I’m not good at saying
Lots of fancy words, or praying,
I can sound quite
Optimistic at this time.

New Year’s Eve often sees drinking,
Followed by some fuzzy thinking,
But I’ve grown too
Old now to participate

I prefer philosophizing,
Perhaps even moralizing.
These days I’m in
Bed early more nights than late.

I do no stewing and fretting
And a lot more gray hair getting,
Worrying what’s
Around life’s next turn or bend.

I’m don’t get in a big hurry,
And I don’t wonder and worry.
Usually things
Turn out OK in the end.

With this New Year now upon us,
May the Lord’s blessings be on us.
May our hearts and
Souls be filled with joy and cheer.

May our New Year’s resolutions
Provide the needed solutions
To what problems
We’ll be forced to face this year.

YES, VIRGINIA, THERE IS A CHRISTMAS TREE

2010-12-05T05:40:00.000-08:00

At Christmastime, when I was young, we sang carols and church songs like "Silent Night," also the lively, jolly "Jingle Bells." Through the years these were joined by some good new numbers like "I'm Dreaming Of a White Christmas" and "Blue Christmas." Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" and "The Night Before Christmas" were our standard stories. Later new song-stories came along, including "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," "Frosty the Snowman," "Angie the Christmas Tree Angel" and "Little Drummer Boy."

I still enjoy the beautiful Christmas songs and music that saturate the airwaves and our lives during the holiday season. for two weeks--or three--at the most. Then I decide that cold, dark, snowy January maybe won't be so dreary after all.
Shopping is not all bad. I love to watch the drivers in the mall lots jockeying for parking slots near the main mall entrance. I am amazed at their skill and guile--at their brass and attempts at downright intimidation.

Later, inside the store, they can be seen using much the same strategies and evasive moves while operating shopping carts--cutting each other off at the corners, and effectively blocking off a small display of a scarce item while deciding whether or not to make a purchase.

I spend a fair amount of time looking at the animated decorations. The sleeping, breathing, snoring Santas. And the tiny mechanical animals and elves that festoon artificial trees, barking, yelping, and belching out tunes like "Jingle Bells" and "What Child Is This?"

One thing I miss from the Christmas past is the whisper of currency that has in so many cases been replaced by the sounds of the verification of "plastic pay." Accompanied by the occasional sad, silent shriek of a credit card that is being stretched far beyond common-sense limits.

I am amazed at recent increased participation in and celebration of the Great Day. At times, entire city blocks of homes and lawns are completely decorated with lights--flickering and flashing all over the place. Some neighborhoods remind one, incandescently, of the Las Vegas Strip.

But I often wonder whether any of the warm illumination of these displays ever finds its way into human hearts. What a wonderful world we would have if each of the tiny bulbs actually represented a true expression of love or a real act of kindness.
Christmas is a wonderful time. A beautiful tradition to remember and to enjoy, and to pass on to our children.

I think the owner of a small shop, without giving it a lot of thought, said it best. When asked about the degree of success of his business, he quickly replied, "Thank God for Christmas!"

YES, VIRGINIA, THERE IS A CHRISTMAS TREE

Scrawny Christmas tree, discarded,

You've seen better times, I know,

As your yellowed needles fall to

Make a carpet on the snow.

For two weeks you lit your corner,

Adding to the season's cheer,

Then your ornaments were taken,

Boxed up for another year.

Out in the back yard they threw you,

In a corner, in the snow,

But you still serve a good purpose,

Something most folks could not know.

You've made yours a life of sharing,

Would have it no other way,

And despite sad circumstances,

You are still giving today.

A small bird, your branches shelter,

With a painful, injured wing;

If I help you out, and feed it,

It will live to fly and sing.

Christmas brings a bounteous harvest,

Precious joys that we can reap;

First, the warmth that comes with giving,

Then, the memories that we keep

MEDIOCRE MEMORIES

2010-11-06T05:57:00.000-07:00

MEDIOCRE MEMORIES

Homecoming weekend was in full swing at the University of Wisconsin. The city of Madison was fairly overrun by grads sporting cardinal red blazers. The supper club we chose for our evening meal was no different.

One of the fellows clad in UW red walked past our table--or almost past it. Then he stopped, turned around, looked me over and exclaimed, "Great Haircut! I like your haircut!"

Good grief! Elroy Hirsch...old "Crazylegs" himself! Former Big Ten football star--later a pro football standout--then athletic director of the University of Wisconsin.

And, as one old gray burrhead to another, he had stopped and admired my haircut! I remembered the Hollywood movie, "Crazylegs," the story of his life. I wondered how many Badger fans were still around who recalled the famous backfield of Hirsch, Pat Harder, Mark Hadley Hoskins and Jack Wink. And the late, great All-American end, Dave Schreiner.

So...Crazylegs stopped and talked to me? Maybe no great shakes as memories go--perhaps even only a mediocre memory--but one that will continue to live on for as long as I have a need or a desire for pleasant memories.

MEDIOCRE MEMORIES

Bits of tattered, shattered memories
Tend to clutter up my mind,
Ideas of no real value,
May best have been left behind.

Deeds that demanded no special
Skills or education vast,
Charting the life I've been living
Won/lost record of my past.

Simple things and not earth-shaking
Healed no wounds, righted no wrong.
Common day-to-day existence
As, through life, I've moved along.

Thoughts that won't make me a nickel,
Buy a home, pay for a car,
Still, I like to tiptoe through them,
So, they'll remain where they are.

Memories of my youth, and older,
Gleanings from my work and play,
Good or bad, they all add up to
Much of what I am today.

EARLY AUTUMN

2010-09-10T05:36:00.000-07:00

Once more, autumn returns to our special, beautiful part of the Midwest. Again, the river bluffs and rocky crags of the unglaciated “Driftless Area” are afire with the bright colors of the leaves of the various hardwood trees and a variety of other plants that cloak many of our hills. Often these areas of brilliant hues are accented by the dark green of small stands of pines, cedars, and various other evergreens. Hopefully, this year we will have a lot of that “October’s bright blue weather” a famous poet once wrote about. With the blue sky above and the sun shining brightly, the scenery is often indescribably beautiful.

Perhaps we become easier to please as the years go by. These days I find a lot of enjoyment in just watching what is going on around me. In her great outdoor theater, Mother Nature can put on quite a show. And you don’t have to make reservations in order to get good seating, or shell out your hard-earned cash for admission tickets.

The Mississippi River is one of my favorite places for sightseeing. There are many parks, boat landings, and other public areas along both sides of the river that are equipped with plenty of benches and picnic tables. If you prefer, you can almost always find a good place where you can set up a folding lawn chair. And just sit back and enjoy.

Some folks really like watching the traffic on the river. The speed boats, jet-skis, and water skiers. And a variety of fishing boats. On rare occasions, we may even see a sailboat. The huge barge tows are always interesting. We can try to guess what they are carrying and what will be their destination. And we can determine how heavily each barge is loaded, by how deep it rides in the water. And then there are the trains. There is a lot of railroad traffic these days. And still that kind of “romantic something” about the sight and sound of a freight train.

And then there are always a goodly number of finny, furry, or feathered critters for us to watch. For me, no “river watching” time beats early October.

EARLY AUTUMN

I sit here in shady comfort,
Thanks to a big fleecy cloud.
Speed boats out on the Big River
Go a-roaring by, real loud.

I watch antics by daredevil
Kids in wet suits, with ski-jets.
These half-warm, half-cool fall days are
About as good as it gets.

To the north, the sun is shining,
Lighting up bright colored trees.
Up close, the water is rippling
In the gentle autumn breeze.

This world offers many pleasures,
Such as hearing wild birds sing –
If we relax and enjoy them,
We can feel rich as a king.

Outdoor sights and sounds surround us,
Pleasing to the ear and eye,
But we must reach out and grasp them
And not let them just slip by.

In this wonderland, I find I’m
Almost never bored at all,
With this wealth of nature’s wonders
Right here at my beck and call

I watch a hungry woodpecker
With a jackhammer-like bill
That seems almost as effective.
As a big pneumatic drill.

Every now and then I see a
Pair of mallard ducks fly by.
From somewhere high in the clouds. I
Hear a lonely wild goose cry.

A bald eagle slides down out of
The gray sky, seeking a fish,
But this time he comes up empty –
With unfulfilled, hungry wish.

I can see some fellow fishing
Over there in State Line Slough
He’s been throwing back some small ones,
But caught a “keeper” or two.

A huge barge tow moves down river
With murmuring, muffled sound,
Loaded full and riding low, it’s
Most likely New Orleans bound.

I listen to the soft sighing
Of a lonely autumn breeze
Sifting, sorting its way through the
Leaves of brightly-colored trees.

Nature’s full line of enjoyment
Waits right here for you and me.
A great show, and not expensive.
It is mostly all for free.

About all this day will cost me
Is time, and the wear-and-tear
On the seat of these old britches
And my old folding lawn chair.

MASTER SHOWMAN

2010-07-28T15:09:00.000-07:00

Jack Buschbom

When a new family moves into a small town, everyone in and around that neighborhood usually takes notice. The Buschbom family's move into Bloomington, Wis. was no different. We were told they came from Kansas, by way of Iowa, and were "rodeo people." The father, Bill, Sr., was a horse trainer and showman, and he had taken a job with Sheriff Joe Greer's rodeo. The boys, Billy, Jr., who was my age, and his younger brother, Jack, wore cowboy boots and learned the trade early.

While Billy was still in grade school he was already performing with his lariats and trick ropes at rodeos, also shows at the Blake's Prairie Fair at Bloomington and at the Twin Picnic (now the Twin-O-Rama) at Cassville. The family later moved to that river town where the Greer Rodeo was quartered at the old Governor Dewey Farm (now the site of Stonefield Village Museum).

We all admired Billy...for the great skills that won him widespread popularity. And we envied him a bit whenever we saw him in his fancy hat and boots...and one of those colorful, shiny western suits he wore when performing.

Later, as the red-haired Buschbom brothers left each year to follow the professional rodeo circuit (where both gained international fame), many of the hometown fans followed their careers, reading stories of their success in the newspapers and often going to see them whenever they performed in the area.

Jack excelled in competition and for several years was the World's Champion Professional Bareback Rider. Billy ranked well up among the better pro bulldoggers and calf ropers, but gained his greatest fame as an entertainer, first with his sensational rope spinning tricks, and later with his trained horse acts. He had a rare knack for working with horses--for being able to teach a horse to work alone in a small circus-type ring, without a rein or lead-line, and to do various tricks and respond to commands, given either vocally or with the snap of a whip. While a large audience "ooh-ed" and "aah-ed," his beautiful golden horse, Sir Roger, would, time after time, leap up, strike out with his forefeet, then kick out with his rear hooves, while still high in the air. Billy developed and performed with a number of other acts, including those with horses named "Mr. Nifty" and "Little Boy Blue."

Billy and his family owned and operated "Buschboms' Cowboy Cafe" in Cassville, Wis. for a number of years. In his spare time, the cowboy-showman taught many impressive and educational lessons on the local pool tables. But during the rodeo season, he and his big car and horse trailer could wind up almost anywhere in this country or in Canada. Anywhere that afforded him an opportunity to compete and to perform for an appreciative, cheering crowd.

Billy seemed as "at home" in the center of the rodeo arena in the Cow Palace or in New York's Madison Square Garden as he did on Amelia St. in Cassville. His travels and performances afforded him the opportunity to meet and become acquainted with a wide slice of the populace, including many people of prominence. His list of friends included many of the cowboy movie heroes and other show business celebrities.

Billy died young--far too young--in 1976. When I visit my grandparents' graves in a cemetery near Glen Haven, I usually stop by Billy's plot. The large monument is appropriately decorated--etched with sketches of a lasso and cowboy boots. The stone not only tells Billy's name and dates of birth and passing, but also informs us that he was a "World Champion Trick and Fancy Roper," and the "Trainer of Sir Roger, Mr. Nifty, and Little Boy Blue--World Famous Horse Acts."

Goodbye, Sir Roger--Farewell Mr. Nifty--and Little Boy Blue.

Happy trails, Billy Buschbom.

MASTER SHOWMAN
Bill, we recall your singing ropes,
Your big gold-plated dreams and hopes,
Those bright and shiny western suits,
White Stetson hat and ostrich boots.

Trick roper in your early years,
Later roped calves and wrestled steers.
With horse trailer and Cadillac
You crossed this country, forth and back.

Your life was built 'round rodeo,
Horses and ropes...the Wild West Show!
You found the thrill success can bring,
Playing "The Garden," center ring!

Your horse, Sir Roger, thrilled each crowd,
Jumped higher, as their cheers grew loud.
You're missed my many, there's no doubt,
Our world dimmed when your flame burned out.

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY

2010-07-02T04:10:00.000-07:00

Old Glory - long, proudly may she wave

I remember the Fourth of July in a small midwestern town. Flags lined both sides of the two block along Main Street. Their wooden staffs fitted into metal sockets that were cast in the concrete, near the edges of the sidewalks. And Old Glory flew proudly and colorfully in the breeze.

If rain threatened, the local businessmen watched the sky. As the first raindrops hit the sidewalk, they raced out to retrieve the precious banners before they got wet. And heaven help any clumsy lout who allowed the Colors to even touch the pavement.

It seems that no one tossed flags on the ground and trampled all over them back then. No one urinated on flags ... or burned them. Perhaps people were well-enough educated and intelligent enough then to express themselves and their beliefs and ideas in words, spoken and/or written. Or maybe they realized that it would just not be worth the effort and the pain involved in attempting to do otherwise.

Today's world, with all of its guaranteed freedoms, only makes my childhood memories all the more precious. Lord knows, I have never been accused of being a "flag waver," but sometimes ... enough is enough.

FLYING HIGH

From the East Coast to Hawaii
I've seen beauty everywhere
And way up high above all of those lands and seas

There is a proud and mighty banner
That's been there two hundred years.
I thrill to see that flag a-flying in the breeze.

At times, I am sad and lonely
And I can't even find a smile,
And just can't quite seem to see the woods for trees.

There's just one thing that lifts my spirits
And makes me my blessings count –
The sight of that old flag a-flying in the breeze.

This great country is my homeland.
It's here that I was born and bred;
Here I can do just almost anything I please,

And I never have to worry,
I know that freedom is still mine –
I still can see that flag a-flying in the breeze.

Sometimes I get feeling grateful,
And then I thank the Lord above,
And when I pray, I get right down there on my knees.

Then I thank Him for His kindness,
For I have been truly blessed,
I have seen that flag a-flying in the breeze.

Thank God,
I've seen that flag a-flying in the breeze!

TALES OF THE RIVER BANK

2010-05-30T06:40:00.000-07:00

And old friend and I often compare notes. We agree that our reading habits have followed much the same pattern. As small boys, our favorite part of the daily newspaper was the “funny page,” while our parents were concerned with the news. Later, we concentrated on the sports pages, and noticed that our parents turned first to the obituaries. Then, far too soon, we found ourselves doing the same thing.

Recently two old comic strip friends, Calvin and Hobbes, have returned for a brief re-run visit. Once again, I turn to the comics first. I’ve never failed to be amazed at Bill Watterson’s discontinued strip. His imaginative genius seemed endless. There was constant variety, with Calvin seeing himself as anything from a disgruntled six-year-old boy to a spaceman or the superhero Stupendous Man or an old Mike Hammer-type private eye.

The art work was always outstanding, with everything from simple close-ups of the main characters to crowd scenes to broad scenic views rendered in brush and ink in the finest cartoon style. And when Hobbes, a stuffed toy, suddenly turned into a fierce life-sized tiger, there was action to burn.

I often think of another great comic strip of years gone by. Walt Kelly, with his Pogo Possum, a cigar-smoking alligator named Albert, and a host of other Okefenokee Swamp animal residents, created an entire make-believe world. Fantasy, yet somehow almost believable. A world of political and social satire that often left us thinking, perhaps at times even slightly embarrassed, and laughing at our own human faults and frailties: “We have met the enemy, and he is us.”

Animals about which I write rarely speak English or try to impersonate humans, but seem perfectly content in their own animal world.

TALES OF THE RIVER BANK

For me, the best time of the day
Is when the sky turns to gray
At twilight, just as the
Evening’s coming down.

Soon many wild critters appear,
Large and small, both far and near,
Along the stream that flows
Two miles east of town.

Out in the main stream, a large fish
Makes a “splash” and then a “splish,”
”Mooch,” the muskrat, pokes his
Nose from his damp den.

From far off, a lonely shore bird’s
Sad and lonely cry is heard.
A great horned owl gives a
Loud “Hoot” now and then

Wily “Riley,” the sly old mink
Loves to slither and to slink
Near the water’s edge where
He’ll likely find food.

He is quite mean, a surly chap
Who just does not “give a rap,”
His demeanor can be
Described as quite rude.

”Shifty Ritchie,” the sly raccoon,
Beneath the big bright full moon
Wears his burglar’s mask as
He proceeds along,

He is always careful to stay
Out of old ”Stripey” skunk’s way.
Stripey’s been known, at times,
To come on real strong.

Silently,”Huck,” a young buck deer
Trusting his sharp, and keen ear,
Tip-toes to the shallow
Stream’s edge for a drink.

An aged crayfish named “Uncle Spud,”
Climbs up his chimney of mud
Stops there awhile and takes
Time out just to think.

Out in a large patch of tall reeds
And other assorted weeds
A happy chorus of
Toads sing their love song.

Perched on a large half-submerged log,
”Boomer,” a pop-eyed male frog,
Tunes up his deep bass voice
And sings right along.

Such riverbank night life goes on
Till the long, dark night is gone.
Whether morning’s skies bring
On fair skies or rain,

No one seems overly concerned.
Most likely they’ve never learned
They’re part of Nature, and
Of the whole food chain.

ME AND GRANDPA

2010-04-25T21:15:00.000-07:00

This post was written in 2003

Recently we spent several days getting acquainted with a new grandson. We are almost certain that this little fellow will be the last of the lot. From here on, we will most likely see only more great-grandchildren. But little Noah joins a great group. We have enjoyed many hours, days, and weeks with our grandchildren.

We often hear that the best thing about “our children’s children” is that we can enjoy them. And then when we are finished, we can send them home. But at our house, I don’t remember a time when we were thrilled or even happy to see them leave and go back to their homes. Our youngsters have not only brought us a large measure of joy and happiness, but have done their part in helping keep Grandma and Grandpa young.

I don’t remember seeing a lot of grandparents holding children on their laps or spending a lot of time with them back when I was a child. But today, in stores, restaurants, and various other public places it is common to see the old and the young together. And enjoying it. In a lot of homes these days both parents are working. And the grandparents are retired, mobile, and still young enough to enjoy the interrelationship with small ones. And what better babysitters could be found?

While putting together a collection of children’s poems recently I decided that I lacked a real “Grandpa-type poem.” So I wrote one. And we may as well try it out here.

ME AND GRANDPA

Grandpa likes to tell me stories
Of the days of long ago,
Although Daddy says he sometimes
Makes up parts he doesn’t know.

Grandpa likes us kids around him
When he’s finished with his nap.
Some of our best times are when we
Are on his well-padded lap.

Grandpa doesn’t move real swiftly
His thin hair is silvery gray,
And he spends a lot of time in
His rocking chair every day.

He likes telling tales about times
Back when he was just a lad.
To hear him, he minded his folks
And was almost never bad.

Each morning he got up early
To help his dad with the chores.
When he wasn’t busy working,
He played, mostly out of doors.

Some of his tales are exciting,
Yarns about the old Wild West
Of all the things he tells us, I
Like those cowboy stories best.

I like hiking with my Grandpa
Through the woods and by the streams.
He says, “Nature is conducive
To dreaming up worthwhile dreams.”

Down by the pond he explains how
Water floats a heavy ship.
When he throws a flat stone “sidearm”
He can really make it skip.

Grandpa says when I’ve grown larger,
But before I get real big,
He’ll teach me to make a whistle
From a smooth green willow twig.

He says one day he will teach me
How to make a baseball curve,
and to face a fastball pitcher
And not ever lose my nerve.

I’ve asked Grandpa about football.
He said, “That game’s rough and tough.”
But he will teach me to play when
I am big and old enough.

He’ll teach me to throw a spiral
And we’ll study all the rules.
Before long I’ll kick long field goals
Like they do in the big schools.

Today I’ll wear my green sweatshirt
And my Green Bay Packers cap.
We’ll go out and play as soon as
Grandpa finishes his nap.

SPRINGTIME

2010-03-21T11:08:00.000-07:00

The older I get, the more I appreciate our Midwest with its four distinct seasons of the year. Maybe that is because I was born and raised here. I can’t really say that I enjoy winter, but I think I would miss it. I am sure I appreciate spring all the more because of it. We often hear that anticipation is at least half the joy of anything. I’m sure that a lot of us begin anticipating spring when the snowdrifts are still “hip-high to a tall…person” (Shucks, there goes another of my favorite old sayings that my politically correct friends won’t let me use anymore).

I do occasionally run into folks who don’t exactly look forward to the seasonal changes. A few just don’t care much for change. And then there are some that are pessimists who aren’t really pleased with anything. While complaining about the cold, snow, ice, wind-chill factor, and frosty forecasts, they don’t like to be interrupted by someone telling about a newly developed variety of seed potatoes he or she is going to order from that colorful seed catalog that came in the mail yesterday.

Believe it or not, such people really don’t look forward to spring. There is all that unsettled weather to look forward to, weeks of mud to contend with, followed by days of hard work raking and cleaning up the winter’s supply of fallen tree branches and trash and gravel from the lawn. And indoors, how will they ever find time to get all their spring-cleaning done? Then there will be all of that never-ending work in garden. And spring gives them nothing to look forward to but all of that lawn mowing and other hard work and, worst of all, the intolerable heat that summer will surely bring.

And that hot season will give them nothing to look forward to but fall. How could anyone enjoy a busy time of year like that? All of those dry, fallen leaves from the neighbors’ trees that the wind will deposit on their lawns will have to be raked up and burned, or bagged up and carted off. The garden has to be “put to bed” for winter. And then there is fall housecleaning. And soon there will be the cold and the deep snow, the icy, slippery, dangerous roads, and the huge fuel bills.

And when winter is finally finished, along comes that busy, messy, muddy season we call “spring.”

SPRINGTIME

A few drab and shabby snowdrifts
Still insist on hanging ‘round,
But if we’re quiet, and listen,
From the woodland comes the sound

Of the spring’s very first robin;
We stop just to hear it sing,
As it does its level best to
Turn our winter into spring.

As that season rounds the corner
Judging by these signs we’ve seen,
Soon the lawns and pastures will all
Turn from dull, drab brown to green.

Trees and shrubs will all be leafed out
In their lacey finery
As they do their best to please and
To thrill folks like you and me.

We can see the buds now swelling
On the maple’s branches high,
Praying for warm springtime sunshine
As they brush against the sky.

Waves of snow-white and pink flowers
On apple and wild plum trees
Will fill mild air with fragrance to
Awake winter-weary bees.

The brook’s music will assure us
That, once again, spring has sprung,
Nests and dens of many creatures
Will be homes for brand-new young.

In farm fields, the newly plowed ground
Will echo the tractor’s roar.
Awaiting the new birth and growth
This great season has in store.

As we look around, we can’t help
But feel we’ve been truly blessed:
All these wonders of creation
Displayed at their very best.

LOVERS’ MOON

2010-02-13T17:13:00.000-08:00

The moon has been of great interest to people since the beginning of time. Large, bright, and near enough to the earth to be easily seen and studied in many of its phases, yet not so brilliant as to discourage or prevent people from watching it, as is the case with the sun.

As soon as primitive people discovered that the full moon came around regularly, they could use it to measure and record time. Native Americans often referred to something as having taken place a certain number of “moons” ago. People in some parts of the world still measure their year by the moon’s cycles. The moon determines the date of Easter Sunday.

Some early people worshipped the moon as a god or a goddess. For others, it played a big part in their superstitions. Still today, some people wouldn’t even consider looking at the moon over their left shoulder. Many continue to plant their field crops and gardens “by the moon.” They study the almanac to determine the best days for planting. They insist that some crops do better when planted in the “dark of the moon,” and others in the “light.”

A lot of folks feel certain that the moon has a decided effect on certain people’s thinking. The word “lunacy” comes from the word “luna,” meaning moon. Anyone acting irrationally at the time of a full moon is often considered to just be acting “kind of loony”. I’ve never studied any statistics, but a number of police officers tell me that crime rates, especially crimes of violence, increase dramatically when the moon is full. And the old stories tell us that is the time for werewolves to grow hair and fangs, and for Count Dracula and his vampire buddies to become active.

The moon is the major force that creates the tides in the oceans. Many who have studied the distant ball of rock have seen a “man in the moon”. And down through the years, a few optimists never doubted for a minute that the day would arrive when man would walk on the moon. Its silver light has inspired writers, artists, songwriters, and musicians. An early autumn full moon gives farmers an extra measure of twilight time to harvest their crops, and is called a “harvest moon.” The next full moon is considered a “hunter’s moon.” It is possible for the full moon phase to occur twice within one month. The second such stage is commonly referred to as a “blue moon.” Such double appearances of the full moon within a single month are infrequent, so in describing something that happens only on rare occasions, we use the expression “once in a blue moon.”

And then there are many occasions when the full moon is considered by romantics to be a “lovers’ moon.”

LOVERS’ MOON

The old couple rocked
In their chairs on the front porch,
Looked up at, and studied,
Autumn’s rising full moon.

Smiling, they held hands,
As they counted their blessings,
Later heard the horned owl
And sad cry of the loon.

The old lady smiled,
Whispered, “We’ve been so lucky.
Many of the Good Lord’s
Blessings have come our way.

“We’ve worked and we’ve prayed,
While we raised a good family.
Sometimes those early years
Seem like just yesterday.

“It’s hard to believe
The time passed by so swiftly.
Our children, once babies,
Have all so quickly grown,

“Matured and scattered
Like dry leaves in the autumn
All seeking new goals, and
Doing well on their own.

“That same moon was up
There back when we were courting.
It seems almost to be
A good and trusted friend.

“It’s lighted our way
Through dark nights of our journey,
As it most likely will
All the way to life’s end.”

He whispered, “Yes, dear,
Our life’s been great together.
We have been a good team
All this time we’ve been wed.

“But we’re both aware
That one-day soon we’ll rejoin
Those old friends and neighbors
Who have gone on ahead.

“Side-by-side we walk,
Traveling down life’s long highway,
As we both wend our way
Up toward heaven’s throne.

When we arrive there,
Once more we’ll see the faces
Of our kinfolk and friends.
There we’ll not be alone.”

