FLOODS

(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

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.

THOMAS KELLY'S GOLD

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

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.

Your Can't Go Home Again

“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.”