in the cold

Today the temp is darn near up to 20 degrees, which feels pretty good after the -10 and -16 we had over the past few days.  Stan and Merrilee, eat your hearts out!

Now that my brain is thawed out a little bit I thought I might come up with a story about the cold but fortunately didn't have too many.  Until I think about it.

Our farm house had an oil-burning space heater as the primary source of heat, and a small kitchen stove that was used to burn paper and some scraps, and in the cold of winter, pieces of wood or coal when we had it. When Mom got up she would close off the two doors that go into the kitchen and crank up that stove so one room would be nicely heated.  And it was.

Dad was the first one up, Mom shortly after, and I was next.  By the time I got my lazy bones rolling it didn't take long to dress because it was colder than blazes in our upstairs bedrooms.  In those days there was absolutely no insulation, and though we had at least some storm windows that would replace the screens, we still had a lot of hoar frost on the windows, or enough thin frost that you could write on it with your fingernails.  That meant the bedroom was cold . . .

Once dressed I would race to the barn where it would be so much warmer.  In the winter we housed 21 milking cows, 10 or 12 heifers, and 15 or 20 calves, all providing a heat source, putting enough moisture in the air that we ran a humidistat-controlled fan to get rid of some of it.  And in between duties it felt good to lean up against one of the cows because they were good and warm.

Talk about  hoarfrost on the windows - much was written on them, which only served to make my hands colder than they were.  Seems like all winter long my hands were rough and chapped because of that hoarfrost and the primary assignment of "washing" the cows.  The hands were never dry. I shake my head when I watch them milk the cows over at the Minnesota Zoo.  Something is not right about the automation.  Or the carousel platforms apparently in use in warmer states.

Could have been worse, I suppose.  Dad milked 10 or 12 cows when he started farming, all by hand.  Until he decided he should have more cows and less work so he bought a milking system.  My grandpa milked four cows every day as long as he lived, I think.  I don't know how you do that and sure wouldn't want to start today, but then again if you've done it forever I suppose your body is used to it.  Regardless the weather.  Just seems like a waste of time, and extraordinarily difficult with arthritis in the hands.

It might be easier to farm in the winter today with better equipment, insulation, and an elevated technology, but it was a pain 50 years ago because cold is devastating.  Water pipes break, handling anything is dangerous because of the heavy clothing you're wearing, tractors don't want to start - And we call this fond memories?

another cheesy story

They're the official curds of the Minnesota Twins.  And now we discover they're also the curds featured at the Minnesota State fair.

It's official:  Minnesota State Fair's Cheese Curds are from . . . Wisconsin!  Be sure to watch the video.

My contribution to the gathering for Project McNamara on July 5 was a couple of these one-pound packages, fresh from the factory.  It's a 50-mile drive round-trip but well worth it to say they are "direct from the factory."  And it's pretty amazing that they have found a way to keep that creamery hopping over all these years, although the land throughout the area is more suited for dairy than crops, given the hills and woods throughout.

Makes for an enticing motorcycle ride for some, and a place of employment for many others including a "spokesperson" for the creamery, something pretty far-fetched for the creameries supported by 200-acre dairy farms, such as they were in our era. The Farm Boy's wife Shirley could tell you even more about that part of the world.

I couldn't recall that we ever sold milk to the creamery in Northwood, and discovered why we had not when I found this report on the creamery online.  Apparently it had discontinued operation in 1951and to be honest I don't even know where this building is located.

Family connections meant the creamery at Deer Creek Valley was more familiar.  My dad worked here for a time after he and mom were married, and it was about a mile or less from this creamery to the farm of my grandfather's.  Since he milked a few cows (by hand up into his 70s) and had milk to sell, this is where it went.  I went there often enough as a youngster to remember the smell, which was pretty much that of spilt milk a few days later.  At Ellsworth you don't notice that.

Perhaps they made cheese curds at Deer Creek, I don't know.  I do remember whey, a by-product of the processing, consumed by pigs and probably a few cats, and more importantly, I remember the Deer Creek Store located just across the street.  It was worth behaving yourself to have a chance to go along to the creamery, because that improved your chances of a candy purchase across the street.