Paddle Or Drift

2010-01-24T20:50:00.000-08:00

Now and then I get criticized for being a bit too “preachy.” And this may be one of those occasions. Some years ago I had the opportunity to work with several other people on an inspirational and motivational project. And I found that I kind of like that sort of writing. Asking people to smile and look for rainbows seems to make more sense than pointing out to them all of the things that are wrong with our world.

There are so many inspirational and self-help books already on the shelves that it is difficult to come up with thoughts and methods that are original. But the facts remain the same. Life is usually pretty much what we make it. Oh, sure, we all have some real tragedies in our lives. Unhappy experiences over which we have no control. But we can determine the manner in which we handle such matters.

Many times dealing with the smaller problems and trying to make the best of bad situations strengthens us and helps prepare us for other, larger problems we will encounter along the way. But only if we handle each matter in a positive fashion. To wimp and whine and enjoy feeling sorry for ourselves only tends to weaken and make us less well prepared to face up to life and the real world.

Why waste time worrying about how we wound up in this awful mess we are in? It makes more sense to spend our time deciding where we want to be and what will be the best possible highway to take to get there. Why not be brave and dream the dream. If we focus on a positive path, and stick with it, we can’t help but find our way. And arrive at our goal with a smile!

PADDLE OR DRIFT

Who knows just where
Life’s road may lead
Or where this trail will wend?
There could be a
“Hazard” sign hid
Around most any bend.

The path may be
Rocky and rough,
Steep—uphill all the way,
With cactus, stone,
And bramble bush—
No one can really say.

Our way can be
Thickly strewn with
Problems, both large and small.
At such times—with
The going rough—
We all stumble and fall.

It’s only just
A waste of time
To whimper and to cry
About brass rings
We’ve failed to grasp,
Fortunes we’ve let slip by.

If we feel that
We’re failure bound,
That bad luck’s beat us down,
The mean monster
That we call “life”
Will rob us of our crown.

So grasp that rude
Beast by the horns—
Failure’s not worth a dime—
Let’s live life the
One way we can:
Just one day at a time.

On life’s journey,
We find there’s just
One thing that we can do.
Hang on, take the
Good with the bad
And see the project through.

It makes no sense
To idly sit
And watch life pass you by.
Get right back up
Dust yourself off,
Give it another try.

Picture this life
You’re blessed with as
A special, precious gift.
The golden prize
Goes to paddlers,
Not to those who just drift.

New Years Past

2010-01-01T07:05:00.000-08:00

Another new year! One more set of 365 days that we hope to enjoy. And, as time goes by, each of these years becomes more precious.

New Year’s Day has always been a church day for me. Both a holyday and a holiday. But as youngsters we all regretted that it fell during Christmas vacation and didn’t give us another day off from school.

Many, many years ago there was a time when it was almost an absolute must for many of us young fellows to be out and about and making the rounds on New Year’s Eve. Provided the winter weather and road conditions cooperated. For a number of years the huge Checkerboard Ballroom at Prairie du Chien was a great place to congregate. There we were certain to run into almost everyone we knew – friends from all of the neighboring towns. There was no better place for music and dancing, and at midnight, hats, horns, whistles, noisemakers, confetti, balloons, and everything it else required to make for an enjoyable and memorable evening. On New Year’s Eve, most dance bands didn’t pack up at one o’clock, but continued playing at least until “halfway to daylight.”

As the years have gone by, I’ve found less and less need for New Year’s Eve socializing. Less desire to fight the cold and the snow, and take chances on icy roads. And to contend with the unusually heavy, speeding traffic, with many of the drivers not in condition to operate their vehicles at their skillful best. Home is now a comfortable place to be. There is no longer any reason or need to stay awake until midnight to “see the New Year in.”

The year 2000 has treated me well. With health, home, family, and a car that runs well and gets at least 30 miles per gallon of $1.50-plus gasoline, I feel that I just about have it all. I attended my first cat show this past summer. And, to my surprise, I really enjoyed it. Then, this fall we attended the “annual grape stomp” at a large winery, complete with grape stomping, grape spitting, and cork throwing contests.

In November we made our first-ever journey to Bankston, Iowa to wish Cousin Grace Gotto a happy birthday. And to help her and her family, friends, and relatives celebrate. The large hall was filled and the crowd included a lot of my Iowa cousins, many with names like Ellerbach, Wilwert, and Hayes. Also quite a few younger Gotto cousins. It’s always great to see those folks again. I’ll say one thing for Bankston. People there really know how to celebrate a birthday.

But the year hasn’t been all fun and games. I attended far too many wakes and funerals this year. An unusual number of my relatives and close friends, both young and old, failed to survive the year. Some day I suppose I will delete the late, great Tom Gifford’s name and e-mail address from my computer’s address book. But for the time being, it will remain. Just for old time’s sake. What an individual! What a great writer! What a great loss his untimely passing was for all of us!

I’ve never been much for New Year’s Resolutions. But maybe I should be. Making the resolutions isn’t usually all that difficult a chore. Down through the years I’ve tried a few. Decided that I would make changes that would improve my health, happiness, and success. Usually we can easily find a few faults, flaws, and weaknesses in our makeup. At least I have no problem there. It’s actually the keeping of the resolutions that presents the problems.

NEW YEAR’S, 2001

Now is the time to celebrate
The birth of a brand-new year,
A time for faith and hope and trust,
Not for worry or for fear.

No time to mope about the past,
But to look forward, instead.
Focus on a brighter future,
Envision great days ahead.

We know with each day problems come,
Every month’s another test,
Our whole lifetime’s built out of years,
Let’s make this new one the best.

We’ll seek out progress and success
As this new year passes by.
If we fail, let’s make sure it’s not
Because we just didn’t try.

We often can blame just ourselves
For defeats in early years.
We’ve ignored the success blueprint
Hidden right between our ears.

We’re all seeking a better way,
Hoping to “get in the groove,”
But things don’t just “fall into place”
We have to make the first move.

Most times there really is no need
To relocate, rove, or roam,
Often our “acres of diamonds”
Lie hidden right close to home.

So let’s get those brain cells working,
Be prepared to plan and dream.
Keep looking for the bright side, and
Find that winning theme or scheme.

Happiness follows clear thinking,
Persistence and strength of heart,
Making New Year’s Resolutions
Seems the perfect way to start!

NIGHT FINDS THE RIVER

2009-11-01T14:34:00.000-08:00

It has been almost a year since I have devoted one of these columns to the Mississippi River. And at least several river-loving readers are becoming restless. So once more we will return to that powerful, timeless, hard-working stream and its beautiful valley.

When I was just a youngster our family sometimes drove to Cassville and took the ferry across the river to visit our Iowa relatives in and around Holy Cross, Rickardsville, and Sherrill. The distance was considerably shorter than was a highway jaunt down through Dubuque.

The original Cassville ferry boat was a far cry from the present craft. I imagine it was owned by the Klindt and Geiger Canning Co. and its main purpose was to carry men, horses, wagons, and machinery across to the Turkey River bottoms and to haul back loads of sweet corn, cabbage, and peas the company grew there.

I’ve lived all of my life within a dozen miles of the river, but never became a real “river rat.” Oh, I’ve done some fishing out there on the peaceful lakes and sloughs. I’ve never kept score, but the worms and night crawlers I’ve drowned would most likely outweigh the pounds of fish caught.

I’ve enjoyed some pleasure boating. My attempts to learn to swim and to water ski were none too successful, but I’ve enjoyed many good times on the Mississippi and its sand bars. I’ve also spent a number of sad nighttime hours in a boat helping search for an unfortunate person who did not return from a day on the river.

These days I’m quite content to just sit on the shore, preferably on a warm day, and in the shade of a large friendly tree. The Big River can be mirror-smooth and peaceful on a calm day, and appear wild, rough, and angry on windy, stormy days. Its surface can appear blue as a lake, or silver, or the color of lead, depending on the sky above. Or it can be wearing its plain muddy brown work clothes. For me, the bank of the river always seems a good place to do some thinking; an ideal surrounding for coming up with a good new idea or two. Also for rethinking and enjoying a few older thoughts and memories.

NIGHT FINDS THE RIVER

Bright sun seeks the west horizon,
Prepares for the coming night.
Blue skies mirrored on the river
Become pale, then silvery white.

I watch trees on the far island
Turn from green to inky black.
Downstream, I soon can barely make
Out the old fisherman’s shack.

In the distance I soon see the
First faint lights of a far town
On the smooth, calm, waiting river,
Night comes softly settling down.

The bald eagle has returned now
To its cliff-top aerie high.
An adventuresome nighthawk darts
Out across the darkening sky.

There’s a scurry on the shoreline
Near small stumps beavers have chewed,
Where a hungry raccoon family
Washes clean some new found food.

Out on the main channel all of
The big fish are not asleep.
A loud “slap” tells us they’re feeding
Where the water’s swift and deep.

Somewhere, far off in the distance
I hear a strange wild bird’s cry.
In the east, a full moon rises
Up to rule the nighttime sky.

Silver moonlight rides small ripples,
Bright, nearby, then fading, faint –
Such a living, moving picture,
I know I could never paint.

High up on the hill, a horned owl
Calls out loudly to its mate.
I must be moving along now
As the hour is growing late.

This big, mighty Mississippi,
As it rolls along its way,
Is a constant source of beauty
Any time, both night and day.

Such splendor – all we must do is
Look around us, here and there.
In this river valley we’ll find
Beauty almost everywhere.

THE VALLEY

2009-09-27T16:13:00.000-07:00

I enjoy talking to, and exchanging ideas with people of various ages. Most of the younger ones have dreams. But for a good share of the older ones, the dream has flown.

For many of the youngsters and at least a few of us older folks, some of our best dreams and plans will ever remain in the dream stage. And will never grow and bear fruit, for lack of determination and effort. I think a wise person once said something like: “The formula for success is 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration.”

Some of the younger people will forge ahead and, refusing to be sidetracked, will continue to work their plan until they achieve success. As will a few of the older ones. We have always been told that Colonel Sanders financed his initial Kentucky Fried Chicken shop with his first social security check.

At least a few of the older people I meet have given up the dream. And, sadly, they now spend a lot of their time looking backward and thinking of the way things might have been. They feel that their greatest hopes, dreams, schemes, and plans were smashed or suffocated by unfavorable conditions or circumstances.

Some will feel the full reason for their failure was a personal health problem. Others will point out family or other responsibilities or the lack of a good credit rating. For others, it is the national economy, or a high unemployment rate. For many, it will never be anything other than just an unnaturally long streak of bad luck.

The older we get the easier it becomes to place the blame for our failures on misfortune, or on other people. Without the big, bright dream to fill their hours and days, most retired folks now find plenty of time to focus on advancing age, failing health, and a whole host of unhappy things. Also on current local, national, and worldwide situations and conditions that are definitely not in their control and not to their liking. Too often when we ask an older person what he or she thinks of the Golden Years that question brings a quick and surprisingly sarcastic answer.

But, whether asked or not, we old codgers are usually ready, willing, and able to come up with advice.

THE VALLEY
The old man sought out the barroom
On a hot, late August day.
He was thin, with sagging shoulders
His long beard shaggy and gray.

The stranger looked the place over,
Said, “I’ve not been here before,
But I’ve seen bars just like this one –
Hundreds, maybe thousands more.”

The bartender said, “You’re lucky,
Gramps, today the first beer’s free
Provided you share your outlook
On life, with my friends and me.”

The old man agreed, then smiled as
He blew the foam from his beer.
He began, “Life’s like a valley
And it’s all uphill from here.

“I have met a lot of people
As I’ve traveled round about,
And like you gents, there are many
Whose hopes are seasoned with doubt.

“When you’re young and growing up you’re
Kind of brassy ‘cause you know
That, later, in grownup life you
Will be the boss of the show.

“But often life has a way of
Giving things a different spin.
The hills that confine life’s valley
Sometimes get you all boxed in.

“If you seek success and fortune,
You must climb life’s steep, long stair.
Take the path of least resistance
And you won’t get anywhere.

“Life hands out nothing for nothing,
Everyone must pay his dues.
If there’s an easy way, I fear
I can’t give you any clues.

“I keep heading up life’s valley,
Up around each turn and bend.
And I’m kind of hoping heaven’s
Just beyond life’s valley’s end.”

As he talked, a large crowd gathered,
Joining those who were there first.
The cash register played a tune
As new patrons slaked their thirst.

The bar owner thanked the old man
And shook his old, withered hand.
Four free beers for entertainment’s
Cheaper than a three-piece band.

A World Now Almost Unknown

2009-09-02T05:46:00.000-07:00

The talented young presenter at the creative writing seminar did her best to convince us that we should choose subjects we know, and then write about the people, places, and things with which we are most familiar. Her closing words were “Strive for authenticity!”

“But,” I wondered, “If I write about my world, will there be any readers out there who have the slightest idea what I am saying?” Not wanting to waste the valuable seminar lessons, I decided to give it a try. So here goes:

I remember well the day when our family got its first telephone. That was definitely a highlight in my life, so there may be a good place to start this tale. Today everyone is familiar with phones. But I can hardly describe the excitement of getting our first phone without mentioning that we were on a “party line.” And that will require more explanation. And I’ll have to convince some readers that the early phones had no pushbuttons or even a dial, but only a crank you turned to make all your calls. Back then, each phone on a party line had its own special series of long and/or short rings, such as “short-long-short,” or “long-short-long.”

The combination of two, three, or four such rings told everyone on the party line whose number was being called. A person from that household answered, while there were usually at least several other people on the line who just ‘listened in” or “rubbernecked” to keep up on the local news. For calls out and beyond the party line, one medium-length ring was used to connect the caller with the local “central office,” usually in a nearby small town. The “operator” there would manually make the necessary connection to put through a medium or long distance call. And one long, continued ring was the 9-1-1 of its day, and was used to summon everyone on the line to the phone. They would listen for the message that followed the “long ring,” and if there was an emergency, they would all come running to help out. Back then, many phone numbers consisted of only one, two, or three digits.

Today, when a large part of our world appears to be powered by “double A” batteries, many of the readers I hope to reach just might not believe there was a time when a radio required several different sizes of dry batteries, plus a six-volt storage battery. When that big battery started to run down, it could be exchanged with the one in a car, and thus get recharged by the car’s generator, provided it had not been run down so far it lacked the power to crank and start the engine. Just to make sure, some folks parked their car at the top of a steep hill before making the exchange.

Before television became such a big part of our lives, magazines made up an important part of the entertainment of many. I remember those publications as being quite “reader friendly,” and did not require wading through many pages of advertising material to find a good readable, enjoyable article. And I don’t remember any of those nuisance “reply cards” that annoy us today, and that many of us tear out and discard before reading a magazine.

The better magazines contained very well-written and useful articles that were educational and dealt with life and the world around us. Some, including The Saturday Evening Post, Colliers, and Country Gentleman had great fiction stories, some short and some long enough to be continued in three or four issues. A number of these stories were of high enough quality to later be made into movies. I remember one in particular, “Scudda Hoo! Scudda Hay!” that was filmed with June Haver, Lon McAllister, and Walter Brennan in the starring roles.

Perhaps some of my words will find a few readers out there who grew up on farms back in the 20s, 30s or 40s. They will understand if I tell of a time when you didn’t eat breakfast until after the cows were milked. There may even be a few who remember balancing on a one or two-legged milk stool while learning to milk a cow by hand. Also using a three-tined fork to feed the cows hay and a five-tined fork and shovel and perhaps even a wheelbarrow to clean up at the other end of the animals. Some may remember “hog chores” and “chicken chores,” including gathering and washing eggs.

Most farm kids and quite a few town kids once learned, at an early age, how to plant and take care of gardens. Also how to harvest fruits and vegetables and help prepare them for canning. We learned how to cut potatoes into seed pieces, making sure there were two buds or “eyes” on each piece. And how to drop them into shallow holes or trenches, step them down firmly into the ground and kick loose dirt over them. We always tried to drop them with the cut side down and the eyes up, so the sprouts would have the shortest possible route to the top of the ground.

In addition to the garden work, there was usually a lawn to be mowed by “kid power,” with a reel-type “push” lawn mower. Often, in those days before chemical herbicides, there were weeds to hoe or pull in the corn fields. And each summer there was grain to be shocked, and the haymaking season always required a youngster to “lead the horse on the hayfork.”

I can only hope there still a few readers out there who played “baseball” in a cow pasture, using a tennis ball and a piece of 1 X 4 lumber for a bat, and with tall weeds, burlap sacks, blocks of wood, or dried out cow pies for bases. People my age who attended one-room country schools played kick the can,

hide-and-seek, and ante over at recess and noon hour. And in the winter, rode their sleds, played fox-and-geese, and made angels in the snow.

Some readers may remember a time when all of the water used for drinking, cooking, and washing was pumped by hand and carried into the house in pails. Hot water was not obtained from a faucet, but from a “reservoir” built into the end of the wood-fired kitchen “cook stove.” Or a teakettle on the stove’s flat top. Water for washing clothes was heated on top of the stove in a “wash boiler,”

I hope I can make contact with some readers who remember a time when some farmers still drove into town with horse-drawn wagons or buggies, and in the winter with bobsleds or lighter vehicles that had sleigh runners instead of wheels and were commonly called “cutters.” A time when there were few paved roads, more graveled roads, and dirt roads – which became “mud roads” when it rained. And days when there were few trucks on the road and many farmers still hauled their fattened hogs to the stockyards in horse-drawn wagons.

Back then, farm children were still quite small when they learned to carry in wood from the woodpile or woodshed to fill a “woodbox” in the house. And later how to split firewood to “heating stove size” with an axe. It had to be split up into even smaller, slimmer chunks for the kitchen range. Some was split ultra-fine for use as “kindling wood” for starting the fires in the morning.

Hopefully I can share these thoughts with a few who, on crisp, cold winter evenings, were fortunate enough to hear the music of real honest-too-goodness sleigh bells singing out their merry tune to the rhythm of a team of high-stepping, spirited horses.

As I write, I can only wonder how many readers will stop and think of their own many and varied experiences along life’s way, the bad as well as the good, both the hard work and the play, and realize that these were, for the most part, what shaped our lives and supplied many of the building blocks that made (or make) us what we are today.

Memory Of The First Look Inside School Stands Out

2009-08-08T05:30:00.000-07:00

The door was open and I cautiously looked in - a small 6year-old farm boy taking his first look at a schoolroom. The room appeared large,cavernous, with a high ceiling, rows of desks and a large teacher's desk at the front, looking much as my parents had told me it would. Everything about the room looked old, but it was clean and smelled of new varnish and strong disinfectant soap.

On that first Monday of September, the sun was shining,the air was warm, but the room felt cool as I walked in.

My first day of school! The thing I had dreaded for so long, hoping the day would never arrive. But now it had. I was a first-grader! That five-minute walk from my farm home had transported me to this new world - such a strange -new world; so different from my old familiar world of the farm home and yard, my toys, the barn, pastures and fields.

Our teacher, a jolly, smiling young lady, was quick to introduce herself. She showed me the shelf where the lunch pails were kept and then assigned me a seat and desk. I put my new "nickel" pencil tablet, "penny" pencil,small box of crayons and jar of paste in my desk, and then shyly looked around the room.

One of the first things to catch my eye was a crockery "water cooler." The school's drinking water was carried into the room in a pail and then poured into the cooler. I realized that to get a drink, I would have to learn how to drink from the "bubbler" that was' attached to the cooler. That even seemed like it might be fun. I could hardly wait for a chance to try.

Our teacher went to the back of the room and gave a half dozen vigorous tugs on a rope, ringing the big bell up in the belfry, "calling the school to order." The bell responded loudly, sternly, almost as if trying its best to reinforce the young new teacher's authority. My schoolmates all hurried to their desks.

Soon we were being put through our paces, as the various grades and classes were called forward to occupy the "recitation bench" near the front of the room. There, the teacher saw to it that we were all equipped with proper textbooks, and she assigned us lessons to study or to prepare for the next day's class.

As that first day wore on, and the days that followed, I became more brave and began to look over my "new world." Only a few pictures decorated the drab walls, but I enjoyed even these. Even when the teacher was not looking in my direction, it was almost impossible to escape the stern gaze of George Washington, as he stared down from a copy Gilbert Stuart's famous portrait of "The Father of Our Country."

At times it was difficult not to look at the solemn, sad-eyed portrait of Abraham Lincoln. As we later learned of Lincoln's background of rural poverty, it became easy for us Depression era country youngsters to empathize and feel a special bond to "Honest Abe."

I loved Rosa Bonheur's long, narrow picture, "The Horse Fair." Like most farm boys, I was interested in horses and all the action and struggle and excitement in the picture caught and held my eye, time and again.

Last, but not least, there was the tall, narrow picture of a young man in armor - the purest and noblest of King Arthur's Knights of the Round Table. I don't recall any of us really looking for a role model back then, but Sir Galahad would have been an excellent choice.

The "learning tools" furnished by the school, insufficient and unsatisfactory by today's standards, were pretty much state-of-the-art for 1930. A full expanse of chalk and erasers furnished ample room for all members of a 'language or arithmetic class to work at one time.

A cabinet held a large number of large maps that were mounted on roller, and could be pulled down, like window shades, for viewing. A large world globe was suspended from the ceiling by sash cord and pulleys, counter-balanced by a cast iron ball. The globe could be pulled down to the students' eye level when in use, and then later could be pushed back up and completely out of the way. The maps, like the globe, helped to make subjects like geography more easily understandable.

A pump organ stood patiently by, waiting for our teacher to play accompaniment for one of our singing classes. Construction paper was furnished for our use on art class projects. The school library consisted of one large bookcase, with each shelf having its own glass cover. The bookcase was filled with books chosen to fill the needs of students, ranging from grades 1 to 8. An open shelf held more books, a large Webster's Dictionary, and, best of all, a set of World Book Encyclopedias.

Before I started school, my older sister had given me a head start by teaching me to read and write quite a few simple words. The well-illustrated, more advanced library books that I could not read became the powerful lodestones that drew me forward, creating a need to learn more, so that I could read and understand those books .

My first teacher, Miss Violet Walz, was succeeded by Miss Lela Eastman, who was later succeeded by Mr. Jack Ronan. These instructors would, I am sure, be at least as successful in today's teaching world as they were then. They understood their subjects well and knew how to teach them, and they all possessed even greater assets their love for and interest in their young charges.

Today, it would be unthinkable to assign 40 students, representing grades 1 through 8, to one teacher. In 1930 that was commonly done, quite often with great success.

As I look back now, I am convinced that the single feature of the one-room country school that influenced me the most was that recitation bench at the front of the room. In my early school years, I could always listen to the older students as they read new stories in reading class, often tales I had not heard before. They used new words that I didn't know or understand. Their history and geography classes opened my eyes to more new worlds. I was often fascinated by the poems my older schoolmates had memorized to recite in class. Time after time, those upper grade classes caught and held my attention. Again and again, they stretched my young imagination.

As time rolled by, progress caught up with the old school - and passed it by. Eventually, like all of its 'counterparts, it was closed. Big yellow school buses came to transport its children off to larger better equipped schools. The old
school remained vacant for awhile, then was used to house chickens for a number of years.Mercifully, in the late 1960s it caught fire and burned. Its work was finished. It had done its job well.

I still think of the North Andover country school as "my" school. I still consider
myself as a "citizen" of that "new world" it opened for me 65 years ago. It is now no more than just a fond memory - and it will remain so -as long as at least one of its ever-decreasing number of former students remains.

"New One-room School" is
reprinted by permission of the
author and is taken from the files
of UW-Extension s 1994 Yarns of
Yesteryear Contest. Stories and
photos of yesteryear also can be
submitted to: The Country Today
Yarn, Box 570, Eau Claire, WI
54702.

THE PAGER

2009-07-13T15:57:00.000-07:00

Martha McCutcheon picked up the electronic pager. Behind the desk, a middle-aged lady wearing a practiced, but tired, smile instructed her, “Please remain here in the waiting room and keep the pager in your hand. It will ‘buzz’ and vibrate to let you know when the doctor is ready to see you.”

Martha took one of the few empty chairs. Once comfortably seated, she looked around the crowded room. Some of the waiting patients were reading newspapers. Others leafed nervously through five-year-old magazines. Most of their faces displayed varying degrees of boredom, unhappiness, or worry.

A hint of a smile crept across Martha’s face. Slowly she raised the pager to her ear and began talking softly into the cute little gadget. Soon she appeared to be engaged in a conversation. Her tone of voice – warm, soft, and friendly at first – cooled a bit, then grew louder, taking on tones of downright displeasure. Her expression changed to one of complete disgust as she slammed the pager down into her lap. Then she closed her eyes, and apparently dozed off.

By this time, she had attracted the attention of almost everyone in the room. Some smiled. Several poked each other and cautiously, silently laughed at her weird behavior. At least a few may have been sympathetic. One or two probably said a private prayer of thanksgiving for still having their full faculties.

After several minutes, Martha opened her eyes and began to study a large painting that decorated the opposite wall. With the pager in her left hand, she slowly raised and pointed it at the peaceful rural scene. She pressed it repeatedly with her thumb. When the picture refused to change, she began to poke the pager deliberately and forcefully with the index finger of her right hand. Once again, an unhappy, dissatisfied look crept across her face. With an exaggerated, exasperated shrug, she again placed the “remote” in her lap, closed her eyes and once more appeared to drift off into a peaceful sleep.

A barely noticeable smile tugged at Martha’s lips. Time is just too darned precious a treasure to waste on worry when you are eighty years old (and then some). Especially for someone who has a sense of humor and sufficient imagination to be capable of self-entertainment. And if, while making one’s own world seem a bit brighter and more pleasant, it is possible to entertain a roomful of others and take their minds off of their worries, cares, and their upcoming doctors’ prognoses, a visit to the medical clinic can be almost enjoyable.

Emil Schmit's Valedictorian speech from 1941

2009-06-21T10:56:00.000-07:00

Friends, teachers, classmates:

We think of the days of our American Revolution as time of Great change but as we, the class of 1941, graduate we find ourselves in a world where the changes are even greater.

These are historic years, and the privilege of living in them is too little realized. Perhaps no graduating class ever has been or ever again will be confronted with conditions that compare with those of our present time. Since about 1935, Europe and its surrounding territory have been unstable. This didn’t seem very serious to us until Sept. 1939 when England and France again declared war on Germany, beginning a struggle which will soon enter its third year. There is doubt now in many minds as to whether or not we can stay clear of entanglements.

Although from some angles, the outlook for a country threatened with war cannot appear bright, this present state of affairs which has resulted in our vast National Defense Program offers us excellent opportunities for employment immediately, so that whether the jobs prove permanent or not, we will be able at once to gain work experience and acquire references and recommendations. Besides the selective service draft, and the extensive drives being put on by the Army and Navy for more enlistments, a good many young men and women are being searched for to supply offices and factories where the work of making supplies for the Armed Forces is going on.

