New Years Past

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

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

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

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.

THE PAGER

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

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

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.