No doubt some of you remember conditions of ten years ago --193l. The Depression was then nearing its worst stages. Students were graduating from high schools and colleges.Jobs were hard to get, and graduates with little work experiences and no references could not get a start, no matter how cheaply they offered their services. Five years ago, in 1936, the conditions of the country were somewhat improved, yet many graduates had to join the Civilian Conservation Corps or work by the day. Even last year--1940--when conditions seemed to be pretty good, they could not begin to compare with those of this year. Although most of these defense jobs require the employee to be slightly older than we are, the government is offering some of us apprentice training, and besides, the hiring of older persons will leave many vacancies in various civilian enterprises.

But there is reason to believe this rise in employment will not be a flash in the pan. Whatever the outcome of the war, the need for greater and greater defense will last for years. Besides, movements are stirring that give hope of vast new industries and many new uses of farm products, such as soy beans and casein being manufactured into automobile parts and furniture. The government has just set up four great laboratories in the four extremes of the country for the sole purpose of studying and discovering more of such new uses. If a motor fuel could be contrived from farm-grown products, think what that alone would mean toward increased industry for both country and city. So we of the class of 1941 have many reasons to look out with hope and ambition on our future.

About 1 out of 3 of the members of our class expect to attend college, to learn professions, some will doubtless be employed in the trades, and rest will probably stay near their homes, engaging in agriculture or other rural enterprises. In all cases, chances for success are good. Colleges report they now have more requests to fill positions than they have students qualified to fill them. There is a crying need for skilled mechanics and as for rural labor, many farmers are having ¬trouble securing help for their summer's work. In our high school we have taken courses which should prove valuable in future life -- vocational subjects such as business, agriculture and home economics. And so, with conditions as they are, and with high school training finished, any member of this class who seeks employment should be able to obtain it.

And now, speaking for the class, I would like to bid farewell to the school and to our schoolmates. We have had a lot of good times together and are really sorry now that we must leave. And to our parents, our teachers, and our other friends who made this course possible, we owe a lot. To them we express our deepest gratitude.

APATHY, MY DEAR SCARLETT

2009-06-04T14:14:00.000-07:00

Before the advent of the Internet, the goal of most of the writers I knew was to get their thoughts, ideas, and feelings down on paper and then into print by submitting their finished manuscripts to newspaper, magazine, and/or book publishers. They strove to get their writing into printers’ ink wherever they felt it would find and could be shared with the greatest number of readers.

Then the newfangled Web sites came along and rapidly gained popularity. On the positive side, they appeared to be the way to go for a writer to reach the largest reading audience. But they usually did not earn any money for the writer. Also, we were frequently warned that with Web sites there was the possibility we could lose control of our written material. That our precious creations would be hanging out there in the ether, unprotected, and fair game for anyone who wanted to steal them.

I never actually worried that such a thing would happen, I granted permission to several family members to include some of my rhymes on their Web sites, and to the TH to include my “Rhyme and Reason” column in the on-line version of the newspaper. I doubted that my type of material would tempt a lot of literary thieves or plagiarists or make any of them very wealthy. Thus far, I don’t think I have suffered any losses.

Having my published writing and also my e-mail address available over an almost limitless area has provided more than a few happy occurrences and an occasional ego boost. Every now and then I am pleasantly surprised by an e-message from someone who is a complete stranger lives many hundreds of miles away.

Now and then I’ll hear from someone who has left this area but still keeps up with local happenings by reading the on-line version of the TH. Best of all, sometimes the message will come from a good friend from days gone by. Someone like Gene Hilger, once a Glen Haven boy, who is now retired from the military and lives in Des Moines. Or a compliment and a “Keep up the good work!” from Dick Krogman down in sunny Arizona. Wow! I hadn’t seen or heard from Dick, an old Bloomington friend, for 50 years or more.

Recently, quite by accident, I was surprised to find that one of my poems has been used on the Web sites of two strangers. They both gave me credit as the writer. One of these sites is a tribute to the great old movie “Gone With the Wind.” It is beautifully and professionally done, with great use of color and design. The site includes quite a number of great reproductions of pictures of Clark Gable, Vivien Leigh, and others, also of Tara. And it ends with my old poem “Apathy, My Dear Scarlett … .“

Finding my work on this Web site, I did not have the slightest feeling of having been “ripped off.” In fact, I felt highly honored to have had my poem included in a production of such high caliber. Maybe my old “Rhett Butler” poem is really better than I ever thought it was. This may be a good time to dig it out again and dust it off and give it a second look.

APATHY, MY DEAR SCARLETT

Some folks will climb a mountain
Just because that mountain’s there.
Others will face great danger
When someone makes them a dare,

But I am satisfied with
What and who and where I am
And, just like old Rhett Butler,
Frankly, I don’t give a damn.

Some people seek new records
For distance or time or speed,
And world-wide recognition
Seems to be their greatest need.

Politicians woo the public>
With lots of that old flimflam
But, just like old Rhett Butler,
Frankly, I don’t give a damn.

Some folks attend sports events
Where they join a noisy crowd,
Then cheer and clap and stamp their
Feet and carry on real loud,

But if the home team loses,
Each goes home meek as a lamb
While, just like old Rhett Butler,
Frankly, I don’t give a damn

.Some girls will go to great lengths
Just to catch some fellow’s eye –
Artificial lashes, nails, and paint
And heels six inches high.

One wise girl says, “To win my
Love, you’ll take me as I am."
Like Rhett Butler, she really, frankly,
Doesn’t give a damn.

GOING FOR BROKE

2009-05-17T19:23:00.000-07:00

While listening to the TV news recently, I learned that some "experts" have decided that certain people are compulsive gamblers because of their genetic makeup. That they just can’t resist the impulse to take a chance. And that there is good reason to believe that soon the medical profession will have a medication that will dull that burning urge to wager.

An older friend once told me that those of us whose parents and grandparents came from Europe "have that gambling thing bred right into us." He went on, "Our ancestors were the kind who were ready and willing to take a big gamble. They came to this strange country where they did not have the slightest idea what the future held in store for them. These brave men, women, and even small children weren’t even certain that they would survive the trip across the ocean. They had no idea what they would do, once they had arrived here, or how they would earn a living and support their families. But they were real gamblers. Willing to risk it all. And we have inherited their gambling spirit."

I wasn’t in the mood to really discuss the matter. I could have mentioned that gambling, as such, is usually an attempt to just trust to our luck and to "get something for nothing." I’m sure our ancestors were ready to "pay their way." And anything they hoped to receive from this new land they were ready to earn with much hard work and sweat.

No doubt a medical cure for problem gamblers would be great. But what would come next? A "booster shot" or "Viagra-type gambling pill" for those of us who lack the craving or bravery needed to go after the big stakes?

GOING FOR BROKE

The old man entered the barroom
And sat down on a tall stool,
Searched his pockets, even
Turned them inside-out.

He said, “Fellers, I’m an expert.
For the price of a few drinks
You can learn what gambling’s
Really all about.”

“I’m a rambling gambler and we
Rolling stones gather no moss.
I’m a sucker for all
Kinds of games of chance.

“I’m ready to take my chances,
Quick to lay my money down,
About all I own are
These old denim pants.

“I’ve made and spent lots of money,
Made choices that were unwise,
Bad investments in card
Games and rolling dice.

“None of them have paid much interest
Or big dividends, or such.
Mostly they have been a
Poor deal for the price.

“Shooting for ‘something for nothing’
Is what gambling’s all about.
We may win big, but won’t
Know, if we don’t try.

“Anywhere there is a question,
Betting seems the normal thing.
When we lose we rarely
Stop to wonder ‘Why?’

“I have bet on almost every
Kind of contest known to man,
Even on the date of
The first killing frost.

“I’ve bet on ball games and horses,
Even the Chicago Cubs,
Also on some dead-sure
Things, but still I lost.

“Yet, regardless of the odds, I’m
There, ready to ‘ante up.’
There’s always a chance, if
You know what I mean.

“Every game, contest, or conflict
Is almost sure to produce
Some big winners, though they’re
Few and far between.

“I’ve rubbed elbows with high rollers,
Guys who play for the high stakes.
I pretended to heed
Every word they’d say.

“All we gamblers are alike. We’ll
Never stop dreaming the dream,
And I wouldn’t have it
Any other way.

“I’ve purchased a few casinos,
They’ve all been bought and paid for.
I’m well known in Vegas,
I will have you know.

“But the sad thing is I have no
Deeds or bills of sale. There is
Nothing on paper, not
One damn’ thing to show.”

LIFE’S CAROUSEL

2009-04-27T04:58:00.000-07:00

One of my friends has a “catch all” expression that he uses frequently. Whenever anyone does something unexpected, unusual, or inappropriate, we are likely to hear the old fellow repeat, “It takes a lot of people to make up a world.”

He once told me that it is fortunate that we are not all alike. “All types are important. We need thinkers and dreamers to come up with new inventions. We need entrepreneurs to take chances and start new companies and places of business to supply our needs and to furnish jobs for those who are content to punch a time clock and work for a regular wage. Also the world requires at least a few of us who readily tire of a steady job and are always ready and available to fill new positions and part-time jobs.

“There ain’t nothing wrong with working on the same job day after day and year after year, if you enjoy the work and don’t mind the conditions,” he went on. “But if you are a member of a team of Eskimo dogs pulling a sled, you’ll most likely find the job a whole lot less boring and the scenery much more interesting if you can work your way up to being the lead dog.

“Our lives often tend to become quite a bit like a carousel. But I suppose those wooden merry-go-round horses don’t really have it all that bad. They are well cared for and work where there is a good deal of activity. There are always a lot of people around, also lights and music. And they don’t have to worry about a thing. They don’t ever have to be concerned about thinking or making decisions. Like a lot of us, they just keep going ‘round and ‘round.”

LIFE’S CAROUSEL

Mostly I try not to think
Of how low folks’ hopes can sink,
How depressed and sad, at times,
People can feel

When they’re not winning life’s race,
But kind of “taking up space,”
Each, just one more bent spoke in
Time’s rusty wheel.

Years can surely take their toll
On the spirit and the soul.
Time can grind one’s confidence
Into the ground.

It wears down more than a few,
And the same thing must be true,
For each painted horse on a
Merry-go-round.

In a large amusement park,
From morning till after dark
Beautiful horses run with
Smooth grace and pride.

Their home, the merry-go-round
Has a cheery, tuneful sound.
For many children, it’s their
Favorite ride.

On it, the circle of steeds
Of uncertain wooden breeds
Have shiny hides and hooves that
Reflect the sun.

Whites and blacks, spotted, and bay,
Carry the children all day,
’Round and ‘round in a daylong
Circular run.

They all move equally fast –
There is no first place or last –
All day long these steeds make their
Appointed rounds.

Running, as long days drag by,
Never pausing to ask “Why?”
The calliope cheers them on
With jolly sounds.

’Way back when I was a child,
Of those horses, fast and wild,
One big blaze-faced bay was my
Favorite nag.

“Thunder” had great strength and speed,
More than any other steed,
But I have never been one
To boast or brag.

We’d gallop around that track,
Close behind a speedy black,
With Thunder’s head high, and me,
Bursting with pride.

I was dead certain, of course
That mine was the fastest horse,
And we could pass them all if
We really tried.

Today I can only pray
Thunder’s still happy today,
Content with how his life’s race
Is being run.

And when each evening sun sets,
My old horse has no regrets
And, for him, running with the
Pack is still fun.

BUTTERFLY

2009-04-12T11:46:00.000-07:00

For the last several years the big talk in the farm seed industry has been about new technology that makes possible the biological engineering of plants in ways that make them vastly superior to normal versions produced by natural means. One of the most successful has been the new “Bt” corn that is now planted on many acres here in the corn belt. The ability of a specific type of bacteria to produce an insecticide has long been a matter of great interest. Modern plant engineering has now made it possible to incorporate that factor into the corn plant, to design new Bt hybrids that can create their own “insecticide,” and actually kill the European corn borer larvae that would feed on, weaken, and destroy them.

Many serious environmentalists, along with numerous other assorted individuals and groups, take a dim view of this sort of progress. They all warn of the possibility of creating a Frankenstein-like monster. Some even put a religious spin on it, saying that when we bypass God’s natural laws we are sure to create many new problems that will vastly outweigh any gains. They like to use

Atomic-fission and atomic-fusion as horrible examples, often adding quotes by famous people such as Gen. Douglas MacArthur and the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King.

This summer, someone came up with data indicating that pollen from the tassels of Bt corn, when landing on the leaves of milkweeds, can weaken and even kill the monarch butterfly larvae that feed only on these leaves. I discussed this with an old friend, a corn breeder who has recently received a good deal of well-earned recognition for helping develop a corn hybrid that is currently one of the more successful in the state of Iowa. We kind of lamented: Of all the insects and other assorted bugs in the world, why did it have to be the monarch butterfly? What other bug is as widely known and universally loved as is the monarch? Scotty didn’t seem to take too kindly to my suggestion that the next move would have to be an attempt to develop a Bt-resistant monarch butterfly.

In late July a group of us visited the Olbrich Botanical Gardens in Madison, Wisc., to see their special show, “Butterfly Bonanza.” Thousands of butterflies of assorted species were turned loose in the Bolz Conservatory, an indoor tropical jungle, where they fluttered and flitted about to their hearts’ content among the banana, breadfruit, and countless other rain-forest trees and plants. Giant Swallowtails, Monarchs, Queens, and Viceroys; Painted Ladies, Zebras, White Peacocks, Julias, Malachites, and many others gave us a colorful show of their flimsy, faltering aerobatics.

Arrangements were made to supply a variety of flavors of nectar for them to sip. In a special “birthing area” many chrysalis hung in rows, giving viewers a chance to watch newly-formed butterflies emerge, to dry their wings, and fly away.

The enthusiastic crowd that enjoyed the lively display included many family groups. Small children bustled about, searching the plants beside the paths for the brightly colored insects, anxious to report their finds to their parents and grandparents. Together they would try to identify each newly-found butterfly by comparing it to the 24 colored photographs in their beautiful brochures. Those with cameras recorded their sightings of various “Lepidoptera” on film.

Watching the fragile-looking creatures flutter slowly from plant to plant, it seemed difficult to believe that a monarch butterfly can attain a speed of 20 MPH, or fly as high as 10,000 feet above the ground. Much less survive a 2,000-mile migration from Canada to Mexico.

A large banner proclaimed: “A world filled with the magic of butterflies is a world of natural diversity!” All of the happy, smiling faces at the “Butterfly Bonanza” convinced me that many people have a soft spot in their hearts for the flutter-bugs. And that butterflies do have their own brand of beautiful, colorful, magic.

BUTTERFLY

Pretty butterfly,
As you flutter by
On your hither-thither way,

I sure hope you know,
As you come and go,
That you brighten up my day.

What a jolly sight,
With your colors bright,
As you clear my garden wall!

Soft, warm breezes blow,
You come and you go
Even above trees so tall.

You’re a welcome guest
(The one I like best)
In my garden by the lane.

Tomorrow, at noon,
If that’s not too soon,
Please, flit by this way again.

If I could but be
Light, footloose, and free
As you, off, away we’d fly

On our wings of gold,
We would flutter, bold,
Exploring the broad blue sky.

Air-borne jewel bright,
In the summer’s light,
Thrilling mere earthlings, like me,

Once some girl or guy
Much wiser than I
Reasoned: “Butterflies are free”

TELLING IT LIKE IT WAS

2009-03-30T05:06:00.000-07:00

Every now and then a reader asks when I’m going to write another “cowboy column.” Maybe all the boyhood time I spent playing cowboy didn’t go to waste after all. Or the time spent watching cowboy movies and TV shows.

I can never qualify as a real cowboy poet. That requires a writer to actually be a working cowboy or cowgirl, or to at least own and operate a ranch. But at least I can try to think and write about the Wild West.

I’ve met a few real working cowboys along the way. And a whole passel of rodeo cowboys, including several of the very best. I’ve met only one real cowgirl. Last fall I wrote a column titled “Roman Rider.” It told the story of Prairie du Chien’s Elaine Kramer who once thrilled rodeo and circus audiences all across this country and Canada with her fantastic daring and exciting Roman riding act. I’m more than happy to say that this month Elaine will receive a great and well-deserved honor, when she is inducted into the National Cowgirls Hall of Fame down in Fort Worth, Texas .

Here is the tale of a barstool-riding cowboy:

TELLING IT LIKE IT WAS

“Rusty” Clayton is a cowboy,
Right out of the old Wild West,
Wearing hat and boots and Levis,
Jingling spurs and sheepskin vest.

He has a Southwestern accent
And can talk the cowboy talk.
He saunters into the barroom
With a John Wayne style of walk.

He tips his hat and says, “Howdy.”
No one feels it one bit strange
If he calls somebody “Pilgrim,”
That’s how it’s done on the range.

When people listen, he takes them
Back to his “cow punching” days
He tells about big fall roundups
Where they gathered up the strays,

And about those long nights when the
Dry, hard prairie was his bed,
When one small blanket warmed him and
His saddle pillowed his head.

Fighting rustlers is just one of
The risks a real cowboy takes,
Along with the prairie dog holes
And sidewinder rattlesnakes.

One night a short-tempered drinker
Snarled, “Tex, I think you’re all mouth.
Why not close your trap and mount your
Stick-pony and ride off south?

”For two hours I’ve sat and listened
To you till my ears were full.
I think your big cowboy talk is
Nothing but a load of bull.

”I’m sure I’m not wrong when I say
You’ve never herded a cow,
Or roped and branded young dogies,
Hell, I don’t think you’d know how!

”You ain’t killed any sidewinders
Or so much as a horned toad.
That barstool you’re straddling is as
Rank as any bronc you’ve rode.

”I’m declaring you’re no cowboy,
Here’s one thing that makes me sure:
You’re fancy old cowboy boots ain’t
Never tasted horse manure!”

Rusty slowly got to his feet,
Sneering, “I don’t take no lip
From no greenhorn who ain’t never
Slept west of the Mississip’.

”There’s just five guys who have tried me.
Three healed up, after a spell.
The fourth one still walks with crutches
And the fifth woke up in hell!”

The bar owner grabbed big Rusty
And rushed him right out the door,
Shouting, “Rusty, you’re just trouble,
You ain’t welcome here no more!”

Once outside, he whispered, “Rusty,
You know this is just an act.
That wise guy leaves town tomorrow,
And I know that for a fact.

”You know you’re the most consistent
Patron that we have, by far.
If you stayed away, we’d miss you,
You’re a fixture in this bar.

”You’re our only entertainment,
Best of all, you work for free.
Be back here tomorrow evening,
All your drinks will be on me.”

SPRINGTIME

2009-03-20T08:52:00.000-07:00

The older I get, the more I appreciate our Midwest with its four distinct seasons of the year. Maybe that is because I was born and raised here. I cant really say that I enjoy winter, but I think I would miss it. I am sure I appreciate spring all the more because of it. We often hear that anticipation is at least half the joy of anything. I'm sure that a lot of us begin anticipating spring when the snowdrifts are still hip-high to a tall person (Shucks, there goes another of my favorite old sayings that my politically correct friends wont let me use anymore).

I do occasionally run into folks who don't exactly look forward to the seasonal changes. A few just don't care much for change. And then there are some that are pessimists who aren't really pleased with anything. While complaining about the cold, snow, ice, wind-chill factor, and frosty forecasts, they don't like to be interrupted by someone telling about a newly developed variety of seed potatoes he or she is going to order from that colorful seed catalog that came in the mail yesterday.

Believe it or not, such people really don't look forward to spring. There is all that unsettled weather to look forward to, weeks of mud to contend with, followed by days of hard work raking and cleaning up the winters supply of fallen tree branches and trash and gravel from the lawn. And indoors, how will they ever find time to get all their spring-cleaning done? Then there will be all of that never-ending work in garden. And spring gives them nothing to look forward to but all of that lawn mowing and other hard work and, worst of all, the intolerable heat that summer will surely bring.

And that hot season will give them nothing to look forward to but fall. How could anyone enjoy a busy time of year like that? All of those dry, fallen leaves from the neighbors trees that the wind will deposit on their lawns will have to be raked up and burned, or bagged up and carted off. The garden has to be put to bed for winter. And then there is fall housecleaning. And soon there will be the cold and the deep snow, the icy, slippery, dangerous roads, and the huge fuel bills.

And when winter is finally finished, along comes that busy, messy, muddy season we call spring.

SPRINGTIME

A few drab and shabby snowdrifts
Still insist on hanging round,
But if were quiet, and listen,
From the woodland comes the sound

Of the springs very first robin;
We stop just to hear it sing,
As it does its level best to
Turn our winter into spring.

As that season rounds the corner
Judging by these signs we've seen,
Soon the lawns and pastures will all
Turn from dull, drab brown to green.

Trees and shrubs will all be leafed out
In their lacy finery
As they do their best to please and
To thrill folks like you and me.

We can see the buds now swelling
On the maples branches high,
Praying for warm springtime sunshine
As they brush against the sky.

Waves of snow-white and pink flowers
On apple and wild plum trees
Will fill mild air with fragrance to
Awake winter-weary bees.

The brooks music will assure us
That, once again, spring has sprung,
Nests and dens of many creatures
Will be homes for brand-new young.

In farm fields, the newly plowed ground
Will echo the tractors roar.
Awaiting the new birth and growth
This great season has in store.

As we look around, we cant help
But feel we've been truly blessed:
All these wonders of creation
Displayed at their very best.

Free Spirits

2009-03-01T16:33:00.000-08:00

I recently received a welcome e-mail from a reader who had a question regarding the making of wooden willow whistles. He said that when he was a boy his grandfather taught him how to make them, and fe felt the time had come for him to pass that knowledge on to his own grandson, but all of his recent attempts at whistle making had failed. He said he had forgotten some of the details including how to remove a large area of the willow twig's bark without damaging or destroying it.

Several times over the years, I have mentioned these whistles. On one occasion I wrote a published article that contained complete step-by-step instructions for making them. Perhaps the time has come for me to see whether or not I can still practice what I preach. It won’t be long until spring and the “sap will be up,” the time when willow twigs are the greenest and most tender and in ideal condition for whittling wooden willow whistles.

When spring finally arrives, if I can find the time (which should not be too hard) and the ambition (which may be more difficult) I will go out and select a nice straight unblemished willow branch. After sharpening my jackknife, I will cut off a 4-inch length, then whittle the mouthpiece and cut the sound hole. The next task is to make a girdling cut around the piece, making certain to cut all the way through the bark. Then, holding the knife by the blade, the handle of the knife is used as a hammer to bruise the area of bark I want to remove, loosening it from the wood. If everything goes as planned, this area of bark can be slid off the wood in one piece. After whittling away more of the bare wood, the bark is slid back on and, hopefully, we’ll have a willow whistle that whistles.

Who knows, perhaps the whole whittling experience may bring back a few precious memories and at least a bit of that wonderful feeling of freedom a boy felt each spring when he no longer had to attend school. In the woods or in a field or pasture, and armed with his trusty jackknife and perhaps a BB gun, he could be a pioneer, a mountain man, or a cowboy. He was free and the world was his to explore and to enjoy.

FREE SPIRITS

A small boy sitting on a log
Reached out to pet his faithful dog
Both content as
The warm summer day passed by

The boy said, “Shaggy little hound,
No matter where I’ve looked around,
I’ve found no friends
Who are close as you and I.

”If need be, we’ll forage for food.
If forced, we can act crude and rude.
No one’s ever
Accused us of being shy.

”Like me, you can act brave, small hound,
Bark loud and throw your weight around.
We won’t look for
Fights, but we won’t pass them by

”No one can guess, or much less, know
In this world, how far we will go.
We’re much alike,
Friend, as far as I can see.

”We’re kind of like a pair of strays –
Rough, tough, and real set in our ways,
And I know that
You lack a real pedigree.

”At heart, we’re a pair of free souls,
Without any real long-range goals,
Kind of taking
Life the way it comes and goes.

”If fate presents a real tough test,
We won’t just come in second-best,
We’ll rely on
My sharp wits and your keen nose.

”I‘ll bet no one will ever see
Two friends loyal as you and me
Together, we
Make up a real winning team.

”We both find the fresh air so grand,
Out here in nature’s wonderland,
A place we can
Dream the impossible dream.

”But right now, we will have to go.
Lengthening shadows tell me so –
By now, Mom has
Supper ready. Come, let’s run!

”I’ll fill your food bowl to the brim
To maintain your vigor and vim.
Come morning, we’ll
Come back here when chores are done.”

Degree of Education

2009-02-08T10:49:00.000-08:00

Quite number of years ago, one of the young professionals at an agricultural research department was showing a summer college internee around and getting him acquainted with the job and with the people. I heard him tell the student, “And Scottie has his ‘post-hole digger.’”

That one had me stumped for awhile. Then it finally dawned on me that in agricultural college boy lingo, a post-hole digger meant a Ph.D. degree. I couldn’t help but wonder how many other such names they had for various degrees and accomplishments. That looked like a fairly fertile field for growing a new poem, so I began rhyming a few words.

At that time I didn’t know of any publishers looking for rural rhyme so today’s poem never was submitted anywhere, but I kept it in my repertoire for public readings. When working with our company’s sales department, I was frequently asked to “loosen up” sales meetings by adding a little humor with a short poetry reading.

Of all the poems I read to farmer-seed dealers and their wives, this one was the favorite:

A young man drove a farm wagon
Down a dusty country road.
He grinned as one of the steel wheels
Almost nailed a lazy toad.

A well-dressed stranger flagged him down
And he said, “As you can see,
My car has a flat tire. Would you
Please install the spare for me?

“I’d hoped someone would come along.
I’ve been waiting for some while
And I’m afraid that changing tires
Has just never been my style.

”Getting down, the young man tied his
Mules so they’d not stray away.
He said, “This won’t take five minutes,
And I’ll have you on your way.”

The older man admired the young
Man’s ambition and his zeal
As he promptly jacked the car up
And removed the airless wheel.

The older man said,“Young fellow,
You should really be in school
With higher learning, no one would
Look on you as just a fool.

“At City College, with a bit
Of alumni help, one can
Pull himself up by his bootstraps –
Be an educated man.

”“You’re tall, and sound of wind and limb;
Plenty broad across the beam.
I’m sure there would be room for you
On our college football team.

The young man smiled a happy smile,
When he’d finished with the car,
He said, “Sir, you just don’ know how
Far off-base you really are.

“My working skills and fencing tools
Make my future very bright.
I’ve all the work I want to do
Every day from morn’ till night.

“I ain’t got much education,
But can write and I can read.
I’m happy and doing nicely,
With all the degrees I need.

“These Muscled Arms are my M.A.
I make a good living and
This Post-Hole Digger’s my Ph.D.
My work’s always in demand.

“This Blunt Shovel and Broad-Axe are
My B.S. and my B.A.
My M.S. is this Muddy Spade
That I use ‘most every day.

“If a sticky problem stumps me
My dad will consult with me.
Like me, he is a Mule Driver,
So he, too, is an M.D.

“I get exercise and fresh air
Without paying no greens fees.
I face right up to my Maker
When I’m praying on my knees.

“You look down your nose and tell me
To just what I should aspire.
Shucks, at least I’m smart enough to know
How to change this gol-darned tire!”

THE CAT’S MEOW

2009-01-24T17:49:00.000-08:00

An old friend recently remarked, “My wife always reads your columns. But she wonders why you never write anything about cats.”

I think I have mentioned cats a time or two. Most people who know me don’t consider me a “cat lover.” Or overly fond of any kind of pets, which may not be completely true. I recall a number of cats and dogs I have enjoyed and considered friends. But, for the most part, I much prefer the company of humans.

During my days on the farm, cats were always welcome. In exchange for shelter, a small amount of food, and a certain amount of protection, a farm cat paid its way by helping control the rodents around the farmstead. Most farmers who milked cows were happy to give the cats a pan of fresh milk twice a day.

Many young people today, having never known a time when kitchens didn’t have garbage disposals, may find it hard to believe that “table scraps” once made up an important part of the diet of many cats and dogs, I’ve seen pets engage in some exciting fights over table scraps. Once, even a family’s pet crow was right in there, taking and getting in his share of licks in exchange for a share of the goodies.

Mother cats regularly supplied new kittens with which children could play. The survivors grew up to be mousers and ratters. Wandering tomcats often made their rounds, killing any small kittens they found. As farm kids we could never quite figure out why. Many small tykes today, having spent time watching an animal channel on TV, have witnessed this same thing happening with lions in the wild, and might explain it as nature’s way of strengthening a pride of lions (or clowder of cats) by preventing excessive inbreeding.

OK, about that word “clowder” – that’s a “book word” for a whole herd of cats. But in my eighty-plus years, I have never heard the word used in conversation.

For the most part, cats haven’t changed much since they first left the wild and agreed to live with humans. Numerous distinct breeds have been developed. And a few cats have learned, and are willing to perform, various tricks. I’ve always felt that felines could be taught to do almost any stunt a dog can perform, and many a dog can’t. But most of them refuse to lower themselves to that level. After all, in ancient history cats were often considered to be god-like creatures, and not jugglers, fools, or clowns.

Some of my cat-loving friends are convinced that their cats love them and miss them when they are not around. I certainly won’t argue with that. But I’ve never heard of a cat lying on its dead master’s grave and starving to death. That’s more the kind of behavior we expect of dogs.

Anyway, if you wanted a “cat column,” Mary, this is about the best I can do.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Morning’s sun warms up the front steps
And the old cat lounging there.
Now and then, she’ll lazily stretch
And she’ll comb and groom her hair.

Tabby’s master comes outside and
Sees her enjoying the sun.
He wonders if cats remember
Things they’ve known and things they’ve done.

The first day she came to his farm
He encouraged her to stay
By setting out a small pan filled
With fresh cows’ milk twice a day.

That was 14 years ago now.
Tabby’s old as farm cats go.
She’s survived the hottest summers
And waded through winters’ snow.

People at her farm home were kind
And mostly treated her nice.
The cat paid her way by helping
Them control their rats and mice.

Her body, so slim and agile,
And her teeth strong, sharp, and keen.
And her claws, like sheathed steel daggers,
Made her a “killing machine.”

In the summer, she would visit
A pasture or field of hay.
There she’d stalk and kill striped gophers.
She would bring one home each day.

She produced a hundred kittens
Give or take, maybe a few.
All in all, Tabby did what farm
Cats are expected to do.

She always hid well her kittens
When they were helpless and small,
Protected them from tomcats that
Would have tried to kill them all.

A farm cat’s life is no picnic,
Dodging mean dogs and rat traps,
And each day having to fight for
Her share of the table scraps.

The farmer knows, before long now,
Tabby will have to move on.
Up to Cat Heaven, the day when
Her ninth, and last, life is gone.

LIFE'S STREAMS

2009-01-11T20:41:00.000-08:00

One unexpected stocking stuffer I received for Christmas was a set of video tapes of four of the old Gene Autry movies. I looked over the titles and…Wow! I was fortunate enough to have the show titled “Oh Susannah!”

I couldn’t wait to get that one home and get the cellophane cover ripped off and get it popped into the VCR. I knew this was one of the two Gene Autry movies in which the country music group “The Light Crust Doughboys” had appeared. I once met and spent half a day with Marvin “Smokey” Montgomery, one of the members of that group.

In 1931, the Doughboys were organized and sponsored by the Burris Mill, the producer of Light Crust Flour. They first performed on radio station KFJZ in Fort Worth five days a week. One of the original members of the group was Bob Wills (of “New San Antonio Rose” and “Faded Love” fame), who not only played fiddle and sang, but also drove truck for the mill, and all for $10 per week.

With the daily radio show, the Doughboys’ popularity grew, and their transcribed musical performances were soon heard on stations all over Texas and a number of the neighboring states. By that time, naturally, they were in big demand for personal appearances all over the Southland.

The group grew from three to seven members. Bob Wills eventually left to organize his own “Texas Playboys” band. As years went by other members came and went, including names like Herman Arnspiger, Zeke Campbell, Hank Thompson, Slim Whitman, and Charlie Walker. Marvin “Smokey” Montgomery and his “Smokin’ Banjo” joined the group in 1935.

The Doughboys were off the air from 1942 to 1945 because of World War II, but came back strong and broadcast regularly until 1951, when TV began to put pressure on the radio industry. They continued to make personal appearances at state fairs, rodeos, super market openings, TV shows, homecomings, etc. In 1977, the State Senate of Texas passed Resolution No. 463, honoring the Doughboys for their part in Texas history. In 1981 the group recorded an album titled “50 Years Of Texas Style Music.”

In 1982, while visiting our oldest son Mick in Texas, he and I were working on several (non-too-successful) music projects. We went to see his friend Smokey at a large recording studio in Dallas. Smokey gave us a lot of advice, and also wrote up lead sheets for two of my “creations.” He gave me a copy of the above-mentioned Doughboys’ album, also a copy of one of his own albums, “Mostly Banjo,” on which he demonstrated his almost unbelievable skill with the tenor banjo.

My career as a tone-deaf songwriter has been anything but successful. Here is an example of one of my works, a kind of lament in three-quarter-time that just “didn’t quite get published” (until now).

The stream in the valley
Runs murky and black.
Hell, yes, I am leaving
And I ain't coming back.

I’ve been here too long in
This valley of tears,
Just came for a look,

butStayed too many years

In this valley, I’ve had
To face life’s great test.
I’ve seen lots of changes,
But none for the best,

The stream in this valley
Grew old, just like me.
Now muddy and still where,
It once rippled free.

All the homes here are old
And kind of run down.
And black factory smoke

Comes filtering down

The big old machines are
All covered with rust.
In the street I’m up to

My ankles in dust

As I sit on this bench
On a moonlight night
I stare at the bars with
All their neon lights.

My stream in this town just
Ain’t pretty no more
With old dreams and beer cans
Now choking its shore

Now I have found a place
In my dreams at night
Where summers are gentle
And winters are light,

Where an old man can stay
For many a year.
The stream in the valley
There runs crystal clear.

The stream in my valley
Looks murky and black.
Hell, yes, I am leaving

And ain’t coming back

I’ve been here too long in
This valley of tears,
Just came for a look but
Stayed too many years.

2009-01-01T22:38:00.000-08:00

NEW YEAR’S

Now is the time to celebrate

The birth of a brand-new year,

A time for faith and hope and trust,

Not for worry or for fear.

No time to mope about the past,

But to look forward, instead.

Focus on a brighter future,

Envision great days ahead.

We know with each day problems come,

Every month’s another test,

Our whole lifetime’s built out of years,

Let’s make this new one the best.

We’ll seek out progress and success

As this new year passes by.

If we fail, let’s make sure it’s not

Because we just didn’t try.

We often can blame just ourselves

For defeats in early years.

We’ve ignored the success blueprint

Hidden right between our ears.

We’re all seeking a better way,

Hoping to “get in the groove,”

But things don’t just “fall into place”

We have to make the first move.

Most times there really is no need

To relocate, rove, or roam,

Often our “acres of diamonds”

Lie hidden right close to home.

So let’s get those brain cells working,

Be prepared to plan and dream.

Keep looking for the bright side, and

Find that winning theme or scheme.

Happiness follows clear thinking,

Persistence and strength of heart,

Making New Year’s Resolutions

Seems the perfect way to start!

THE STORY LIVES ON

2008-12-21T13:58:00.001-08:00

In our hearts, the story lives on:
A dark night, with one bright star,
Angel choirs singing to greet
Three wise travelers from afar.

Before beginning their journey
They'd pondered which gifts to bring,
Then chose gold, myrrh, and frankincense
Fit gifts for The Newborn King.

At a stable, they joined shepherds
Who had left their flocks that night.
Walking to the songs of angels,
They, too, followed the star's light.

Together, both high and lowly,
Knelt down on the earthen floor
Before the babe in a manger,
To worship and to adore.

Could any of that group have guessed
That all else would fade away,
But that Baby in the manger
Would still be worshipped today.

CHRISTMAS SEASON

2008-12-13T20:22:00.000-08:00

Once again, whether we are ready or not, the Christmas Season has arrived. Just as it does every year. A time when many folks find themselves busy. Perhaps more so than they should be. Sad to say, Some people wind up finding themselves too busy to really enjoy the great season.

There are last minute gifts to buy and food to prepare. There are plans to be made. Often travel plans, and at a time of year when the weather and road conditions can be anything but cooperative. Airports are often crowded with people who are frantically trying to work their way around flight cancellations so they can make it home for the holidays.

Christmas is a time for family and for friends. A time for people to enjoy the company of others. And a time that seems to bring out the best in people. A jolly season that can help us forget our problems. And forget that winter has just begun, and the long, cold month of January lies directly ahead of us.While driving at night, we can hardly help but feel our spirits lift as we view the Christmas lights that decorate homes and places of business.

Christmas is a time to reminisce. To drift back to childhood and try to recall the feelings of anticipation of the Great Day. At the country school attended, we decorated the schoolroom and put up a large tree. We all drew names and then each of us bought a small present for the person whose name we drew. These fits were placed under the tree.

Each year we put on a Christmas play, an evening event followed by a social meeting for parents and students. Santa Claus would appear just in time to hand out the fits beneath the tree, along with a paper sack of candy and mixed nuts for each student. A neighbor and family friend named Matt Schiffman was the best I've ever seen at playing that role. He was convincing enough to almost make believers out of some of us boys who were old enough to know better.

Christmas decorations were quite simple back then. Almost every family I knew put up and decorated a tree, often a small, freshly cut cedar tree. For appearance these could not begin to compare to the neatly pruned commercial spruce, fir, and pines available only with a homegrown tree.

Most of the Christmas trees in our neighborhood were decorated with a few strings of red roping and tinsel. Most had a star on top. There were few glass ornaments and so strings of lights. Later, shiny foil icicles became popular. Some children cut strips of paper and then, with paste, made loops, or links to form paper chains to hang on the tree. I"ve witnessed a few attempts to string popcorn for the tree, but most of these tries were short-lived, ending with few popped kernels on the strings, more kernels broken by the needle. And, eventually, most of the popcorn eaten by the unsuccessful stringers.

As the years went by, the Rural Electrification Act put electrical power into most of the farm homes. Small wreaths with a single lighted bulb in the center became available. Then, soon, thee were strings of six or eight colored lights. The aggravating kind, wired in series, so that when one bulb burned out the circuit was broken and they all went dark. A far cry from today's strings of a hundred or more bright colorful, blinking or marquee bulbs.

One way or another, the story of Christ's birth is still being told. As it has been for more than 2000 years.

A story has been handed down
As years have come and gone.
Still told to children by adults,
That great legend lives on.

The tale of a Savior who came
To cleanse us of all sin,
But no grand welcome did He find,
With no room at the inn.

We are told the Christ Child was born
In lowly stable small,
No proper place for Newborn King -
Fit for no child at all.

The angel choirs sang out for joy
On that first Christmas Day.
Shepherds, in wonder, gathered 'round
The manger where He lay.

Now, years later, we enjoy great
Old songs carolers sing.
On Christmas Morn, faithful gather
When the glad church bells ring.

We all await the peace and joy
The great day holds in store
And, in our hearts, almost become
As small children once more.

As Christmas fills our lives, and hearts,
All other gifts seem small
When compared to God's gift of love,
The Greatest Gift of all.

WINTER

2008-11-30T10:37:00.000-08:00

Each year, late autumn begins dropping hints as to what lies ahead. Day by day the cooling temperatures remind us of the coming of winter. Another Midwest winter with all of its snow and cold, its slippery, icy roads, and its cancelled activities and appointments. Winter, with its huge (this year exceptionally huge) home-heating fuel bills. Such weather is really nothing new. We’ve all been there before.

Everyone loves springtime. The bright, warm days and new plans for the coming summer. And all of that fresh, new, green growth. Many of us look forward to the return of the songbirds and the northward migration of waterfowl.

As we move through the summer, we may begin to complain about the heat and the insects. And about all the work the lawn and garden require. Also the air-conditioning costs. But, overall, most of us are usually quite happy and content. We can usually find a spot of shade where we can sit and relax and think. The warm weather makes possible many sports and other outdoor activities. And who can remain unhappy long when surrounded by our beautiful green fields, hills, and bluffs. And our great rivers and

streams.

Even long after retirement, many of us who grew up on farms still thrill to the growth progress we see in the roadside cornfields. As we drive by, we watch for fields in which the young plants have reached the “knee-high stage.” Next we keep an eye out for “hip-high corn,” and later for corn that is “shoulder-high.” Next, it is the “tasseling out” and “shooting ears” stages. Lush, healthy green of knee-high, weed-free fields of soybeans and alfalfa can have a calming, almost healing effect on a worried, troubled soul.

Next comes autumn, which is most people’s favorite season of all, and the one we would least want to miss out on. When the hardwood trees and sumac begin to don their bright clothing, it is almost as if we are in a different world, one with its own sights, sounds, and smells. Fall is a great season for nostalgia. For remembering countless great times we have enjoyed in many autumns long gone by.

After the bright leaves have fallen, we know that it will be only a short time until the landscape will be wearing a white blanket of snow. And then we must face that annual question: Go or stay? Do we really want to remain here to face another frigid and angry winter? Or should we join the “snow birds,” and head for a warmer southern clime?

So far, except for occasional trips that are two or three weeks in length, we have always opted to remain here in the frosty Snow Belt. Perhaps we are in a rut. Or maybe just content with our regular routine here at home. Or curious to see just what the heck is going to happen next around here. No, I can’t say that we really enjoy winter all that much. But we also have no real desire to leave.

WINTER

Early morning radioSays,

“No school, because of snow.

And no basketball, as well.”

Tomorrow? Too soon to tell

Beneath dark and brooding sky

White snowdrifts are soon knee-high,

Raging north wind howls and roars,

A good day to stay indoors

All day long this storm will rage,

Best check the fuel tank’s gauge,

Keep all doors and windows locked,

Be thankful our shelves are stocked

Make sure the snow shovel’s near,

Check all snow removal gear,

Everything we’ll need and use,

Mittens, scarves, and overshoes

Wind-driven snow moves and shifts

Front walk hides ‘neath waist-deep drifts.

Driveway heaped from street to door

Snowplow will add a lot more.

Power lines must all be down

Up on the north end of town.

Neighbor gives a friendly call –

No heat at the bingo hall

Friends in Arizona boast,

Weather down there’s warm as toast.

They phone just to rub it in,

I can almost see them grin.

Winter visits us each year,

But what do have we to fear?

Just the thought of spring’s warm smile,

Almost makes this all worthwhile.

Truly, what could be more grand

Than this winter wonderland?

Wouldn’t it seem sadly strange

Not to see the seasons change?

So far, this winter’s been rough,

The next month could still be tough.

’Though right now we’re in a bind,

Can springtime be far behind?

THANKSGIVING

2008-11-21T17:51:00.000-08:00

For me, Thanksgiving has always been kind of a special holiday. Farm children can easily relate to celebrating, and giving thanks for, a bountiful harvest or a successful hunt. And I always have loved food.

One year, Gloria and I celebrated Thanksgiving in the Boston area with our son Mick. I thought it was great to be able to celebrate right in the area of the very first Thanksgiving. But I found that there are some mixed feelings about the great day.

Each year, hundreds and even thousands of members of the United American Indians of New England, along with many of their friends and supporters, gather on Cole’s Hill, an area that overlooks Plymouth Rock, to observe their “National Day of Mourning.” A sad occasion brought about by the survival of the Pilgrim colonies and the colonization of America. The day is devoted to prayers and speeches.

One of their elders, Mahtowin Munro informed the crowd, “As Native Americans, we have no reason to give thanks for the European invasion of our land, and the genocide of our people. We are also here to talk about the continuing racism and oppression that we still face today.”

“We celebrated the first Thanksgiving with the settlers, and after that they took the land of the Native Americans,” said Edwin W. Morse, “Chief Wise Owl,” leader of the Chaubunagungamaug band of the Nipmuc tribe. “Indians saved the settlers and taught them how to survive – fed them and kept them alive. Every day is a feast day for Indians. Each day when we have dinner we thank the Creator.”

This autumn congregation of the Native Americans has not always been welcomed with open arms. In 1997, violence broke out. Twenty-five Indians were arrested. After the dust had settled, the town of Plymouth agreed to dismiss all charges if the protesters promised not to pursue misconduct charges against the police. It also agreed to put $100,000 into an education fund that would focus on American Indian history, to pay for the legal fees of the protesters, and to spend $15,000 for a plaque that will explain history from the point of view of native peoples. Its message will be a reminder of the genocide of millions of people, the theft of their lands, and the relentless assault on their culture.

We celebrated our Thanksgiving in the East much as we always have here at home, with turkey, dressing, and all the “fixin’s.” We really enjoyed our first trip to New England with its “stern and rock-bound coast.” I’m sure there will never be a shortage of rocks and boulders out there. We loved visiting the smaller villages. Each had a “common.” In early days these park-like, grassy areas were used as meeting places in the time of emergencies. Many now have plaques and statues to honor their founders and heroes. And tell of important happenings of bygone days.

New England architecture has its own style. And it appears great efforts are made to adhere to this. Almost no glitz or golden arches. Sometimes it is difficult to distinguish a fast food restaurant or a filling station from establishments that are centuries old. I had only a few complaints with the area. There seemed to be a decided shortage of public restrooms. And those found in the places of business are there strictly for the use of customers only!

We really enjoyed a parade in Douglas, Mass. Riding a trolley, we wound up right in the parade itself, waving to the crowds gathered along the streets, just as if we belonged there. Then we watched a long line of parents with small children wait for as long as two hours just to visit with Santa Claus. As the dark of night descended, we witnessed the “lighting of the common.” The mayor threw a giant (dummy) switch and all of the trees were simultaneously lighted with myriads of colored Christmas lights. Then followed a period of carol singing. It was a Thanksgiving week we will long remember.

THANKSGIVING

In the kitchen, women’s faces

Glowed from heat and pride and sweat,

Putting our noon meal on, knowing

It was their best effort yet.

Big old gobbler from the farmyard

Filled the roaster to the brim.

He steamed real good on the platter;

We sure did our best on him.

Our meal was a feast, the biggest

And best I have yet to taste.

And there’s lots of good leftovers,

I know none will go to waste.

As we sat down at the table,

Grandpa Lowther said a prayer.

He talked of that first Thanksgiving

Just as if he had been there.

Uncle Lige Craig said, “We like to

Hear about those days of old,

But pass down them mashed p’taters

Before they start getting cold.”

It’s been dark for several hours now.

The sun’s slipped behind the hills,

But I’m not ready for supper,

I’m still filled up to my gills

With too much Thanksgiving turkey,

‘Taters, pumpkin pie, and squash,

But I’ll give it my best effort.

I’ll be no quitter, by gosh!

I’ve never been strong on history,

But there’s no way I can see

That the Pilgrims and the Indians

Had as good a day as me.

THE SHUNNING OF SAUL McGREW

2008-11-09T17:33:00.000-08:00

Some years ago a young fellow came up to me during a break in the action at a poetry reading and told me that my poems reminded him a lot of the work of Robert W. Service. I thanked him. I'll take a compliment anywhere I can get it. My Gosh! Robert W. Service yet! Almost every red-blooded young man has read "The Shooting of Dan McGrew." Maybe even memorized parts of it. And perhaps heard and memorized some of the downright bawdy versions and revisions that have cropped up from time to time. And then there was "The Cremation of Sam McGee." I liked "The Spell Of the Yukon" best of all. Some of that rhyme was written so well that it almost gave me goose bumps. Almost to the point where, as an old fellow once said, he "almost hankered to start sprouting a few feathers."

I basked awhile in the glow of the kind compliment, then filed it away in my memory, where it remained untouched and uncalled for, until several weeks ago. A rerun of the TV show "Northern Exposure" found Dr. Joel Fleishman becoming homesick for his native New York City. In all that town of Cicely and the surrounding area, he had found not one other person of Jewish descent. Joel confided in the pompous, influential ex-astronaut, Maurice Minnefield, who wasted no time in trying to assure the young doctor that he was not alone. That he was not the first of the Chosen People to venture north into the cold and untamed land--and he pointed out various mountain peaks that had the names to prove it.

Politics, Not Royalty, Should Dominate Playing Cards

2008-11-02T11:24:00.000-08:00

I enjoy a few games of cards occasionally, but can never really get excited about playing. Shuffling that same deck all afternoon or evening becomes too much like just sitting there spinning one's wheels.

My mind tends to drift off to other things: All those kings and queens! What is this fixation we still have with royalty? After the Revolutionary War why didn't some loyal colonist design a new, truly American deck? One with presidents, veeps, chief justices and secretaries of state? The cards could display caricatures or photos of the actual office holders. After elections, card sales would boom as players brought their equipment up to date. Certainly no one would want to play with an obsolete deck. Old decks would quickly become valuable collectors items.

All of the card games I play are "male-oriented,' with the kings outranking the queens. Even the jacks, when they happen to be the bowers of trump, can pull rank on the queens. Where are all of our militant feminists? Why aren't they beating against the glass ceiling that prevents our poor queens from attaining equal power? We could change the rules perhaps allow the red kings to outrank the red queens and the black queens dominate the black kings. But that would be too confusing. And smack a bit of
discrimination by color..

And then there is the matter of those male jacks. If we are really seeking sexual equality, we should add female counterparts to the deck. The simplest way to accomplish this would be to give each sexless ace a gender – make each a feminine card. We could decorate them with pictures of beautiful ladies. But not attractive or suggestive enough to raise the hackles of those who have fought so valiantly and long to eliminate the bathing suit competition from beauty contests.

As long as our deck of cards is already committed to royalty, why not add a princess? A jack is often referred to as a knave. It is not unlikely that a princess card would at times be called a wench, or worse.

What would I suggest for a proper illustration for each of our new ace-princess cards? You have to be kidding. There is only one real princess! Each ace should be given a tasteful caricature of Britain's beautiful Diana, Princess of Wales, complete with her blonde hair and those soulful eyes as big as saucers (no aces wild jokes, please). No, I am not a devout member of Princess Diana's fan club. I am still actually a mite piqued that she didn't come out and say, "Hello," or at least wave, when we walked past her Kensington Palace a year ago last fall. Oh, sure, I realize she was probably busy doing "princess things," or whatever it is that a princess does. I'm no historian, but the lovely Princess Diana must certainly be the brightest star to have illuminated that whole royal facade for centuries.

Back to our deck of cards. We still have the joker to deal with – a male card usually portrayed as a court jester. The joker isn't used in all card games. Maybe we could get by with letting that one remain a male card. We still haven't given an assignment to
Prince Charles....

PLAYING CARDS

With much of my life behind me
I look back now and I see
So many plans unfinished, with
Much missed opportunity.

The wasted time, the days, the years
That brought me no real rewards –
Hours watching television and,
Much worse yet, just playing cards.

In most types of activities –
Almost anything I do -
If I keep my eyes wide open,
I can learn a thing or two,

But playing cards makes few demands
On a lazy human mind.
The brain can just relax and leave
All thoughts of progress behind.

Most anyone can "talk the talk,"
Even the loud and obscene:
"If you'd just played your goddam Ace,
Then led back the friggin' Queen ...."

"I haven't held a decent hand
They just don't deal me a thing!"
"All I had was the Ten and Left He
had the Right and King."

"Stop peeking at my cards or I
Will quit. For just once play fair!"
"To change my luck I will get up
And walk right around my chair."

Yes, I have spent a lot of time
That's brought me no great rewards,
But my one regret's all the time
That I've wasted playing cards.

HALLOWEEN

2008-10-19T20:38:00.000-07:00

With each fall comes another Halloween. A time of cold evenings, “frost on the pumpkin” and “fodder in the shock.” We don’t see many fields of shocked corn anymore. And seldom see a lot of giant pumpkins growing in farmers’ fields. Or small “pie-pumpkins” growing in gardens. But, come Halloween,” we will see plenty of jack-o’-lanterns, both real and artificial, decorating homes and yards.

As darkness falls, groups of children will be out and about, busy with their trick-or-treating. I grew up in a rural area, and if there was such an activity back then, I never heard of it. We did hear of the tricks perpetrated by some of the members of the age group we now refer to as “teenagers.” And of some daring late night stunts pulled by a few of the more adventuresome adults.

A dozen years ago I was invited to join two grandsons and their parents in a Halloween parade in Dubuque. Yes, I put on a mask and walked with the rest of the ghosts, witches and goblins. I’ve forgotten many of the details, but not the evening. We had a great time. We started at Jackson Park and paraded down Main, and eventually wound up down by the Town Clock Plaza. I was amazed at the costumes. Some were simple, but others represented much imagination and a good deal of hard work. It was a great evening. Wonderful to be a part of such a large group of people who were all happy and having a good time.

This time of year, many people who drive Highway 18, just north of Patch Grove, enjoy a nifty Halloween display near the River Ridge School, at the junction with County Highway P. “Scarecrow Ridge” is a project of the third-grade students there, and consists of a score of colorful figures, all dressed up in their raggedy Halloween best.

I’m told that each fall the students of one of Pete Drone’s High School Ag classes drive a row of steel fence stakes to support the scarecrows. And Langmeier Lumber generously furnishes material for crossbars. Then the third-graders (with some help from their parents) create the scarecrows, dressing them in discarded clothing they’ve brought from home.

On a windy day the jolly, straw-stuffed characters almost appear to be waving at passers-by. After three years, we natives still enjoy the sight. Quite a number of strangers driving by, slow down to get a better look, and more than a few pull off and stop. It is not uncommon to see folks getting out their cameras and taking pictures of Scarecrow Ridge.

HALLOWEEN

One more year gone by, one
More Halloween evening,
With frost on the pumpkin,
Witches riding on brooms.

An evening of darkness,
Of spooks, ghosts, and goblins.
Skeletons, grim and white
Climbing out of their tombs.

This will be a big night
For young trick-or-treaters,
In large and in small groups
They will take to the streets.

My young friends will be there
In various costumes
Some with colorful masks,
Some as ghosts in white sheets

They'll have such a good time
That I may just join them.
You could see me out there
Before the evening's done.

I, too, may wind up with
A sack full of candy.
Why should only the young
Ones have all of the fun?

I think I'll go this year
Disguised as an old man.
I'll put on a face that's
Marked and lined by the years,

I'll be the one whose mask
Wears a weak, faint, forced smile-
A clown's face that mirrors
Cares and worries and fears.

Tonight, the role I play
Will leave no one guessing,
I'll be easy to read
As a well-written page

I'll not appear wealthy,
Tonight I'll be wearing
Cheap, patched, shabby clothing
Weathered and worn by age.

As the years come and go,
We must move on with them,
Always paying our fare-
The costly toll of time.

I'll go trick-or-treating
Disguised as an old man.
This year's costume and mask
Will not cost me a dime.

MEDIOCRE MEMORIES

2008-09-28T15:44:00.000-07:00

Homecoming weekend was in full swing at the University of Wisconsin. The city of Madison was fairly overrun by grads sporting cardinal red blazers. The supper club we chose for our evening meal was no different.

One of the fellows clad in UW red walked past our table--or almost past it. Then he stopped, turned around, looked me over and exclaimed, "Great Haircut! I like your haircut!"

Good grief! Elroy Hirsch...old "Crazylegs" himself! Former Big Ten football star--later a pro football standout--then athletic director of the University of Wisconsin. And, as one old gray burrhead to another, he had stopped and admired my haircut!

I remembered the Hollywood movie, "Crazylegs," the story of his life. I wondered how many Badger fans were still around who recalled the famous backfield of Hirsch, Pat Harder, Mark Hadley Hoskins and Jack Wink. And the late, great All-American end, Dave Schreiner.

So...Crazylegs stopped and talked to me? Maybe no great shakes as memories go--perhaps even only a mediocre memory--but one that will continue to live on for as long as I have a need or a desire for pleasant memories.

MEDIOCRE MEMORIES

Bits of tattered, shattered memories
Tend to clutter up my mind,
Ideas of no real value,
May best have been left behind.

Deeds that demanded no special
Skills or education vast,
Charting the life I've been living
Won/lost record of my past.

Simple things and not earth-shaking
Healed no wounds, righted no wrong.
Common day-to-day existence
As, through life, I've moved along.

Thoughts that won't make me a nickel,
Buy a home, pay for a car,
Still, I like to tiptoe through them,
So, they'll remain where they are.

Memories of my youth, and older,
Gleanings from my work and play,
Good or bad, they all add up to
Much of what I am today.

--Emil Schmit

THE TRAVELING ENCYCLOPEDIA

2008-09-21T11:59:00.000-07:00

During the Great Depression, it was common for unemployed people to “move on,” traveling westward, as they searched for something better.

I remember a number of drifters – people “down on their luck” – walking through the countryside and stopping at farms, offering to do several day’s work in exchange for food and permission to sleep in the barn hayloft. And then, as there were no permanent jobs available, they were ready to move on.

Some traveled by rail, finding various ways to ride the freight trains without paying. In towns along the railroad, they often went to homes and offered to split firewood or do various other chores in exchange for a warm meal or two.

A number of these fellows managed to pick up quite an extensive informal education along the way. They kept their eyes open and remembered everything. Listening to tales of their experiences was usually quite interesting to those of us who had never traveled far from our homes.

Some of the vagabonds, not finding success on the Gold Coast of California, or anywhere else in the Far West, worked their way back across the country. They had wondrous tales to tell about working in wheat fields so large that there was “wheat in every direction and as far as the eyes could see.” Others had worked in salmon canneries or as stevedores who loaded ocean-going ships. There were men who said they had milked cows all day long in huge California dairies. I recall one older fellow who told of shearing sheep, day after weary day, in Wyoming. And a few had actually prospected – looked for gold ore – unsuccessfully, in the rugged western mountains.

THE TRAVELING ENCYCLOPEDIA

“Windy” Jackson was a drifter
Who once visited our town.
As a talker, he could
Just go on and on.

He’d converse with almost any
Person who had time to talk.
He stayed with us for three
Weeks and then was gone.

“Lefty” James once listened to old
Windy for an hour, then said.
“There can’t be much you ain’t
Seen under the sun.

“You seem to have all the answers
But I still ain’t heard you tell
Where you’ve gone to school and
What great deeds you’ve done.”

Windy said, “In a small country
School I learned to read and write.
From there on it was the
Tough school of hard knocks.

I’ve milked lots of California
Cows and threshed Dakota wheat
And I’ve punched my share of
Factory time clocks.

“I’ve won no Olympic medals,
But have a few special skills –
At spitting tobacco-juice,
I can’t be beat.

“If there were some competition,
I’d be the long-distance champ.
If need be, I could spit
Clean across this street.

I’m so accurate that I can
Hit a bull’s eye, slick and clean.
Even as a wing-shot,
I’m better than fair.

“Should some unlucky mud dauber
Wasp come flying past this bench
I’ll blast that poor sucker
Right out of the air.

“No matter what I am doing,
I try my dead-level best
I’ve no need to hang my
Head or feel ashamed.

“I ain’t held no public office
So if our great country gets
Into a mess there’s no
Way I can be blamed.

“I’ve met lots of pretty women
In all my travels, but I’ve
Never wooed and wed a
Woman of my own.

“Many years ago some wise man
Kind of summed it up this way:
’He who travels fastest
Must move on alone.’

Like a rolling stone, I gather
No moss or money or fame,
I’ve no wish to become
President or king.

I just keep moving on, trying
To learn everything I can
Traveling and talking
Seem to be my thing.”

LIFE IN THE BALANCE

2008-09-14T10:26:00.000-07:00

Early daylight began knifing its way in around the tattered edges of the shade covering a small bedroom’s east window. Eighty-six-year-old Ralph McIntire awoke and started collecting his thoughts. He was fully aware that just dragging his ancient body out of bed would bring on new aches and pains. But, for him, each new day was still a blessing. Life was for the living, and not moving around was something best reserved for the dead. So he gritted his teeth and got on with it.

Oh, on rare occasions Ralph still enjoyed a few precious moments reminiscent of the best of times. He also endured brief occasions that rivaled the worst of times. But most of his experiences remained about as average and mediocre as an old man living a plain, run-of-the-mill life can expect. He’d decided long ago that good times and bad times more or less resemble a pair of twins on a see-saw. They, too, usually just tend to balance out.

Ralph showered, shaved, and put on a clean blue chambray work shirt and his newest-looking pair of bib overalls, wound his ancient pocket watch, and stepped outside to meet the new day. The red sky in the east was a sure sign of rain. Wet weather is not always kind to people with arthritic joints, but a nice gentle rain would be welcomed by farmers and gardeners. Again, he decided things could always be worse.

Ralph’s old Chevy pickup was a far cry from the best of trucks. It was certainly not a vehicle that would turn the heads of the local young bucks or, for that matter, any females. A two-wheel drive job, powered by a well-used old straight-six engine, it delivered no thundering burst of power. It had no shiny, large-diameter chrome exhaust stacks protruding up vertically through the floor of its pickup box as did some of the new diesel-powered monsters that roared by.

Various areas of the old rig’s fenders and doors told the story of having valiantly fought, and lost, a battle with rust and now only gaping holes remained. But the old “bucket of bolts” was paid for. And it always started and got him where he wanted to go. And gassing it up was doubtless a lot less painful than filling the tanks of many modern larger, faster, more powerful fuel-guzzling models.

Ralph climbed in, started up, drove downtown and parked as near as possible to Red’s Corner Cafe. “Red’s” was not the greatest of breakfast joints. But quality, quantity, and price-wise it was decidedly not the worst. Entering, he found an empty chair at a large table where seven of his cronies were already enjoying their first cup of coffee. These silver-haired retirees didn’t make up the best-educated and most-intellectual group in the world, but they all spoke the same local language. And if a fellow ever really needed a favor, there’s a good chance any one of them would be willing to help out. Oh, a certain amount of whining, complaining, and bellyaching might be expected at first, but eventually the request for help would be granted.

“Red,” herself, came out of the kitchen to take Ralph’s order. She’d owned and operated the place for years. In fact, when she bought the little eatery, her natural hair color was a reddish-auburn. On that particular morning, Ralph thought her new coppery-red hair tone was maybe not the best dye job in the world, but definitely an improvement. The day before, the gray was expanding both ways from the part in her hair, gaining on and threatening to overtake all of the remaining artificial titian-red.

Ralph ate his breakfast while listening to the conversation of his buddies. He was well aware that hard-fried eggs, bacon, and greasy hash brown potatoes were not generally considered the healthiest of items for a breakfast, but he’d been enjoying them for as long as he could remember. And he had outlived a lot of conscientious dieters and more than a few health experts. Maybe he’d somehow developed some kind of immunity or resistance to LDL cholesterol and triglycerides.

The breakfast discussion proved to be fairly flimsy in content and even less interesting than usual. Older men tend to repeat themselves, so Ralph had pretty much heard it all before. The devout optimists remained positive and hopeful, while the confirmed pessimists continued to complain and predict gloom and doom. The Democrats prided themselves on being far-sighted liberals and the Republicans refused to see anything other than the tried and true conservative side of things.

Their breakfasts finished, the discussion group broke up and the diners started to leave, some to begin the usual trivial goings-on of their average day and others, to their customary day of inactivity. It didn’t take much to satisfy some of those old codgers and keep them occupied.

Ralph climbed into his pickup truck and drove out to the Eternal Rest Cemetery to inspect the monument he’d recently purchased for his burial plot. The new granite stone was small but adequate, with his name and year of birth tastefully engraved. Eventually someone would sandblast in the date of his departure. Throughout his lifetime he had never been much of a man for “show.”

His was not the greatest of gravesites, being located in one of the least prestigious areas of the commercial burial ground. The salesperson had tried to sell him a costlier location in an area that offered beautiful shade trees and a
better view. But Ralph failed to see the advantage. He felt confident he would rest as peacefully here as he would anywhere.

Several of his friends had already chosen cremation as “the way to go,” saying it was the only way to “beat the system.” “Why stick all of that money into the ground?” they would ask. Their funeral ceremonies would be cut to the bare minimum, with their ashes spread over a favorite lake, river, or wooded area. But Ralph preferred to stick with the traditional.

Alone in the quiet cemetery, thoughts and memories of his life came and went. His had not been the greatest of lives, but certainly not the worst. An
un-skilled worker, his efforts had been menial, but employment was steady. He’d acquired no fortune, but managed to save up a tidy nest egg and qualify for a small pension. With Social Security, he would most likely be able to live out the final years of his life in reasonable comfort.

Ralph recalled his ex-wife and what was definitely not the most blissful of marriages. But it could have been worse. At least Rosa had remained with him until their six children finished high school. She said she wanted more out of life. Perhaps she just wanted a different man.

Ralph had never been proud of their split-up, and frequently recalled those age-old words of wisdom: “It takes two to make a marriage, and two to make a divorce.” But, for some unknown reason, he never felt even the slightest twinge
of guilt over their failed union. Both his heart and his conscience continually assured him that he had always done his part.

Their kids had done well. Thinking about them filled his heart with pride. Oh, sure, they all may have made a few mistakes along the way, but Ralph always thought making mistakes is a necessary part of the education that’s required for any youngster to develop and graduate into a real full-grown adult. None of their six ever wound up in prison or went into politics. Eventually they all got their feet on the ground and became solid citizens; loving, caring people who worked hard and made a good honest living for themselves and their families.

Ralph’s thoughts turned again to the future. He knew that before long his time would come to leave the land of the living. His body would rest here beneath the sod. He had paid for Perpetual Care, so was reasonably sure that soon after his passing he would be “grassed over” and the new green sod would always be neatly mowed. Perhaps the children or grandchildren would bring an occasional flower or maybe even plant a rose bush on each side of his small monument.

As for his spirit’s final destination, well, that was another story, an entirely different tale with a completely unpredictable ending. He could only hope and pray that a loving, forgiving Lord might take his hand and lead him to a home that was at least fairly comfortable, and that he would not be condemned for all time to that worst of places. Ralph believed that, at this stage, the die had already been cast, and it was too late now for making any major changes. This was one gamble he felt ready to take. He was confident that, in death as in life, things would, as do twins on a teeter-totter, continue to kind of balance out.

OF TRUTH AND LIES

2008-09-01T17:54:00.000-07:00

As youngsters we were all taught to tell the truth. And all about the beauty and necessity of complete honesty. Little children were told that their nose would grow with each lie, just as did that of Pinocchio. If we wanted to eventually go to heaven and see Jesus, then we had better never tell a lie. And there was little Georgie Washington who could not, and would never, lie about chopping down that precious little cherry tree. In church we heard sermons about “truth versus
falsehood,” driven home with expressions like: And the truth shall set you free!

I remember a high school class discussion in which our teacher compared the ease and simplicity of telling a lie to the multitude of difficulties that arise from the act. How untruthfulness usually leads to a multitude of complications that make it impossible to keep the story straight: Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive!

And then, somewhere along the way, we all grew up and viewed the world as it really was. We looked around and found untruthfulness almost everywhere. Unscrupulous horse traders seemed to know thousands of secrets for temporarily doctoring up unsound horses and tranquilizing the mean and unmanageable ones. At least long enough for those early scam artists to make their deals and get out of the territory. Traveling barn painters could make a 5-gallon pail of “brand-name” paint last all week by thinning it with kerosene. Door-to-door salesmen traveled the country roads peddling marvelous new inventions that no homeowner or housekeeper could get along without. Some specialized in sure-cure remedies for just about anything that could ail a family, or their horses, dogs, cats, or other livestock.

And then there was the political world. To our great surprise, we learned that even some of our great leaders and politicians were not above an occasional white lie. Some of our past political conventions and campaign speeches, if scrutinized, almost have to be categorized as comic fiction. One prominent lady, I think it was Clare Boothe Luce, got a lot of publicity and more than modicum of criticism for writing about the creativity and artistic beauty of a “well told lie.” We probably reached low ebb when some of our national leaders went on record regarding testimony before Congress. They seemed to feel that it was perfectly legal and honorable for people representing a presidential administration to deliberately lie to and mislead our U.S. Congress in regard to a blatant breach of our nation’s foreign policy.

Then, suddenly, a soft, silent, comforting blanket of truth spread across the land. Someone came up with the weird new idea that a President of the United States should tell nothing but the truth to the people, the courts, and the Congress. Unheard of, but wonderful! Suddenly Washington D.C. became our Nation’s Confessional. Numerous great (?) leaders and politicians couldn’t wait to get in on the act. With a bit of help and nudging and prodding from Larry Flynt, they began admitting to extra-marital affairs and sexual peccadilloes from as many as 20 years previous. Suddenly Flynt, of Hustler magazine, was the unofficial leader of a whole new monogamy and morality sort of thing, practically a spiritual movement. No longer could Larry be considered merely a despised pornographer, but an indispensable national treasure, a patron saint of truth-in-sex, almost.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t object to the new trend toward veracity. I have nothing against the truth…even on the national governmental level…or this current, unprecedented trend toward complete honesty.

OF TRUTH AND LIES

I’m mostly truthful, but tell a
Few white fibs from time to time.
I don’t recall if I’ve ever
Told a falsehood all in rhyme.

But, with paper and pen, I could
Write up quite a “song and dance,”
But that would be foolish, the first
Liar just ain’t got a chance.

I’d like to boast about my past
And how great I used to be,
But who’d believe? Seems too many
Folks all know my history.

As a hunter, I’ve failed to bag
Much large and small game and stuff,
I don’t boast of big fish I’ve caught,
‘Cause my arms ain’t long enough.

I could tell of jackpots I’ve won,
For some, such tall tales are fine.
Casino friends know better, though;
They’ve all heard me gripe and whine.

I could describe my dancing skill,
Way back in my youthful past,
But folks tell me I move just like
My left leg is in a cast.

Lies don’t sit well with lots of folks;
Some are quick to take offense.
Then they want to argue and fight,
Lying makes no real good sense.

Guess I’ll stick to the real truth, but
That has one drawback, I fear,
It’s bound to put the kibosh on
My political career.

TIME ON MY HANDS

2008-08-26T16:29:00.000-07:00

Time is our most precious possession – invisible, intangible, unpredictable, fleeting time. Though fragile and flimsy, it is the material of which our lives are woven. Each of us is issued a lifetime supply, but with no definite promises or guarantees.

My first acquaintance with this most important ingredient of life came by way of a mantel clock in the kitchen of my childhood home on the farm. The sturdy, dependable timepiece loudly ticked away each second and signaled every passing hour. From its dial, I learned to “tell time,” and where the “big hand” and the “little hand” had to be for mealtimes and for bedtime. And later, which positions they held when it was time to go to school.

My first personal timepiece was a Mickey Mouse pocket watch – a gift from Santa Claus. Colorful and attractive, it had a smiling Mickey pointing to the proper minute and hour with his cute little white-gloved hands. An old-timer admired the watch and commented, “That’s quite a stem-winder.” When asked what “stem-winder” meant, he explained, “When I was your age, a lot of old fellows still carried watches that had to be wound with a key, much like your mother’s kitchen clock.”

Back then, some gentlemen owned dainty gold “Sunday” pocket watches, each with a gold chain and a front cover that snapped shut to protect the fragile glass crystal. But the most popular pocket timepiece was the “dollar watch,” the working man’s favorite. Purchased for that price (or slightly more or less), these could usually be counted on to do a good job for a year or two. To replace such a watch was usually cheaper than taking it to a jeweler for cleaning or repair. Often a “sick” dollar watch could be restored to proper running condition by prying off the back cover and administering a tiny bit of kerosene to the more important bearing areas.

Some fellows invested in more expensive pocket watches with “jeweled movements,” some with as many as seventeen or twenty-one tiny bearings made of precious gems. Compared to metal bearings, the smooth, long-lasting “jewels” operated with less friction, usually resulting in much greater accuracy. Railroad workers required watches that were extremely accurate. The label “railroad watch,” was almost a guarantee of accuracy and reliability. Many of the very best watch movements came from Switzerland.

Pocket watches were “tethered” to the owner’s clothing with a small chain, strap, or string. Braided leather watch straps could be purchased for a reasonable price, but many working men and farmers settled for a length of used shoe or boot lace. Tied in a loop, this could easily be “lassoed” to the metal ring on the watch’s stem and onto a belt loop. This tether prevented the timepiece from being lost, also from falling out of the pocket and being broken by falling on a hard floor.

In those days gone by, every pair of men’s pants had a special “watch pocket” that was just the right size to hold a pocket watch. Belted dress pants usually had that pocket on the right front, near the belt line. Work pants often had the watch pocket located just inside the top of the right front pocket.
Overalls usually had a number of handy “bib pockets,” including a narrow pencil pocket and a watch pocket. Many had a special “buttonhole” near the top edge of the bib, solely for the purpose of accommodating a watch chain or tether.

Working men were slow to accept the “newfangled wristwatch.” At first these were considered uncomfortable, in the way, and too fragile to stand up to rough conditions. Eventually a few workers tried them, mostly as “Sunday watches” for “dress up” purposes. And they quickly began to catch on.

The first wristwatches had leather watchbands with metal buckles. Soon various flexible metal expansion and non-expansion bands appeared and became popular. For awhile, a cheap nylon band with a metal buckle was available. Unlike the others, it was made in one piece and when it became dirty, could be easily removed, washed clean. To replace it, one simply slipped the plain end of the band down between the body of the watch and one of the spring pins, across the back of the watch, and back up between the watch body and the other pin. If rough use caused one of the pins to fail, the watch did not fall off the wrist because the remaining spring-pin kept it fastened to the one-piece watchband.

As time went by, we saw the evolution of the “shock proof” watch, with works that had built-in cushioning to prevent breakage of jewels and other fragile parts if accidentally dropped or given a severe jar or jolt.

Another important development was the “waterproof watch.” This made the wristwatch all the more practical and desirable. Anyone accidentally immersing his wristwatch in a liquid did not immediately destroy the delicate instrument. If the wearer washed his or her hands and arms or took a shower without remembering to remove the timepiece, no harm was done.

Many mechanically-minded people marveled at the invention of the “self winding” watch. Someone came up with the novel idea that a tiny weight, or pendulum, inside the watch case would be activated by the movement of the wearer’s arm, and the weight’s motion could be harnessed to wind the watch’s mainspring. As the mechanism was perfected, wearers no longer had to remember to wind their wristwatches. As could be expected, some pessimists grumbled, “I hope the day never comes when I am too lazy to wind my own watch.”

For many years, electricity has been used to power clocks, and later, watches. One of the greatest developments in timekeeping was the invention and perfection of the battery-powered quartz movement. This made possible clocks and watches that require no oscillating balance wheels. Timed by a quartz crystal that vibrates when activated by electrical energy furnished by a tiny battery, they are capable of delivering uniform, almost perfect timekeeping. The only moving parts are the gears that move the hands, with the digital versions having no moving parts whatsoever.

A more recent development in timepiece technology marries the quartz movement to the older self-winding mechanism. Instead of winding a mainspring, the pendulum, or weight, drives a mini-generator that sends electrical power to a tiny conducer, for storage and use by the quartz movement. This eliminates forever the inconvenience of battery failure and replacement.

I understand that some timepieces can now boast perfect accuracy. By receiving a constant signal from a distant satellite, they automatically keep set to the perfect time. That sort of technology is a bit too deep for me. I come from an age when, if the kitchen clock stopped because someone forgot to wind it, and no one had a watch, we called the local telephone central office. The operator there was always ready and willing to tell us the correct time. In those
pre-television days, many families did not have a radio and, if they did not have a telephone, about all they could do was re-set a stopped clock by guess, and go along with that until someone came by with a watch that was running and told the correct time.

Starting with my Mickey Mouse pocket watch, I graduated to a number of the cheap dollar watches. At one point my father gave me an old pocket watch he’d purchased from a door-to-door peddler for five dollars. It had a fine jeweled movement and kept excellent time. The first time I took it to our local jeweler for repairs, he smiled. His records showed that, down through the years, he had cleaned and repaired it a number of times, and for a number of different owners who all lived in the surrounding area. I carried the watch to work for eleven years. When its case eventually began to wear thin, I decided to graduate to a wristwatch.

Since that time I’ve gone through a number of these, mostly cheap work watches and several fairly expensive ones. Currently I own three, all of which were gifts. One is a fairly cheap “no-name” battery-powered quartz watch. Another is an expensive quartz. The third is a counterfeit self-winding Rolex, purchased in China “for a pittance.” A beautiful watch with performance that does not match its impressive appearance – or even come close.

Now, long-retired, I have little real need for a watch or, for that matter, an alarm clock. With few appointments or deadlines to meet, I rarely have to know the exact time of day, yet find myself constantly checking it out. So often that, if I forget to put on my watch before I leave home, I feel almost naked. And embarrassed at the frequency with which I examine my bare, watch-less wrist.

At eighty-four years of age, fleeting time still remains a most precious possession. I feel extremely fortunate that, for me, it is still ticking by, and that I can still hear that reassuring “tick, tock, tick” of an old spring-powered clock.

Philo

2008-08-19T05:05:00.000-07:00

Old Philo always appeared content with his life and the world around him. Although his 80-plus years must have dealt him the normal share of aches, pains, and misfortune, he never seemed to feel any need or obligation to burden others with his problems. And, as I listened to him talk, I appreciated the fact that I did not have to sort fact from fiction. He never boasted of all of the wonderful things he had accomplished in his life, or listed all of the even more wonderful things he could have done if only he had received a few good breaks along the way.

This older neighbor and I often sat and in the shade of a large maple tree. As we talked, he taught me a lot of the history of our area. Was I familiar with the Wyalusing State Park? He remembered when it was known as “Glen Park,” because all of that high woodland above the confluence of the Wisconsin River and the mighty Mississippi was once owned by Sheriff Glen. He told of a time when that property was the home of hundreds and hundreds of goats that had been shipped in by rail from Texas. The tough, wiry little animals slept in large open sheds at night, and then at sunup would move out, single file, to feed. Their primary purpose was to eat and thus destroy the tangled mass of wild brush and weeds that flourished among the thick stand of tall trees that covered those hills.

Philo talked of people who had lived in the area before my time. Once he mentioned a lady who had resided in the North Andover area, and wondered whether I had ever known her. I told him I had only heard of her but knew the location of a farm she once owned. And that some of the older neighbors referred to the place by one name, while others used another, depending on whether they were best acquainted with her first or with her second husband.

The old man smiled. “When she was a young girl she lived in our neighborhood. One evening my sister and I were going to drive to Cassville to attend a dance, and she asked to ride along. When I pulled my horse and buggy up to her parents’ house she came out carrying a neatly-wrapped package, but when we asked, she wouldn’t tell us what it contained. Later in the evening she informed us that she would not be leaving with us. She and the young man of her choice eloped that night. My sister and I decided that her small package must have held a homemade wedding dress.”

When asked what his boyhood life was like he answered, “Well, my friends and I were all farm boys, so there was almost always work to do. But we still found time to play. In the summer we played baseball and swam in the Grant River. In the winter there was sleigh riding and skating. Most farm boys built at least one homemade sled. There was no TV or radio. Unlike today’s young fellows, we didn’t dream of the day when we would be getting a driver’s license and a car. But each of us looked forward to the time when he would have his own shiny black buggy and at least one fancy high-stepping horse.

“My best friend’s family owned the next farm down the road. Tommy and I were together whenever we could find the time. Sometimes in the summer we would do up our Sunday morning chores early and walk up to the Pleasant Ridge community. We would attend church with the folks there, and could always count on one of the families to invite us to their home for the noon meal. Then after dinner, we would play baseball.”

My old neighbor’s memory was amazing. After all of those years he could still remember the names of all the Grimes lads, and the Greenes, and the Shepards, and which ones could really hit or field a ball or throw a sharp-breaking curve.

He went on to tell me the history of Pleasant Ridge. “Back in 1848 a white Southern plantation owner purchased some farm land west of Lancaster, the county seat here in Grant County, Wisconsin. He divided the property and sold parcels to some of his slaves. Later they were joined by others who had been freed or had escaped from their owners in various parts of the South. “That’s in the ‘Slabtown’ area,“ he continued, “but I don’t think you’ll find that name on many maps. There isn’t really a town there anymore. The official name for that area is ‘Flora Fountain.’

“Right from the start, the Pleasant Ridge folks got along well with their neighbors. In fact, in many cases the local white farmers helped the newcomers get their small farming operations set up and started. Back then almost everyone was poor and worked hard, and farmers exchanged work and helped each other out whenever they could. At harvest time, at least a dozen men or more were required to keep the threshing machine busy and get the job done. A number of adjoining farms would make up a ‘threshing ring’ or ‘threshing run.’ When the job was finished on one farm, the big steam engine and grain separator would move on to the next, until everyone’s grain was threshed. When people are busy and working that hard, the color of a man’s skin is unimportant.

“There were some mighty good cooks back then,” he continued, with a smile. “Dick Lewis, one of the farmers up on Pleasant Ridge, had a small farm and his threshing job didn’t take long, but somehow things always got timed so the crew was there for a noon meal. The fellow who operated the big threshing equipment was an excellent manager, in that respect. Everyone on the crew looked forward to that meal because Dick’s wife Ollie was the best cook on the whole threshing ring.”

In one of our conversations, Philo told me that The United Brethren Methodist Church was built in 1870 and it served not only the 20 families who then made up the Pleasant Ridge community, but also quite a number of their white neighbors. Also that the Pleasant Ridge School was built about the same time, and was generally believed to be the first integrated public school in the entire United States. And that the community continued to grow until the early nineteen hundreds, when it reached a population of more than 200 ex-slaves and their descendants.

On another occasion, Philo recalled, “The children and young people got along just fine. In grade school, there were close friendships regardless of color. As the youngsters grew older, the friendships remained but there was almost no consorting romantically or anything like that. Such behavior was frowned on by all of the older folks. And two sad events, the only real racial trouble that ever occurred there, continually reminded everyone of potential problems that could arise.

“In 1883, one of the men from ‘The Ridge’ was accused of getting a white girl pregnant. He was arrested, and four members of the girl’s family set out to spring him from jail and lynch him. They wound up shooting and killing him. They were apprehended, tried, and three were found guilty of fourth-degree manslaughter, the other, of assault with intent to murder.

“Then, almost 40 years later, Jack Green warned a white Lancaster man three times to stay away from his young daughter. Ignoring Green’s words, the man continued seeing the girl and he took her for one ride too many. When they returned, the angry father was waiting with a loaded gun. He not only terminated the fellow, but shot his car several times for good measure. At his trial, an all-white jury considered the ‘extenuating circumstances,’ determined it was a ‘justifiable homicide,’ and declared Jack innocent.”

With a hint of sadness, Philo recalled, “At the time of World War I, good jobs in the big cities began to beckon, and the Pleasant Ridge folks started to drift away. At first, only a few moved out, but then more and more, until the only remaining member of the community was Charlie Green. He loved the beautiful, quiet farming country and refused to trade it for the bustling city life chosen by all of his friends and relatives. Charlie died in 1977, the last person to be interred in the Pleasant Ridge Cemetery.”

Time continues to move on, and just as the community of Pleasant Ridge faded away into the past, so did my old neighbor and good friend, Philo. I miss him and our conversations. And as I near my middle-eighties, I can only hope that my memory-generated tales prove to be half as interesting and informative as were his

A FUTURE PRESIDENT ???

2008-08-10T13:41:00.001-07:00

This article was written in January of 1999.

As usual, “Lige” Craig opened the day’s discussion: “What do you guys think about those folks up in Minnesota electing a professional wrestler as their governor? Do you think one of those grunt and groan guys can really run a state?”

“Sprout” Brussel, the historian of the group, scratched his head. “Well, a number of successful leaders, even presidents, built their political careers on military, sports, or acting experience. I don’t know whether or not our first president, George Washington, was much of an athlete, but books say he once threw a dollar clean across the Potomac River.”

“And a lot of later presidents broke that record by throwing billions of dollars across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans,” commented Phillip “Pill” Dougherty, the designated pessimist of the group.

“Some books say good old Honest Abe Lincoln was every bit as well known for his wrestling skill as he was for his story telling and debating ability when he was young. And he turned out to be about as good a president as we’re ever going to get,” Sprout commented.

“President Reagan was said to be a fairly good athlete,” Ed Austin added. “And he announced the Cub’s games on the radio. He was real convincing as George Gipp in the Knute Rockne movie. When Rockne asked them to, the Notre Dame team went right out there and ‘won one for the Gipper.’”

“They say Ex-President Gerald Ford played a lot of college football,” remarked Ed’s brother Jake.

“Some of his worst critics always maintained that he’d played a few too many games without wearing his helmet,” Pill grumbled.

“I don’t know about that, but I once saw him on TV showing some interviewers a big scar he’d received on the gridiron when he made solid contact with a great football player named Jay Berwanger,” Jake replied.

“Maybe he just got the scar from bumping into something. Ford was always known to be kind of clumsy,” was Pill’s observation.

Grandpa Lowther rubbed his chin. “I recall a Dubuque boy named Jay Berwanger. He played a lot of football. Wouldn’t that be something, to always be able to say you’d put a scar on a president? Think of that: A US president carrying around your own personal scar that you’d put on him!”

Sprout grinned. “But getting back to this Jesse “The Body” Ventura guy, he just might have the ideal background for politics. He has military, athletic, and show business experience to spare.”

“Well, pro wrestling alone could fit a man for politics,” Lige opined. “We’ve all watched those pre-match interviews where the contestants boast about what they are going to do to their opponents when they get them in the ring. And what they are going to do for the sport once they’ve won the title. A lot of bluff and brag and quite a few ‘half-truths, at best.’ Pretty much the same as your average run-of-the-mill political campaign speech.”

“I remember the matches out at the old Melody Mill,” said Grandpa. “Ken Fenelon was a great wrestler and a big name in the sport at one time. And he was a Dubuque boy, too.”

“I went to see the pro matches in a high school gymnasium on a Sunday afternoon once,” Jake recalled. “Some of those wrestlers were so mean and bitter at each other that they entered from opposite ends of the gym. But they must have gotten their differences settled in the ring. I noticed that when they left, they all rode back to Des Moines in the same van.”

“In the political arena, that’s generally referred to as ‘eating out of the same trough,’” Sprout explained.

“Politics makes strange bedfellows,” Pill reasoned.

THE BIG SHOW

I’m a tried-and-true wrestling fan –
And have been for many years.
I’ve studied all the holds and moves,
Seen the action, sweat, and tears,

I’ve watched the pre-match interviews
With bluff and bluster to spare
Like so many campaign speeches –
Made up mostly of hot air.

I’ve heard those giants grunt and groan
And pull and tug and strain;
I’ve seen many a grimace, when
They could scarcely stand the pain.

I’ve seen them raised, then body-slammed
On hard gymnasium floors.
Some got beat up with folding chairs
And thrown right through hardwood doors.

I watched a “Texas Death Match” once –
Most came through without a scar –
Later those mortal enemies
All rode home in the same car.

Some say a wrestler must depend
Quite a bit on acting skill,
‘Cause he must please us gullible
Paying folks who foot the bill.

But Jesse has me wondering
All about this wrestling game.
I once halfway believed, but now
It will never be the same:

I’ll wonder, as each wrestler goes
Through his bag of dirty tricks:
Is he only preparing for
A career in politics?

TAKING STOCK

2008-08-03T19:40:00.000-07:00

At times, it is easy to get “all wrapped up in ourselves.” Especially as we grow older. We begin to worry about all of the things that are wrong with us, as well as with the world around us.

Too often we old geezers arise in the morning and begin checking ourselves out for any possible new aches and pains or other ailments. Instead of looking for the sunrise we turn on the TV and watch the world news, where we too often find more things that steer our thoughts toward the negative.

Get a group of us together, and you’ll likely get the whole load. About the only way for an individual to get attention early at such a meeting is to be the one who is in the poorest health. Or the one who takes the most and costliest medication. Or the one who has had the most complicated and/or life-threatening surgery. Lacking any of these qualifications, one can only hope to find willing listeners by being able to inform the gathering of a good universal home remedy for a common ailment.

After all of the prevalent medical conditions have been addressed, and only then, the talk may turn to the financial. Any rise in taxes makes a popular subject. Any increase in rent, or the costs of electricity, water, sewer, or garbage pickup are popular subjects. Any cheerfulness arising from a boost in Social Security payments is usually doused quickly by talk of an increase in Medicare costs. Without going into a lot of detail, some will admit that the low interest rates currently earned by their retirement investments have not exactly brightened up their Golden Years.

And nothing gets the attention of the entire assembly more quickly than does a hint from a trouble making prankster, indicating that there is a rumor making the rounds that there will soon be a sizable increase in the cost of TV cable service.

TAKING STOCK

I watched the old man

As he trudged down the road

With his thin shoulders stooped,

His aged back badly bowed.

The clothes on his back,

Shabby and far from new,

And the soles of his cheap

Shoes were badly worn through.

I wondered about

Just what places he’d been,

What joys has he’d known, and

What great sights had he seen.

What problems faced him

As he traveled life’s trail?

Was he hounded by fears

That he would always fail?

Was he nagged by thoughts,

Doubting he’d ever cope?

Did each sunrise fail to

Give him new rays of hope?

What had prevented

Him from gaining great wealth?

Had he been hampered by

A lifetime of poor health?

Was it just bad luck

That, day after long day,

Good breaks eluded him,

And never came his way?

Did he ever know

The love of a good spouse,

Or the comforting sound

Of children ‘round the house?

His face left no doubt

How the old man did feel.

He looked hungry, so I

Staked him to a warm meal.

He thanked me as we

Ate and talked for awhile.

Finally, I saw at

Least the hint of a smile.

The clouds parted. The

Sun brightened my own day.

Suddenly my own aches

And pains melted away.

My own troubles seemed

Trivial, now, and small,

Almost as if I had

No real problems at all.

I counted up all

The blessings sent my way,

Said a short prayer of thanks

For the gifts of that day.

We never know quite

What the future will bring,

But that one day made me feel

Wealthy as any king.

COUNTRY CONCERT

2008-07-27T16:01:00.000-07:00

Lige Craig waited until all his friends had been served their first cup of coffee, then gave his favorite foil, Grandpa Lowther a sly wink and said, “Grandpa, we’ve often discussed all the changes we’ve seen in our time. Tell me, is there any special change that has surprised or impressed you? Something we haven’t mentioned before?”

As usual, the old fellow had a ready answer. “Yes, I’d have to say I find it hard to understand today’s propensity for constant sound and lack of silence. When we were young if we saw someone walking alone on a country lane we just assumed that person was enjoying the solitude, the quiet sounds of nature, and being alone with his or her thoughts. But today you can bet your bibs that solitary stroller is wearing headphones and is listening to music or a self-improvement speech recorded on a CD. Or else talking on a cell phone.

“Some folks don’t seem happy unless they are listening to something. Events such as celebrity court trials will cause them to glue themselves to the TV all day and half of the night, when usually 15 or 20 minutes of national and world news will cover everything of importance that can happen in 24 hours. These viewer-listeners will hear the same news and the same commercials repeated time and again. You can’t help but wonder when they find time to do any thinking of their own.

“In the old days, most of the noise wasn’t as loud as it is now. Any rooster worth his salt would make himself heard each morning, but it wasn’t a disagreeable sound. He would crow and crow until the sun, ready or not, would come up over the horizon. And until his owner would get up out of bed and start a new day’s work.
“When a farmer walked into his barn in the morning, it was not uncommon for a few of the cows to greet him with a “Moo,” and let him know they were ready to be relieved of their milk and fed some hay. Horses, too, would often neigh or nicker a “Good Morning.” A farmer with strong hands could sit down to a good milk cow and make the bottom of an empty milk pail ring out a merry tune with those first squirts of milk. And the farm cats, smelling the fresh milk, would mew pleasantly to let their master know they were ready to be fed.

“Horse-drawn farm machines were not nearly as noisy as those motorized monsters used today. A blacksmith’s hammer and anvil would often ring out a merry tune. And the loose-plank floors of some bridges would rumble out a pleasant song when crossed by a Model T Ford.

“A lot of conditions back then weren’t as pleasant or convenient as things are now. But I’m sure a lot of folks these days are missing out on a lot of precious silence and on a lot of the soft, enjoyable, musical notes of nature.”

COUNTRY CONCERT

Time moves swiftly when you’re busy,

I rush to get each job done.

I like having my work finished

By the setting of the sun.

Sunset sometimes puts on a show

With a splash of colors grand

As daylight slips past the mountains,

And darkness drifts ‘cross the land

My good wife fixes our supper,

Plain and simple country fare.

We always have plenty good food

With a little bit to spare.

Then we sit on the old log bench

Right outside our cabin door.

Content and wondering how could

Wealthy folks have any more?

From our valley’s small lake we can

Hear the cry of a sad loon

And we watch a wispy dark cloud

Drift across the rising moon.

Soon we enjoy the lament of

One lonely, sad whip-poor-will,

Then an old great horned owl’s hooting

From ‘way up on the east hill.

We hear the howl of a gray wolf

Up by the high mountain pass,

And the sounds of coyotes hunting

In the south prairie’s tall grass.

While we thrill to nature’s concert,

The evening ends all too soon,

Twilight surrenders to darkness

As thick, dark clouds hide the moon.

Our valley road’s soon deserted,

Unlit by any car’s light,

A sign our neighbors must all be

Safely at home for the night.

One more day, for us, has ended

As so many have before,

Content here in our small cabin,

We hope there’ll be many more.

We count up the many blessings the

Good Lord has sent our way,

Then it’s “early to bed” because

Tomorrow’s another day.

CHANGES

2008-07-19T16:48:00.000-07:00

This article was written in September of 1997

We old-timers like to boast about all the changes we've seen. And in my seventy-plus years there have been a-plenty. From gravel roads and Model T Fords we've gone to interstate highways and gas-guzzling monsters. Then back to compact and sub-compact cars, and now the large, bulky models are beginning to sell again. We've seen gasoline and diesel tractors, small at first and now the $100,000-plus models, replace horses on the farms. Large threshing machines powered by giant wood-burning steam powered engines were replaced by 40 and 60 inch-wide tractor-drawn combines, which were in time replaced by self-propelled models that cost almost the price of a small farm. The airplane has gone from being just a novelty to the major means of long distance travel. And humans have traveled in space, lived in space, and walked around on the moon.

Television and the Internet can now keep us informed about everything and anything that tweaks our interest. They can tell us about almost anything that happens in the universe, as soon as it happens, sometimes even before. Some change has been for the good, some not. Improvements and discoveries in the health care field insure us of a lot longer life expectancy, provided we are not wasted at a young age in a drive-by shooting.

People have changed. They are no longer as dependent on each other, on family, friends, or on neighborhood. Many values have changed. A few of us still remember a well-respected doctor over at the county seat who was sentenced to a long stretch in the state penitentiary for performing an abortion.

Some changes don't require a century or a millennium. Several years ago, when a new casino boat opened its doors (or whatever it is that a boat opens to admit passengers), a commonly heard remark was, "These corn fed girls sure don't do much for those cocktail waitress costumes." After time for a more thorough study, the general consensus among local self-proclaimed experts was that there was indeed nothing wrong with the dimensions of the lovely young ladies, but that the problem was with the packaging. New Vegas-type costumes soon remedied the problem. Now the girls in the showroom have made another change. They wear black T-shirts and have snappy red suspenders to support their short skirts. They smile and move nimbly around the crowded tables, doing a great job, and are apparently comfortable in the new tops. And perhaps even a bit less susceptible to the common cold.

So the years still go by and time moves on. And brings with it changes. Some good, some bad. Some happy, some sad. But how dull life would be without change!

CHANGE

A good old friend once grinned at me;
He said, "As near as I can see,
We old-timers can get too set in our ways.
It's time we come out of our shell
Forget our old-school Show-and-Tell,
And upgrade our thinking to new, modern days."

Whether or not my friend was right,
There's no need to argue or fight,
And I half-assume he maybe was correct.
This world is no longer the same,
We find new rules for every game,
And quite often we don't know what to expect.

We stood and watched as our world changed,
Familiar things got rearranged;
Sometimes now we don't quite know which way to turn.
Should we hang on to what we know,
Or turn our backs and just let go,
Keep our values or just let old bridges burn?

We were no Einstein types in school,
But no one called either a fool,
Teachers shook our hands when finally we were through,
But today's standards we can't meet,
Truths we were taught are obsolete;
Things we learned "for Gospel fact" now just ain't true.

Today's world beckons, "Come and see
This New Age of technology.
Those ancient horse-and-buggy things all have to go!
Follow my new siren cry,
Forget those old times long-gone-by!"
But when it comes to faith and morals..., I don't know.

AFTER THE STORM

2008-07-11T14:35:00.000-07:00

River keeps flowing: Rubbish sifts through backwaters

Late June brought a lot of wild and unsettled weather to our part of the Midwest, as well as to many other parts of the country. Who knows whether or not El Nino was the culprit? We had a few cool days, but several that were almost unbearably hot and humid – the kind of weather that had some of us old-timers recalling some especially torrid July and August days of years long gone by, and re-telling old tales of days spent shocking oats and threshing.

Severe wind storms did a lot of damage on both sides of the Mississippi. We're assured that these were not "twisters," but straight-on winds. Much damage was done to surrounding farms and in the neighboring towns. Many trees were uprooted, others broken off, and a surprisingly large number had much of their upper growth torn off and
slivered and shredded. Considering all of the property damage done, everyone felt fortunate there was no loss of life in our immediate area.

Our small town was spared any damage, straddled by the storms as they hop scotched around the area. We did get caught in a driving rainstorm one evening as we crossed the river on our way to having dinner at White Springs. For a while, as we threaded our way around fallen trees, I wished we had stayed in our native Wisconsin. But things were no calmer in Prairie du Chien. Maybe even worse. We've met a few people who now have a lot more fear of, and respect for, storms than they did two weeks ago.

A day after one of the storms, I watched the big old Mississippi from the Iowa shore (OK, from the observation deck of the Miss Marquette Riverboat Casino), and was amazed at the continuous stream of rubbish that drifted by. Judging by the amount of green water plants, algae, and pond scum that floated by, I decided that the fast-moving water must have thoroughly cleaned out all of the backwaters and sloughs.

The dead trees (and many still sporting green leaves), branches, twigs, stumps, and even chunks of firewood hinted that many of the woodlands must look a lot neater now after nature's spring (or early summer) cleaning. Now and then I would spot an enterprising blackbird calmly riding one of the sticks or small tree trunks as it floated downstream, much like a tourist on a cruise ship, finding ample cuisine to its liking.

AFTER THE STORM

River, near the shore your ripples
Look as brown as chocolate milk,
But, at midstream, your face appears
Youthful, and. as smooth as silk,

Smiling upward at the heavens,
Reflecting the bright blue sky,
Appearing so still and peaceful,
Silently you move on by.

Restless, tireless, you keep moving
On your journey past our town
With a load of baggage that would
Wear 'most any trav'ler down.

Mud that's slid down from the hillside
Out of fields of beans and corn,
Where the soil was unprotected
New gullies were ripped and torn.

From quiet, peaceful backwaters,
Water plants, weeds, and pond scum
Keep floating by, and I wonder
Just which sloughs they’re coming from.

Dead trees from many a woodland
And the bluffs along your shore,
Green-leafed, storm-torn trees pass by, then
Are followed by many more.

Flotsam, maybe jetsam, almost
Any object that will float,
There's a faded life preserver
From somebody's fishing boat.

Next an old Styrofoam cooler
That escaped its owner's grasp,
And an aged upside-down rowboat
Kind of gasping its last gasp.

Then a varnished paddle – I hope
Some canoers had a spare –
And that rushing, storm whipped waters
Gave them no more than a scare.

Now a happy, hungry blackbird,
Unafraid – to say the least
Rides along as it enjoys a
Storm-provided tasty feast.

Evening settles in the valley
And I hear a distant bell.
Our old river keeps on flowing.
The moon rises, all is well.

Cow Pasture Baseball

2008-07-01T08:39:00.001-07:00

In mid-June we were invited to the 2002 Potosi Baseball Hall of Fame Banquet at Sunset Lanes at Dickeyville. Our son-in-law, Jeff Buttikofer, was one of the first thirteen inductees. Jeff had an outstanding career as a pitcher while attending Potosi High School, also UW La Crosse. He, his wife Pam, and family now live in California. As Jeff had other commitments and was unable to attend the event, he invited Gloria and I to represent him. Potosi High School’s popular and highly successful baseball coach Ron Kading presided over a very interesting and enjoyable evening.

After a delicious dinner, the inductees were introduced. The group included the great pitcher, Jack Cardey, who had a long professional baseball career. All in all, the inductees were a fine looking group of men. Jack and I have about an equal amount of silver in our hair. But most of the rest of them made me feel old. Very old. They looked so young. Even most of their parents looked young.

We met a few old friends there. And made a few new friends. We met Bill Leeser, one of the inductees. He let us know that he works for the Telegraph Herald. Bill was kind enough to circulate one of the programs through the group of inductees, obtaining the autographs of most, so we could send it to Jeff as a memento. (Thanks again, Bill).

It kind of topped off my evening when Dennis Leibfried dropped by our table to say hello. And too let us know that he reads and enjoys this column on a regular basis. His son Gary was one of the inductees. Denny was once one of the premier fast-pitch softball pitchers in the area. And is, himself, a double hall-of-famer, having been inducted into both the Dubuque Fast-Pitch Softball Hall of Fame and the Dubuque Kiwanis Club Softball Hall of Fame.

I was never a baseball player, but did play several seasons of league softball. And, as a boy, I played a far different type of ball game. For that game there was no official book of rules. How the game was played depended on whatever players, facilities, and equipment were available. If a baseball or softball got its horsehide cover knocked off, we knew how to protect the ball’s cord windings with black friction tape to prevent it from raveling. We also learned how to tape up a cracked bat so we could continue to use it. And if our baseball got lost in the weeds, we were not above using an old tennis ball, sponge rubber ball, or whatever other kind of ball we could get our hands on.

That great game was called

COW PASTURE BASEBALL

I’ve had lots of baseball heroes.
Starting in my younger days
There were Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig,
Then, much later, Willie Mays.

Gabby Hartnett and Carl Hubbell,
Dizzy Dean, yes “Me and Paul,”
Mel Ott, and now Sammy Sosa.
There’s no room to list them all.

Out here in the farming country
And in most villages small
We played our own Big League ball game,
One called “Cow Pasture Baseball.”

Much like most Chicago Cubs games,
But not exactly the same,
Kind of a downsized version of
The Great American Game.

Our play was not organized like
League games played at today’s schools.
We furnished our own equipment.
And made up most of the rules.

With no set sizes or limits
For the diamond or the teams,
A vacant lot or cow pasture
Could become our “Field of Dreams.”

For home plate we’d use a short board
Or any small slab of wood,
Sometimes a player’s old sweatshirt,
Folded up, worked out real good.

With a burlap sack for third base,
Tall weeds for second and first.
Or even old dried-up cow pies,
When conditions were the worst.

If our baseball lost its horsehide,
Friction tape took care of that.
We’d give it a new black cover,
And taped up each broken bat.

When no baseball could be found we
Would use an old tennis ball,
Or one of solid sponge rubber.
Hey, I’m sure we tried them all.

Most games didn’t go nine innings
At our rustic baseball park.
We played until called home for meals,
Or until it got too dark.

Back then, grownups were not needed
To coach or umpire our game,
We all played as well as we could
And enjoyed it, all the same.

We tried our best to play just like
Our Major League heroes great,
Hoping one day we’d join them, but
Such success was not our fate.

Though none of us made the Big Leagues,
I don’t regret that at all.
I cherish my memories of
Times we played Cow Pasture Ball.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY

2008-06-15T16:16:00.000-07:00

FLOODS

2008-06-15T16:14:00.001-07:00

(This article was written in 2001 but seems suitable for what is currently happening in the Midwest)

As the snow melted this spring, the thoughts of people along the Mighty Mississippi turned to unhappy things such as high water levels and flooded basements. We began hearing a variety of estimates and predictions. Eventually it was agreed that we would see a flood that would be second only to that of ’65. The old-timers once referred to these as “100-year floods,” disasters that struck only once in each century. But they are no longer strangers.

Each year, more and more of the watershed area is covered with buildings, driveways, streets, and parking lots, thus increasing the runoff. And as towns and cities build levees and floodwalls, the river is confined to its channel. It can no longer spread out over many of its old natural lowland “reservoirs,” so flooding becomes more frequent and severe.

In Prairie du Chien, Wis., a favorite place for checking the water level is at Kaber’s Supper Club on Blackhawk Ave. Anytime the river water enters the intersection there, you have a major flood. And this year, Rowdy’s Bar and Grill, across the street from Kaber’s, was completely surrounded. It was there that we watched someone wade out into the flood waters and set up a portable grill, fire up the charcoal, and begin preparing the entrée for an evening meal. All the while sloshing around in almost-knee-deep muddy water, and more than 50 feet from the nearest dry land. Certainly no fire hazard there. The TV news camera people got some great footage of that scene.

The high water covered some of the railroad tracks in the area, resulting in many train runs being cancelled or re-routed. Almost all river traffic was suspended. All of the big barges had to be tied up, creating quite a hardship for everyone who depends on their services.

The flood drove many people from their homes. And the eventual cleanup will be an almost unbelievable, backbreaking task. But the turnout of volunteer helpers has been nothing less than phenomenal. Individuals, groups, and organizations turned out in force to help wherever needed. High school students and others filled and placed thousands of sandbags, building up the dikes and levees and protecting homes and other buildings from damage caused by the wind-driven waves.

If another major flood does not arrive during the next 100 years, it is unlikely that anyone will complain.

MUDDY FLOOD

The big river flows wide. The
Wild dark water runs deep,
Carrying fallen trees and
Much rich Midwestern mud.

Sump pumps in home basements now
Work around-the-clock, while
Grayed old men compare this to
The Great ’65 Flood.

The experts all tell us the
Crest has now gone by, and
Our sandbags and levees have
All stood up to the test.

But the forecast says “rain,” and
The late snows up north will
Soon be all melted down and
Bring one more minor crest.

There’s almost no boat traffic,
The barges and small craft
Were ordered off the river
By the U.S. Coast Guard.

Today the water’s still up
Close to Kaber’s corner
And wild ducks swim around the
Swing set in Molly’s yard.

As the river rolls by, it
Seems in no great hurry,
Wending its muddy way on
Down to the sunny south.

Local folks will rejoice when
The crest’s drifted onward,
Clear to the muddy delta
Down at the river’s mouth.

When the waters recede, folks
Can assess the damage,
Then begin the hard work of
Cleaning up the great mess.

With much sweat and hard work, the
Job will be completed,
But, most likely, it will take
The whole summer, I’d guess.

Both the Salvation Army
And Red Cross are here with
Food for the hungry, and beds
Where the weary can rest.

Volunteers come in flocks, to
Help wherever needed,
Folks’ bad fortune, at times, can
Bring out everyone’s best

TRADITIONS

2008-06-01T06:51:00.001-07:00

Old traditions often die hard. Whenever any of our children come home to visit in the summertime, we know that sooner or later someone will suggest that we go to Prairie du Chien to get some "Pete's hamburgers." When the kids were still small, our favorite kind of a summer weekend picnic was to take a cooler with some cold soda from home, then stop at Pete's outdoor stand for some of his famous hamburgers, and head for a picnic table down near the river, at Lawler Park, where we could enjoy the playground equipment and spend a pleasant hour or two.

The sign on Pete's stand says "Since 1909." I remember the tiny establishment from the late thirties. I've been told that Pete Gokey first came to Prairie du Chien with a church decorating crew, and decided to stay around. He soon became widely known throughout the area as a builder and painter of signs. Most or all of his signs with their beautiful brush work are gone now, but his part-time project, the hamburger stand, still remains and serves burgers, not only to the locals, but to tourists from all over the country.

Pete's first small, portable stand on Blackhawk Avenue (Prairie's main drag) has been replaced by a new and slightly larger, more substantial one. But the tasty product and the methods of producing it are still the same. A large, oblong stainless steel pan containing about an inch of water is heated by gas burners. Sixty-five large round balls of hamburger are put into the pan and flattened out in the bouncing, bubbling liquid. A large mound of sliced onion occupies the middle of the pan. Hungry people gather and wait in two lines. If any aren't lucky enough to be served from the current batch, the hardworking crew will have another panfull ready in twelve minutes.

Pete Gokey died in 1971, but his tradition lives on. His summer weekend hamburger business is now operated by his grandchildren. Every year on Memorial Day weekend all of the proceeds from the stand's sales are given to the American Cancer Society and the Prairie du Chien Rescue Squad, in memory of one of Pete's sons, the late Robert F. Gokey.

TRADITIONS

Our old family traditions
Are well-used, almost outgrown,
As our children and grandchildren
Start traditions of their own.

Holidays have become simple,
We just load our car and go
To the homes of sons and daughters
Where we'll be welcome, we know,

To join in the celebration
Of the things we still hold dear,
New versions of old traditions
That will live year after year.

We talk about good old days when
We all played ball on the lawn,
How the family has grown, and
Things have changed as time moved on,

How deer hunting and Thanksgiving
Brought a jolly group around.
Yarns of big bucks "almost got," and
Other tall tales still abound.

Christmas was our favorite day when
The grandchildren were still small,
With all Gloria's great cooking,
Gifts and candy, tree, and all.

Easter Sunday was a special
Time as we welcomed the Spring.
And an early morning egg hunt
Can, to small kids, much joy bring.

Fourth of July (and Pam’s birthday)
Brought fireworks when it got dark,
But first we’d get “Pete’s hamburgers”
To eat down at Lawler Park.

2008-05-26T11:37:00.000-07:00

THOMAS KELLY'S GOLD

2008-05-26T11:32:00.001-07:00

Dubuque From Kelly's Bluff

Our land is filled with legends--oft-repeated tales of happenings of long ago. Some are the truth or at least based on honest-to-gosh truth. Others are half-truths or part truths, often diluted or contaminated. And some are just products of one or more vivid imaginations.

Go to any rocky, hilly area with steep, sharp cliffs and bluffs, and you are almost sure to find one extra-forbidding precipice, colorfully named "Lovers' Leap." Just ask any of the old-timers, and they'll tell you "for sure" that once a beautiful, sorrowful young Indian maiden jumped from the top--either with or without her forbidden lover--to death on the rocks below.

You may also find an unusual rock formation that locals will swear was a sacred place for Native Americans, that they made long pilgrimages, coming together at these very rocks to pray and to talk to their gods.

And then there are always the lost mines and the buried treasure. Mines with names like "The Lost Dutchman's Mine," "The Alamo Mine," "Old Pete's Lost Mine," and "The Lost Padres' Mine." Do you prefer gold or silver ore? Take your pick. There is a lot of either out there just for the finding. Or do you have a hankering for bandit loot? There are leather bags and iron-bound chests filled with gold ingots and gold coin out there just waiting for some lucky person to stumble onto them, or for some bright person to put together all of the known clues. And to solve the puzzle.

We are often cautioned that there is no profit to be gained from dwelling too long on the past. But allowing our minds to pay a visit to those rip-roaring tales and times of the past can sometimes work wonders in helping to brighten up a dull day and a drab life.

Dubuque, with its rocky hills and caves, seems a likely and logical land for a lost-gold legend. And Thomas Kelly was just the man to provide such a legend.

THOMAS KELLY'S GOLD

There's a tale that's told today
Down in Dubuque, Ioway
Of a man whose search for wealth produced enough

Shiny coins of precious gold
To fill a big chest, so old,
That's still buried somewhere up on Kelly's Bluff.

They tell of rich veins of lead,
And at least one man shot dead...
If pushed too hard, the strong miner could play rough!

The law jailed him for awhile;
He escaped, by stealth and guile,
And returned to his "dig" up on Kelly's Bluff.

Some folks heard Tom Kelly boast
That he'd dug more lead than most,
And had built a golden fortune from the stuff.

Any person short on cash
Could come looking for his stash
Buried in that iron chest on Kelly's Bluff.

Time passed by, and Tom grew old,
Tired of counting all his gold;
Years of hard work left him rather dour and gruff,

And before he died, he wrote,
Not a will, but just this note,
"If you want my gold, look here on Kelly's Bluff!"

WASHDAY

2008-05-18T20:41:00.000-07:00

Some of us recall a time when Monday was commonly referred to as “washday.” Farm wives and, I suppose, many others began as soon as possible after breakfast to pump their wash water and lug it in to be heated in a large wash boiler on the wood-fired kitchen range. Then they would gather up the week’s accumulation of soiled clothing, bedding, linens, etc. These were sorted into piles on the kitchen floor.

When the water was hot enough, it was “bucketed” from the boiler to the washtub, and there, starting with a white, or light colored pile, all of the laundry was rubbed and scrubbed on a washboard. In those pre-detergent days, the soap used was often a homemade concoction containing much animal-fat and some lye. After each item was washed, it was wrung out, as dry as possible, by hand.

After washing, each piece of laundry was carefully rinsed out in clean water, and once more wrung out carefully by hand. If the weather cooperated, the clean wash was then hung out to dry on outdoor clotheslines. If rain threatened, it had to be dried on lines strung across a porch, or on lines and clothes racks inside the house.

Outdoor clotheslines usually had to be wiped clean before they were used. Then the clean, wet wash was hung on the lines and held in place with clothespins. If everything went well, the wash would be dry and ready to take back into the house long before evening. But many things could go wrong. An unexpected rain could come along, and make it necessary to take everything back in and dry it in the house. Worse yet, a strong wind could come up and blow some of the items off the line and down on the ground, getting them dirty, and making it necessary to go through the whole process again.

Occasionally dogs would find flapping white bed sheets interesting. Something to play with, often leaving many muddy paw-prints, before losing interest. Cattle and hogs were known to get out occasionally and run under lines full of drying clothes, knocking them to the ground and trampling them into the dirt. On rare occasions, even small children were attracted by the clean clothing, managing to soil it before anyone noticed what was going on. And in dry weather, there was always a chance that something would stir up a lot of dust that would readily stick to the damp laundry. Even a township road grader smoothing the gravel road could stir up quite a cloud.

If nothing went wrong, the clean, sweet-smelling wash was collected and brought in when dry. A good job well done. But with the tedious job of ironing still to be taken care of.

MONDAY

The farm housewife readies
Her old galvanized washtub,
Rippled copper washboard,
And homemade soap laced with lye,

She checks out the water
Heating in the wash boiler,
Stokes the fire as she hums
A tune from days long gone by.

She puts on a sweater,
Hurries out to the roadside,
Checks the mailbox for the
Newspaper and today’s mail.

Then, back in the kitchen,
Decides the water’s ready,
Transfers it to the tub
With a small, old five-quart pail.

Then she rubs and she scrubs
Her husband’s dirty work clothes
To free and release them
From a week’s grease, dirt, and grime.

Then she goes out and pumps
And lugs in some fresh water
To rinse clean her wash, then
Wrings out each piece one more time.

She puts on her sweater,
And goes out to the clothesline,
Wipes the number-nine wires
Clean of bird droppings and rust.

Next she hangs out the clothes
To dry in the fresh spring breeze.
The road grader had best
Not come by, stirring up dust.

By mid-afternoon, she
Checks to see how well they’ve dried,
Collects all the clean clothes
Then folds and puts them away.

Then she starts to gather
Up the evening meal’s “makings.”
Such chores are all part of
A farmwife’s long, hard workday.

‘Though not well reimbursed,
At least not in cash money,
She still feels quite well-paid
In life’s blessings, goodness knows,

Nothing in this whole world
Can rival the sweet smell of
The sun and fresh air in
Newly hand-washed, line-dried clothes.

2008-05-11T15:06:00.000-07:00

Your Can't Go Home Again

2008-05-11T15:04:00.000-07:00

“You Can’t Go Home Again,” is the title of a biographical novel written by author Thomas Wolfe. The words have also become a popular cliché that has been all but worn out by overuse, but is still as true as ever. If we grow up in a neighborhood and then leave, it is only natural to remember it as it was when we left. Our homes, the schools, the playgrounds, and various business places will remain unchanged in our memories.

As a rule, the majority of our memories will be of the more pleasant things we knew, the good times we had in childhood and youth, the neighbors we knew, our good friends, as well as our parents and other family members who loved us. We tend to remember our successes much more vividly than we do our failures.

If we leave the home town, those memories go with us. They remain with us, ready to be called on any time they are desired or needed. And if things out in the real world get tough, those warm, fuzzy memories of home become extra precious and, if need be, provide us with a soft crutch that is nice and comfortable to lean on.

But going back to that home town or neighborhood can bring a rude awakening. We find many of the old business places are gone, replaced by newer and bigger establishments. The pool halls, dance halls, drive-ins, and other such places that were once a large part of our young lives are gone. Or are completely changed and now attract a different category of customers.

If we’re lucky, our parents will still be there to greet us and make us feel welcome and loved. But most of the old neighbors will have moved away. If we look around for our old friends, we learn that most of them have left for a larger town or city. The ones who remain will now be busy with their own families, jobs, or businesses. No longer will they be carefree as they once were, and just waiting for evening to come so they can go out and have some fun. We may talk for awhile about the “old days,” and all of the fun we had. But before long we are likely to recognize the fact that we no longer have much, if anything, in common.

Re-visiting the old home town and the haunts of youth will most likely afford little consolation to an extremely lonely person,

YOU CAN’T GO BACK

Old “Fritz” Tesch gets mighty lonely
Since his dear wife “Sal” passed on.
When he’s feeling down, Fritz tells folks,
”All the good times are long gone.”

”Our kids left for the big city
Once they were schooled and full grown.
A man don’t have much incentive
For life when he’s left alone.

”As our married years just flew by –
Happy times for Sal and me –
We mostly just concentrated
On our home and family.

”Sally and I never noticed
How the world around us changed.
Nothing’s quite the way it was. Now
Everything’s been rearranged.

”Precious old familiar faces
Mostly have faded away.
My neighbors are complete strangers.
With changes ‘most every day.

”I suppose I need a hobby,
Maybe cards or shooting pool.
Out on a golf course, I fear I
Would look like a complete fool.

”I’ve tried listening to ball games
On my little radio,
But there’s too darned many teams now
And no players that I know.

”I’ve gone looking for my old haunts.
But each search ends as I’d feared,
They’ve all fallen prey to progress
And completely disappeared.

”When younger, I’d sometimes visit
One of the small local bars,
There’s no neon lights there now, just
A sales lot filled with used cars.

”What was once Green’s big cow pasture,
Where we young lads all played ball,
Is the empty parking lot of
A deserted shopping mall.

”Once I hunted squirrels and rabbits
Around here, ‘most anywhere
Without asking for permission.
Then, landowners didn’t care.

”I’m told now I need a license
Just to go and catch one fish.
I long for the good old days, but
That’s a futile, empty wish.”

THIS OLD CAR

2008-05-02T20:08:00.000-07:00

Wreck makes one ponder if these wheels could talk

I noticed an old abandoned car recently, parked in a fence corner, surrounded by weeds and being slowly eaten away by rust. It brought back some old memories, and seemed to be a kind of composite of a lot of autos I have known, owned, driven, or ridden in at one time or another .
I often wonder: If these old rattletraps could talk, what weird tales would they tell? After years of associating with human beings, they should have some dandies. I'm sure most would boast of holding a few unofficial speed records. Some would be proud to be organ donors if there was still a demand for their obsolete pistons and gears. And what
would they have to say about their owners and drivers?

This Old Car

This rusty automobile
With one badly bent wheel
And four tires so
Thin that they almost show air

And in its shabby trunk
An assortment of junk –
Rusty, dusty –
With some well-used parts to spare.

Lord knows, it’s seen better days
Out there on the highways.
It looks so sad
And all alone here today.

And what wild yarns might it spin –
Tales of goodness or sin?
If you asked, this
Just might be what it would say:

“At one time I was hot!
Yes, believe it or not.
Just about the
Classiest thing on the road.

"I've chased many a raccoon
By the light of the moon,
And have flattened
Many a big, fat, slow toad.

"Once my big chrome headlights beamed
And my glossy paint gleamed,
Shiny and bright
As a brand-new Cadillac.

"I have traveled coast-to-coast,
Racked up more miles than most.
One might say I
Have been clear to hell and back.

"I've caught many people's eye
While swiftly passing by
On the highways
And byways, both bad and good.

"I've climbed up hills that were steep,
Splashed through mud puddles deep,
And plowed through some
Snowdrifts as high as my hood!

"I have had owners galore -
A half-dozen or more -
And once changed hands
In a mean, nasty divorce,

"Suffered one small 'rear-ender,'
And crumpled a front fender
While avoiding
Poor old Jesse Lester's horse.

Once my driver - fogged by beer
Encountered a few deer.
One big old buck
Slid right through under my frame.

"Almost every other time
I could stop on a dime;
And that was just
One of my main claims to fame.

"I drove folks to proms and balls
And all the great dance halls,
Moonlight Gardens
And good old Melody Mill.

"I was as fast as could be.
No one ever passed me
When I zoomed down
That big old Gillespie Hill.

"But years and miles took their toll
On my body and soul
Until you can't
See much of me now but rust.

"Still my memories live on,
Of those days now long gone,
Back when I could
Leave everyone in the dust.

SOMETHING FOR NOTHING

2008-04-23T19:02:00.000-07:00

Every now and then we run into a familiar “old saying” – a few words of wisdom that strike a chord or bring back an old memory. When in print, such a sentence or short paragraph often includes the name of the person who originated the thought. When repeated in conversation, we may recognize it as an example of the creative thinking of Benjamin Franklin or Will Rogers. Or even the writers of the “Beverly Hillbillies” TV show who created Jed Clampett’s salty observations. But, too often, we are left guessing.
Recently I heard a friend repeat one of my favorites that goes something like this: “The darkest point in anyone’s life is the moment that he or she sits down and tries to figure out a way to get something for nothing.” I don’t know the exact wording or who created this bit of sage advice, but it is interesting, to say the least.
At this point in time, some of the political leaders here in this great land of ours are insisting that more gambling casinos are absolutely necessary to the financial welfare of quite a number of municipalities and even a few states. But if a large percentage of our people were to suddenly agree with the above statement, and no longer look for a way to get “something for nothing,” wouldn’t this drastically cut down on casino betting? And, in turn, seriously decrease the “tax relief” we currently get by way of taxes paid by the casinos? And, eventually, force us all to go back to paying taxes in the regular old-fashioned way?
Some people seem to feel that paying taxes is less painful when accompanied by flashing lights and bells and whistles.

SOMETHING FOR NOTHING

I met a gray-haired old codger

On a bench out in the park

And he gave me this

One bit of good advice:

“Don’t expect something for nothing –

Life just don’t work out that way –

For each thing you get,

You have to pay the price.”

I laughed, saying, “You old duffers

Just don’t keep up with the times.

Look around and you’ll

See winners everywhere.

“There are lots of gamblers out there

With the guts to take a chance.

I’ve watched. They always

Have plenty bucks to spare.

”I decided I’d try gambling

A few bucks on games of chance,

Certain that old

Lady Luck would smile on me.

I forgot the old man’s warning

And soon was casino bound.

Why work when the best

Things in life may be free?

I first tried the blackjack table,

Put my fifty dollars down,

Gave the dealer a

Smile and my best regards.

I envisioned great big winnings

But my fifty soon was gone.

I guess somehow it

Just wasn’t in the cards.

I found the craps table busy,

But soon found an empty space.

To win a tall stack of

Chips there would be nice.

But my hopes and chances faded

As my money disappeared

With each roll of those

Highly unfriendly dice.

The casino’s bingo hall was

The next place I’d have to try,

But found no

Cooperation there at all.

At roulette, I found that big wheel

Was against me from the start,

Just the same as was

That small white bouncing ball.

When my life’s savings had dwindled

And I had no money left,

The old man’s words came

A-drifting back to me:

“You don’t get something for nothing.

You must pay up all your dues.

”I’m convinced those words

Are true as true can be.

Now, since re-doing my thinking

As to what life’s all about,

I am back here in

The unemployment line.

My billfold’s flatter than road kill,

But once more, my head’s on straight.

If I can find work,

Things may turn out just fine.

DAY BY DAY

2008-04-15T18:57:00.000-07:00

Each morning brings a new sunrise. If we are lucky, we may be able to see it in all of its red and golden glory. Much like any other bright sunrise, yet different, with special colors, patterns, and a personality all its own.
Then again, if we are not so fortunate, it may be a dark, gray, cloudy, and gloomy morning. Nothing to inspire us and get us “up and going.” I remember a number of old-timers who seemed to feel that it was their duty to frequently remind younger people that “into each life a little rain must fall.” And I am glad they did. No matter how we plan, the sun is not going to shine every day. We may as well accept that fact. There is nothing to be gained from “cursing the darkness.”
On a cloudy morning, we may just as well remember that the same sun is rising. And, most important, we have been given another day to use in whatever way we choose. If there is work that must be done, we may as well get at it. If we don’t take care of it today, the job will still be there tomorrow. And will seem just as distasteful as it does today. Perhaps more so. Plus the fact that we will also have tomorrow’s chores. And, who knows? We may feel no more ambitious tomorrow than we do today.
I feel fully qualified to speak on this matter. I am a natural procrastinator – a “putter-offer.” As I look around at my desk and office tables I see ample evidence. A stack of paper that contains ideas and unfinished rhymes for possible poems and columns bothers me. I may have to attack it today. On a table there is a sheaf of data pulled off the Internet that I may use one day, along with numerous clippings from the TH that may come in handy (if I can find them when I need them).
There is also a fairly neat pile of hints and suggestions I have put together to help me out when my computer and I do not see eye to eye. Also a digital camera that I still haven’t mastered, as well as instructions I have printed off telling me how to use the camera’s new photo handling program (also not mastered). And my Inbox is loaded with almost a six-month’s collection of e-mails that must be deleted one of these days.
It is up to me to decide. I can continue to put up with this unhappy situation, or I can get down to work and make order out of the chaos. When it comes right down to it, most of the real satisfaction and happiness we find comes from accomplishment.

DAY BY DAY

This life tends to deal each of us

A fair share of ups and downs,

Regardless of our positions,

Rich men, poor men, even clowns,

Young people, mothers and fathers,

CEOs, and office hacks,

Laboring men who must carry

The world’s weight upon their backs,

Old folks in their rocking chairs, and

Students studying in school,

Must share failures with their triumphs,

That seems to be nature’s rule.

Each morning there’s a new sunrise,

Even if hid by a cloud,

Followed by a new and long day

Filled with trials. Join the crowd.

An old farmer rises early,

Milks his cows and slops the hogs,

Plans out the day’s work before him

Felling trees and splitting logs.

He knows the work won’t be easy,

And tomorrow there’ll be more,
But finds the work satisfying.

He’s been through it all before.

A bank president arises,

Puts on his best business clothes,

Kind of dreads this day, knows it will

Be no picnic, goodness knows!

There’ll be several unhappy

Decisions he’ll have to make –

One or two more sad foreclosures –

How many hearts must he break?

A clown, in his trailer, puts on

His ragged old baggy clothes,

Laces up his two-foot-long shoes,

Pops on his red rubber nose.

Next, he checks out all of the props

That he uses for his act,

Knows he’ll never be rich, but he’s

Satisfied, and that’s a fact.

This week he’ll earn little money –

Last week’s pay’s already gone –

But he’ll bring smiles to the children.

For them, the show must go on,

He thinks, “Despite tests and trials

The Creator sends my way,

If I’d find contentment, I must

Make the most of each new day.”

BUILDING BLOCKS OF KNOWLEDGE

2008-04-09T17:12:00.000-07:00

Ideas may drift in alone
Or in large flocks or herds,
But they are lifeless things until
We put them into words.

With luck, we’ll find those proper words –
Perhaps a few to spare.
When completed, some thoughts become
Things we can’t wait to share

We may write new ideas down
In stories short or long,
Or can recite them orally
In poem, speech, or song.

Some new thoughts may seem so weak they’re
Not worth being re-told,
But when joined with others, may prove
Precious as purest gold.

New ideas are fragile things –
Feed them and watch them grow.
When complete, each becomes a part
Of all the things we know.

WORKING MAN

2008-04-04T21:06:00.000-07:00

I remember a day on the job when the work was hard. The hours were long and the pay was nothing to brag about. Several of the younger fellows were complaining. They were certain that some people were just sitting in their soft, comfortable chairs and getting rich from this project, while we were performing “slave labor” out in the almost unbearable heat.
A middle-aged fellow showed only a hint of a smile. “Well, that’s the way it always goes. The rich get richer, and the poor get kids.”
That was probably not an original idea. But it was the first time I had heard it. And I suddenly realized how true it was. For him, anyway. The man had a large family. And an old car that ran only part of the time. He was stuck in this low paying job at a time when most material handling and work of that type was still accomplished by “brute strength and sheer awkwardness,” and there was no indication that things would ever get any better.
I have read and heard old stories about isolated mining towns and factory towns that had only one major employer. Workers and their families were completely dependent upon that one company. With no competition, the company usually had free rein in determining wages, hours, and working conditions. And local workers had little choice but to accept what was offered. During slack seasons when the mines and plants closed down, families were forced to buy their food and supplies “on time” at the company owned store. The establishment readily extended them credit, under the agreement that when the factory whistle blew again, they would be ready and willing to come back to work.
In such communities, before there were labor unions to give the workers any bargaining power, the company practically owned the people, and they were, for the most part, at its mercy. There was nowhere else to go and no other jobs available. Nothing to look forward to. No rainbows, no bright light on the horizon, and not the slightest hint that there would ever be anything better in their lives. Nothing but more and more hard work, long hours, and low pay.
As Tennessee Ernie Ford’s song described it: “I owe my soul to the company store.”

WORKING MAN

The big boss man gathers
The day’s receipts, and locks
Them safely away
In the vault.

The shift whistle shrills, and
The long workday grinds down
To a welcome,
Quick, screeching halt.

One day’s like another,
So much so that old “Clint”
Can hardly keep
Track, anymore,

Of all of his troubles
That keep growing, just like
His bill at the
Company store.

This week’s puny paycheck
Won’t quite stretch to cover
Each and every
Family need.

While rich folks get richer
Poor folks just get children,
More hungry mouths
For them to feed.

Each year Clint feels older,
Quite sure one day he will
Work himself right
Into the ground.

There’s no need for dreaming
Or looking for better.
No easy jobs
Are to be found.

He tells younger fellows,
“Don’t expect much sunshine.
Into all lives
Much rain must fall.

“You’ll find that in this world
Nothing comes easy.
We Can’t walk till we’ve
First learned to crawl.

“With each year you’ll notice
The work just gets harder,
Each day brings a
New ache or pain.

“As your hair grows grayer
Your chances grow slimmer
For reaping much
Financial gain.

“My small paycheck barely
Keeps food on the table.
For hunger, there’s
No easy cure.

“The preacher says
I’ll get My reward in heaven,
I only wish
I could be sure.”

DAY DREAMING

2008-03-27T18:53:00.000-07:00

Day dreams are sometimes criticized as a useless waste of time. And if they are never acted on, I suppose they can be. But it would be a sad, dull life if we couldn't think about brighter, more positive things from time to time. And if it hadn't been for daydreams, we would most likely still be living without fire, and, instead of pecking away on a computer, I would be etching this message on a cave wall with a sharp piece of flint.
I once read of a fellow who was condemned to one of the worst of prisons. The conditions were so terrible that most of the prisoners just gave up and few lived out their sentences. The ones who eventually were released were white-haired, white-bearded old men who had aged far beyond their years. I can't remember the name of the hero of this story, but he was made of stout stuff. He decided that he would not allow the prison to break him. As much as possible, he kept his mind filled with happy, pleasant thoughts. At night, when he looked out through the prison window, he saw, "not bars, but stars." And when his sentence was finally finished, he walked out of the lockup under his own power. Thinner, I would imagine, but definitely not an aged and broken man.
We all have our troubles and problems, but to just concentrate on them gets us nowhere. Usually we can come up with some pleasant thoughts that make our day seem easier. This kind of thinking is much better for our health and well being than just concentrating on all of the negative, unpleasant conditions around us. A popular song tells us that lighting just one little candle is better than cursing the darkness. Oftentimes changing to cheerful, positive thoughts will give us the answers to our problems. Instead of complaining to ourselves about conditions and secretly blaming other people for our bad fortune, why not try to find some solutions to the problems of the day? At times, we may surprise ourselves with our ability to think and to come up with answers and new innovations, if we just keep our minds in the positive mode and give them free rein.

THE GOOD LIFE

I know some folks may think I'm dumb
Cause I march to a different drum
At times, I turn the real world
Off, and I just dream.

Then I help tame the old Wild West,
I've even climbed Mt. Everest,
While cultivating with a
One-row and a team.

In time and space, I make the rounds;
My world has no limits or bounds.
I'm living in the future,
The past and the now.

I've seen the French and Indian Wars,
Walked with the first man up on Mars,
While still at home, milking a
Big old Holstein cow.

If you don't like how your world seems,
Retreat into a world of dreams;
I will guarantee that it
Shall do you no harm.

I've driven Maserati cars,
At times hobnobbed with movie stars,
And, shucks, I've never ever
Even left the farm.

DIFFERENCES SHOULD BE CELEBRATED

2008-03-18T08:31:00.000-07:00

Diversity: Some dance to the beat of a different drum

Nature never seems to be seeking perfection. Almost every common plant or animal that we see has at least a few flaws, weaknesses, or strengths that make it different from all others. Nature rarely ever repeats itself. Of all the beautiful sunrises or sunsets we have seen, no two of them have been exactly the same. And we've always been told that no two snowflakes are alike.
We humans, too, have our differences. Many of them. We differ in age, sex, and color of hair, eyes, and skin. We have a wide variety of heredity and backgrounds, and grew up in a multitude of different environments. We have absorbed varied amounts of education, both formal and informal. We have decided differences in temperament and in the subjects that interest us the most.
Looking at humanity as a whole, we suffer from an almost unimaginable number of different diseases, illnesses, allergies and assorted other ailments. We boast of any number of different religious sects and beliefs. On occasion, many of us are ready and willing to argue about world, national and local politics. We disagree on gun control, abortion, tax cuts, the national debt and capital punishment. Some get involved in saving the rain forests, the whales, and the baby seals, all the while keeping an eye out for global warming, while others could not care less. And, whether we are ready to admit it or not, a lot of us have picked up at least a few biases and prejudices along the way.
But, are we proud of this rich mix that makes up our human race? Not on your life. Most of us prefer to look at the world through rose-colored glasses, trying to see all persons as pretty much the same - as mannequins - all cut from the same cloth while using identical patterns. Or as having been cast in the same mold. Which we definitely have not. At times, a lot of our rules and laws seem to have been dreamed up or written to deliberately treat some people differently, in an effort to make us all become more alike.
We never seem quite content until all of the ducks are in a row. Or all of the sheep are in a flock, and following the same shepherd. Too often, an individual, one who marches to his (or her) own drummer, is labeled "different." He (or she) does not share in the most popular interests of the day, and doesn't fall for every new style, trend, or activity that comes along. So, therefore, it is only natural for some of the "sheep of the flock" to look down on that person.
I really admired many of the "Golden People" I met while in Hawaii. They seemed to know pretty well who they were, and were well satisfied with themselves and with their genetic makeup. In that great "Melting Pot," you could feel free to ask anyone about his (or her) ancestry. You might get an answer like, "Japanese, Austrian, Portuguese, Filipino." And then the person's citizenship, "Hawaiian, American," would be added. A special interest was shown in each and every ingredient in the mix. Everyone was an individual. And proud of it.

SIMPLE SIMON

His nickname is "Simple Simon"
(Stolen from the nursery rhyme),
But he's really far from simple –
Seems real bright most of the time.

Simon's quite a quiet fellow,
Never gets pushy or loud,
Likes marching to his own drummer,
Not influenced by the crowd,

Neither follower nor leader
(Been that way since a small lad),
Prefers to do his own thinking,
Whether it's for good or bad,

He has a liking for people,
And no trouble making friends,
But needs no constant companions
From morning till the day ends.

Simple Simon keeps his focus
On important things of life.
Used both brain and heart in choosing
His friends, companions, and wife.

He has a good understanding
Of what this world's all about,
All its inconsistencies and
Ups and downs, inside and out.

Simon makes his own decisions.
Bravely, bold, and unashamed,
Like Sinatra, "does it his way."
Just he can be praised or blamed.

'Though at times he'd find it easy
To bend and blend with the flock,
He stands behind his convictions,
Firm and solid as a rock.

Like Simon, we might be wise to
Think life's serious problems through,
Finding our own answers as we
Think, "To thine own self be true!"

ALMOST SPRING

2008-03-08T19:16:00.000-08:00

Late each winter there comes a time when the huge, deep, pristine white snowdrifts have been reduced to just small, lumpy piles of dirty, rotting snow, areas of mushy slush, and muddy puddles of icy water.
And it is usually about then that most of us realize our patience with the long-dragged-out winter has worn thin. And that we have had about enough of the cold weather and icy roads. Also, that there is no longer any pleasure or thrill connected with going out into the brisk, fresh air to shovel the white stuff out of our paths, and off of our sidewalks and driveways. And if bad roads have kept us at home more than we are accustomed to being there, a mild case of “cabin fever” may have started to set in.
About the only real cure that I know of for that malady is to just do our best and try to be patient. While we dream and make plans for the better weather that we know is just around the corner. Many gardeners are aware of this cure, and use it each year. They gather up all of the seed catalogs that the mail carrier has been delivering since the holidays. They go through them, page by page. There are beautiful illustrations of luscious, ripe red tomatoes. This may be the year to try one or more of the new blight-resistant varieties. And there are pictures of delicious-looking ears of sweet corn. Words printed on the page of a seed catalog can’t even begin to do justice to the flavor of some of the new extra-sweet varieties that have been developed within the past 20 years or so.
This could be the year to set out a small bed of one of the new varieties of ever-bearing strawberries. Or a row of raspberries, or perhaps a new apple tree or two. The colored pictures of some of those big ripe, red beauties can make an apple lover’s mouth water. One of those specially grafted trees that can produce half-a-dozen different kinds of apples would be a nice addition to the back lawn. And on and on.
Some of the real gardeners will accomplish one or more or maybe even all of these ambitious projects. Just as will many farmers and do-it-yourself home remodelers, and sportspeople who have already laid out a number of extensive warm-weather plans. And then there will always be some of us who will be content to just dream. But, what the heck? Even unfulfilled plans and dreams are better than no plans or dreams at all. They surely beat just worrying, fretting, and pacing the floor as we complain about the ugly weather, and how it seems that this long cold winter has been going on forever, and will never come to an end.

SPRING DREAMS

A weak, tired morning sun
Hides behind a gloomy, cloud.
As an old farmyard rooster
Crows, shrill, early, and loud

As he welcomes springtime
To his home on the old farm,
Invites it to replace cold
Days with some that are warm.

Most deep winter snowdrifts
Are now just small piles of slush.
From the fence rows we’ll soon hear
The sweet song of the thrush.

Out behind the farm home
And beyond the small white gate,
The garden lies ready, but
For right now, it must wait

For the old walking plow
And the planting of new seeds.
With warmth and rain,
it will help Fill the family’s needs.

Everyone’s pleased to see
More hours of daylight each day.
Before long we can watch new
Frisky young lambs at play.

Cows penned in the farmyard
Now chew their cuds, as they dream
Of lush green pasture grass, down
By the small, winding stream.

Farm children, this morning
Breathe the fresh air, crisp and cool,
As they wait down by the road
For their bus ride to school.

Soon the flock of sheep will
Be sheared of their winter fleece
Now the farmer cleans his plow
Of last year’s rust and grease,

Changes the tractor’s oil,
Next check’s this year’s seed supply,
While always keeping a sharp
“Weather eye” on the sky.

His wife, always busy,
Patches his old, worn work pants,
Then prepares the hotbed for
Growing new garden plants.

Oh, how dull and how drab
This winter season would seem
If we were unable to
Create a warm spring dream!

PARADISE PAST

2008-02-29T04:07:00.000-08:00

Back in a long-lost childhood time

we felt rich if we had a dime

in our world of home-folks,
friends and dogs and cats.

To be poor was no cause for shame.

All families fared much the same

and “good guys” in cowboy movies

wore white hats.

But, as time passed by, our world changed.

Soon our lives were all rearranged

and altered by this strange

new world of today

The fables and fancies of youth

gave way to learning and to truth

and our cowboy heroes
all drifted away.

The Barbershop

2008-02-18T20:24:00.000-08:00

There was a time when almost every little “wide spot in the road” community had a barbershop. And villages of 600 people had as many as three or four. There were no written rules, but, like the corner pool hall, a barbershop was generally considered to be “Men Only” establishment. Aside from being just a place to get a haircut or a shave, it was somewhere for males to gather and to exchange news and views. And the wide range of occupations, backgrounds and lifestyles of the shop’s patrons usually furnished ample material for interesting conversations.
Some businessmen, serious about the importance of their appearance, would hit the barbershop every day for a shave. And for a haircut every week or ten days. Most men, though, were satisfied with a haircut once a month. A few came in to get “prettied up” only for special occasions. Most men who worked outdoors disliked getting haircuts in winter because it made “their heads feel too cold.” A few of the old bucks came in only once a year, in the spring, to “get sheared.”
The barber was usually a neat and clean fellow, and highly skilled in the use of a barber shears and clipper, and especially the straight edge razor. Some tell me that, in barber college, they learned to use that keenly sharpened (and highly dangerous) blade by shaving their own faces. Others say that their training required them to be able to shave soapy, foamy lather off an inflated balloon.
The skill of a good barber has always been recognized and appreciated. And many found that it didn’t hurt their business one bit if they became good conversationalists. So they learned enough about farming to be able to discuss that enterprise while they cut a farmer’s hair. They became experts on the intricacies and details of many varied jobs and business ventures. They kept abreast of the sports news, both nationwide and local. And just about anything else that might be of interest to their listeners.
But then progress reared its ugly head, starting with the invention of the safety razor. Previously, barbershop shaves had been a matter of convenience, and for some a “status thing.” Soon the electric shaver came along, making it even easier for a man to hack off the stubble. Next came the cheap, disposable safety shavers. And barbershop shaves became, almost entirely, a thing of the past.
A young man somewhere got the idea that it would be great to wear shoulder-length hair. And that idea caught on. With much help from TV, movies, and the news media, the fad rapidly spread across the land. The demand for barbershop haircuts decreased. Many of the older “purveyors of the tonsorial arts” closed their shops and retired. Some of the younger ones, unhappy with their dwindling income, began seeking steady jobs with good pay and benefits. And our beloved old barbershops (and barbers) continue to become more and more difficult to find.

THE BARBERSHOP

I count up more treasures each day
That I’ve watched slowly slip away.
The one I sadly miss most is
The barber shop of yesterday.

Our old barber was a special
Kind of a gentleman, and wise.
Could make up good weather forecasts
Just by looking up at the skies,

Skilled with clippers, shears, and razor,
Could make a shaggy man look nice.
Whether asked, or not, he’d often
Dispense plenty good, free advice.

His one-chair shop was a kind of
World news and gossip clearing-place.
He would entertain you while he
Trimmed up your hair and shaved your face.

He could quote how much your neighbor
Got for that last big load of logs.
And how well folks’ cows were milking
And the latest prices for hogs.

He knew just whose hens were laying,
And whose wife and kids had the flu.
And which farm bills Congress should pass
And what the President would do.

He knew which young guys played on the
The local high school’s great baseball team.
They might not make it to “the State,”
But it don’t hurt to try…and dream.

He felt the Chicago Cubs just
Might get one more World Series chance.
He knew which girl each young fellow
Had taken to last week’s big dance.

Saturday evenings were busy,
Men would keep coming through his door.
As he prepared them for Sunday,
Clumps of hair piled up on the floor.

When each “masterpiece” was finished,
He’d splash on a bit of bay rum.
Show his customer the mirror:
“There I have maybe helped you some.”

He’d collect his pay politely,
This grand old master of pretext,
Say, “Hey, the chair’s empty, fellers,
I need the money. Who is NEXT?”

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY

2008-02-12T17:42:00.000-08:00

Saint Valentine's Day was a big event in our one-room country school. Several weeks in advance we began devoting our limited "Art Class" time to the making of valentines. Obsolete wallpaper sample books were our main material supply. Our teacher would obtain these from a furniture store and drug store in a nearby small town. We would leaf through these catalogs until we found just the pattern we wanted, then would cut out that page and proceed. The amount of time that was spent on each valentine usually depended on how good a friend the giver considered the prospective recipient to be.
For simpler models, the page was usually folded in the middle, like a greeting card, and on the front, a "To" and "From" were carefully lettered with crayon. On the inside, the message would be simple: "Be My Valentine" or just "Be Mine,” with now and then an occasional "I love you." The shape of a heart might be carefully drawn to enclose the message. We all learned to draw pretty good hearts. We found that we could make a nice looking pattern by folding a sheet of paper in half, then drawing half-a-heart. Cutting this out and unfolding it, both sides of the heart would be symmetrical.
For closer friends, a heart was cut out of red construction paper and pasted to the inside of the back half of the wallpaper valentine. Some of these would have a short rhyme like, "Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you."
For very close friends, a fancier card was made by cutting out a white paper heart, smaller than the red heart, and printing the message on the white heart, then pasting it on top of the red heart. Some were even decorated with white paper "lace." that we learned to make by folding and refolding the paper and then making the proper cuts with our scissors, much the same way the girls often cut out hand-holding multiple paper dolls.
As Valentine's Day approached, our teacher would put out a decorated box with a slot in the top. We would carefully write the name of one of our friends on each of our home-made wallpaper valentines, sign our own name, and then drop them into the box. Usually a few "store-bought" valentines made their way into the collection, but most were of our own making.
At mid-afternoon on Valentines Day (or the nearest school day preceding it), we all took our places at our desks. Several eighth graders were assigned to remove the valentines from the box, one at a time, read aloud the name of the student each was intended for, then distribute it to his or her desk. What a time of anticipation! As each of us wondered: "How many valentines will I get this year?" I once received one of the hand-made valentines that featured a short verse I had never read or heard before, or since: "Red roses say that I love you. Do you love me? I hope you do!" I liked that rhyme. It was different, somehow. I soon fogot about it, but must have filed it away somewhere in my memory.
Fifty years later I sat down at a table in a small restaurant. My day of selling had not gone particularly well. And I did not look forward to another evening and night away from home. I am not usually one to indulge in the luxury of feeling sorry for myself, but at that particular moment my mood was not the best.
As I waited for the waitress to bring my evening meal, I looked over the small vase of flowers on my table. The blossoms were pretty, and looked just real enough to prompt me to feel the leaves and petals to make sure. They were not roses, but somehow, for some inexplicable reason that old valentine rhyme popped back into my mind. And on the blank reverse side of my paper place mat I scrawled this lament:

RED ROSES SAY....

These red roses on the table
Are still in full bloom today.
Seems they've bloomed this way
A million years,
Since that day you
Went away.

They awake an old, old longing;
My love for you lingers on.
They'd have helped me to
Say, “I love you,"
But, though I'm here,
You're still gone.

Tonight I'll watch television,
Perhaps shed one lonely tear,
While I dust off these
Plastic roses,
And wish that you
Could be here.

THE SONG OF THUNDER BRIDGE

2008-02-09T06:06:00.000-08:00

The subtle sound danced softly across our summer evenings. Too musical to be referred to as merely a “rumble,” it bore a vague resemblance to someone playing the lower tones on a distant marimba.

As children, we enjoyed the unusual melody. We learned at an early age that the sound was made by a vehicle crossing the old bridge, more than a mile away, down where Muscallunge Road crosses the Rattlesnake Creek. Many generations of area youngsters knew that random, rippling sound. And down through the years it was not uncommon for the more imaginative ones to refer to it as the “song of Thunder Bridge.”

The reason for the bridge’s harmonic tune was the design of the old structure. It was built in such a fashion that there was no need to fasten down the individual heavy wooden planks that made up its floor. Loosely laid, those timbers were free to move around a bit as a vehicle crossed over them. Some “self-proclaimed experts” explained that the choice of this method of construction was just good economics, that wooden bridge floors with free-moving planks stayed cleaner and dried out faster when wet, thus lasting longer than did floors that were tightly-spaced and with each plank firmly fastened in place. Others agreed that the design was a matter of economics, but argued that the major savings came from eliminating the need for many bolts and the labor required to drill holes and install them. Few, if any, of the local people knew the age of the bridge. Some of the old-timers estimated that it had most likely been built for the benefit of the early wheat farmers who hauled their wagon loads of grain to the Atkinson Flour Mill in North Andover. Others felt certain that it was constructed early enough to have rendered its first rhythmic rumbling when crossed by the steel-banded wooden wheels of a wagon heavily laden with locally-mined lead ore that was being transported to nearby Beetown or to the smelters at Potosi.

For many years, “Thunder Bridge!” was the rallying cry of partying teenagers. In a secluded valley in a bluegrass pasture that bordered the lightly-traveled Muscallunge Road, young people from the surrounding area, as well as those from a number of the neighboring small towns, found the privacy desired for frequent evening get-togethers. The first young men to arrive always managed to find and gather an ample supply of dry wood to feed a large bonfire. According to whispered reports, a good time was almost always had by all.

Most of the Thunder Bridge pasture parties were uneventful. At one of the more memorable ones, one of the happy young male revelers, for some unknown reason, pitched an unopened bottle of beer into the roaring bonfire. The resulting explosion was loud and filled the sky with sparks and bits of burning embers. A few of the surprised merrymakers suffered small burns from the flying sparks, and a number found their clothing suffered small burn holes. If there are such things as “party gods,” they all must have been smiling that evening, as only several very minor facial wounds were caused by the flying bits and shards of broken glass from the exploding bottle.

Occasionally a concerned neighbor would inform the pasture’s owner that the youngsters were holding beer parties on his property, and perhaps the time had come for him to do something about it. But he refused to become excited or get involved. “I was young once myself,” he would say. “Young people will party and I can’t think of a better or safer place for them to do it. As long as they close the gate when they leave, their parties don’t bother me a bit.” To friends, he would sometimes confide that he did regret the fact that he was now considered too old to be invited to join the young folks in their jolly evening events. More than likely he had done a bit of partying there himself in earlier years.

Except for singing its occasional song, Thunder Bridge led a quiet existence. A long-time fixture in the area, it was loved by most, and had no known enemies. But one dark, rainy autumn night it suffered a brutal and completely unprovoked attack. As may be expected on Halloween, the night had no shortage of spooks, witches, goblins, and any number of various other shadowy evil spirits traveling slyly about, performing their various pranks and wicked deeds. A number of the huge, heavy wooden planks that made up the bridge’s ancient floor were actually lifted out of place that night, and were spirited away – at least for a short distance – and carefully concealed in a nearby patch of tall weeds.

The next morning an alert school bus driver spotted the gaping hole in the bridge floor and managed to get his huge vehicle stopped in time to prevent any damage to either it or to his precious cargo.

The years went by, as years tend to do, and brought with them the changes and progress we had all come to expect. Both the kinds of change we eagerly awaited and the type to which we did not look forward with great anticipation. Eventually the time came for our beloved old Thunder Bridge to go. Perhaps it was just considered by some to be obsolete. Or it could be that it was thought to be too narrow for even the small amount of traffic that made use of the graveled rural road. It is possible that the bases and abutments built of quarried limestone and mortar had deteriorated beyond repair. It may be the heavy old riveted steel framework and beams had become badly rusted and weakened by age. Then again, it may be the ancient structure had just never been built strong enough to carry the large milk, fertilizer, and logging trucks that began traveling our roads as time moved along, or the even-larger, heavier burdens anticipated for the future.

Regardless of the reason, Thunder Bridge disappeared from Muscallunge Road, from the Rattlesnake Creek, and from our lives. It was replaced by a modern new bridge that is sturdy and substantial. One that appears to be almost indestructible, with steel beams that are securely anchored into, and supported by, what appears to be a more-than-ample amount of steel-reinforced concrete. No one can question its strength, but it is silent – so silent. Automobiles, trucks, and farm tractors cross it with scarcely a whisper.

Unlike most old bridges and many elderly people, the new span has no stories to tell. Even sadder is the fact that it has no song of its own. Youngsters of the area will never know the rhythmic rumble of a loose-plank bridge floor. But the music remains and lives on for a fortunate few. In our minds and memories we still hear and enjoy that distant melody, the song of Thunder Bridge.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD

2008-02-04T05:24:00.000-08:00

HAPPY 84th BIRTHDAY DAD. HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT DAY AND ENJOY YOURSELF. LOOKING FORWARD TO MANY MORE ARTICLES AND POEMS. THANKS FOR EVERYTHING YOU AND MOM HAVE DONE FOR ALL OF YOUR CHILDREN AND GRANDCHILDREN. YOU HAVE GIVEN US THE BEST GIFT OF ALL - A LIFE FILLED WITH LOVE AND JOY.

YOUR FAMILY

OLD BALDY

2008-02-01T22:45:00.000-08:00

The old hunter proudly plopped the feathered carcass down on the ground for all of us to see. He stretched out its large, once-powerful wings to their full spread. The keen-eyed marksman felt sure he had just rid the neighborhood of a nasty predator.
Almost every farm had a flock of chickens running free in the yards back then. And anything that even vaguely resembled a "chicken hawk" was the enemy ... and was fair game for anyone with a gun. The trophies were often "spread-eagled," attached to a fence or tacked to a board wall with their wings fully extended. I was only a small boy then, and the dead bald eagle looked frighteningly large and ferocious.
Later I learned that the American bald eagle is our national bird - a part of our country's emblem - a proud, noble, royal, majestic bird and brave beyond belief. And that it is protected by Federal Law.
Eagle lovers "ooh" and "aah" at the great birds' ability to swiftly and silently swoop down to the river, catch a large fish with their talons, then,
without hesitation, flyaway with it, scarcely rippling the water's surface. They love to tell of some amazing aerobatics the feathery aviators engage in when in a playful mood. These include high-speed dives and loops and rolls reminiscent of the old-time human stunt flyers. They even speak of a few kinky tricks sometimes accomplished by two of the large, daring birds ... stunts that may or may not have inspired the old airline slogan, "Fly United."
The gaudy raptors' great size and snow white heads and tails set them apart from all other birds and their presence is always sure to attract attention. But they are not always universally loved and adored, respected and revered. Some farmers consider eagles unwelcome visitors to their property. Oh, they no longer believe in all the wild old tales. Most don't worry that their smaller livestock will be carried off ... or their small children. But a number of costly animal diseases plague farming country. Illnesses that cause a high mortality rate among their hogs, especially the newborn piglets, often wiping out the entire litters of most or all of the mother sows. In many cases, eagles get the blame for carrying these diseases from one farm to another.
In winter or early spring, a field spread with fresh hog manure holds a great attraction for eagles. From many miles away they will find and converge on such "choice pickings." And when finished, fly on to another such feeding ground, often a dozen miles away, and then another, possibly carrying some of the dreaded germs with them.
Some of our few surviving male chauvinists (an endangered subspecies) also take an extremely dim view of the bald eagles and their feathered world - a strange and unbelievable land where "queen size" means larger than "king size," where females completely rule the roost - and the nest - and everything else, a phenomenon made possible by their superiority in size, strength and ferocity,

OLD BALDY

The American bald eagle
Is our country's bird, although
Ben Franklin thought the turkey, wild,
Would be much more apropos.

Adult eagles are great, huge birds
Each is adorned with a clump
Of snow white feathers on the head
And on each and every rump.

Their size is quite impressive, and
They have plumage, goodness knows Like
old turkey buzzards dressed in
"Sunday-go-to-meeting" clothes.

To bird lovers, they're proud monarchs
Surveying from a tall tree"
Great untamed kingdoms as far as
Only eagles' eyes can see.

In the winter, they can be seen
On the river, now and then,
By a patch of open water
Often there'll be eight or ten.

Rural folks all know there's one place
They'll be seen flocking around
Where some farmer's spread hog droppings
On the snowy, frozen ground.

Though they're this great country's emblem
I will tell you this, for sure
Eagles look a lot less regal
When they're knee-deep in manure.

Theirs is an endangered species
Sorely threatened - yet I know
We sure didn't see this many
Baldies sixty years ago.

All-in-all, I must admit that
Eagles still give me a thrill
Whether seen out in the wild, or
On a crisp one-dollar bill.

THE SNOW DAY

2008-01-28T21:53:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite rhyming poems has always been John Greenleaf Whittier's "Snowbound." It was required reading in the old one-room country school. And we had a great teacher who was always ready and willing to explain to us anything we didn't understand. If we stumbled over words when reading aloud, she made sure we got the whole picture.
I have a copy of the long old poem somewhere in my files. One of these cold, wintry days I may try to dig it out and read it again. I liked the flowing rhyme. The story told of a rural family that was snowbound – held hostage on their farm – by a super-bad winter blizzard. It told of each of the members of the family (and several visitors) and how each reacted and what each contributed to the stranded group. Whittier had such a great way of describing things. He could paint pictures with words, and almost make us not only see, but also hear, feel and smell the inside of that farm home with its wood heat and its good food. He spoke of many things we farm kids were familiar with.
I don't know how good my memory is, or how accurate my quotes, but, as I recall, Whittier spoke of "The sun that bleak December day" as a "time-worn traveler" that eventually "sank from sight before it set." In preparation for the coming storm, the children "piled with care their nightly stack of wood against the chimney back." And he described the cold as "a chill no coat however stout, of homespun stuff, could quite shut out that dull hard bitterness of cold that checked mid-vein the circling race of life blood to the starkened face."
The visiting school teacher was described as "Stern wielder of the birchen rule, the master of the district school." But, with the family, around the fireside that night he dropped his stiff facade and became almost human. He "teased the mitten-blinded cat, played crosspins on my uncle's hat." The poem told of an unfortunate lady who "cruel fate had denied a fireside mate." Also of an uncle, a hunter and who described "How the teal and loon he shot and how the eagle's eggs he got." Yes, I will definitely have to read that great old poem again just to get the story and the quotes straight. I only hope that I can find it in the shambles I refer to as a "filing system."
Being stranded by a blizzard is not nearly as great a threat these days. Most snowplowing and sanding and salting crews do a prompt and an excellent job of making our streets and roads passable. The sudden loss of electrical power can make things a bit uncomfortable and unhandy, but here is a modern-day "Snowbound" tale of a family that doesn't have much trouble dealing with such a problem:

THE SNOW DAY

The winter day wore on so slow
We watched new, white snow drift and blow.
The wild wind played, as blizzards do,
A whistling tune up chimney flue.

We gathered 'round the hearth-fire's glow,
Safe from the outdoor wind and snow.
A quiet day for game and book;
We used the fireplace to cook

Foil-baked potatoes, steamy hot,
Coffee in an old-fashioned pot,
White popcorn mounds filled giant bowls
Sausage sputtered on glowing coals.

In darkness, at the end of day,
We watched the firelight dance and play.
The fireplace, chuckling with delight,
Taunted the cold, storm-battered night.

Time passed; we prepared to retire,
Spread sleeping bags near the warm fire.
Before we closed our eyes in sleep,
We prayed – a ritual we keep –

Counted our blessings, large and small;
Thanked each other, and God, for all
The precious gifts we have and hold...
Our shelter from life's cruel cold.