A sign is posted at the store location now and that's all that's left unless you poke around the premises and find the original foundation that remains in some places.  The sign says the store was built in 1895 by Mr. Blecksrud, and in addition to the groceries up front, the rear of the store was once a tin shop/hardware store, and a community hall was upstairs.

Now there's nothing left on this plot along the state line but memories and the remnants of the cheese factory, shown here when my brother Kevin and I were on tour a year ago.  Only progressive factories with their own spokesperson can make the grade anymore.

Kevin snooping around the remnants of the Deer Creek Valley Creamery

a visit to Birchwood

A couple weeks ago I had my first visit with Dan Sorenson, the author of Snapshots of an Iowa Farm Boy.  I may have mentioned I expected to be there for 10 or 15 minutes, but Dan keeps time by not watching the clock, so it was two hours later that I left.  After viewing his collection of restored Case Tractors.

This is only one wall of his office showing some of his models, nearly all Case tractors, but it tells much about him, and the "tree" bottom left shows his commitment to genealogy, home, and family.  On another wall I saw the needlepoint referenced in an earlier post, "What's Time to a Pig?"

He pointed me to a chair to sit in that I later discovered had been his grandfather's.  "When we moved it here from St Paul we set it down and it fell apart!"  Since reassembled, he also recovered it, and I discovered it was a pretty comfortable sit, a kind of a recliner because the seat would slide forward, the back slide down, with support from a lumbar and head rest.

Our conversation started with a quick recognition of the book that brought me to see him, and he quickly turned to his first book, You Thought Like a Man.  He pulled it off a shelf and apologized for having only two copies left, and now it's out of print.  The title, he said, came from an experience he had at age 10.

He was pulling a disc behind a tractor and came to a swampy mudhole that needed to be crossed, but he knew he could not drive right through it.  So he unhooked the disc, hooked a log chain to it and the other end to his tractor, drove the tractor to the other side, then pulled the disc through separately.  When he got home he said his dad complimented him by saying, "You thought like a man."

"I was always proud of that," he said.  "What higher compliment could I ever receive?  And I've never forgotten it."

Dan has an incredible memory.  I remarked on the detail in his book, and  how many of my classmates tell me they don't recall some of the things described in this blog.  That prompted him to speak of the ladies aid church suppers he described in his book.  He remembers them like they happened yesterday, how the older women lined up along the walls of the church basement waiting for someone to take them home, the men out having their smoke, the orderliness that comes from years of practice.  And I think he expects the rest of us would have the same memory.

Their home is a log cabin in the small village of Edgewater on Big Chetac Lake, a vacation area that hosts a couple resorts, the Chit Chat bar and grill, the Edgewater Store, and a handful of homes.  Dan and Shirley live on the abandoned railroad right of way for the Blueberry Line, opened in 1893 and discontinued in use somewhere around 2000.  The railroad ran from Rice Lake to Menomonie and is featured in this Youtube.

Because it's a railway, the Sorenson 10-acre property is long and narrow, 300 feet wide and I forget how long, but 10 acres at 300 feet wide tells you it's a matter of miles.  As Dan walked me out to my car he was eager to show me a copse of trees where the local depot once stood, the framework for the old windmill the fan for which was sold and carried away some time ago, and the bed of the rail line itself, which he faithfully mows.  "You can feel the railroad ties as you bounce along on your mower."

The couple is quite comfortable in retirement after years as teacher/counselor and baseball coach in his case. He clearly loved the coaching, and lays claim to having had two of his players reach the big leagues.  Though he didn't mention the name, he did say that one of them will probably make it to the Hall of Fame.  "But I had some losers, too," he laughed.  "A murderer and a few other troublemakers.  We still get the Pioneer Press (the St Paul paper) up here, and for years Shirley and I would go through the police report to check on our former students."

I understood that.  Lonna still goes through that section of the local paper to check on her former students from her Behavior Disorder class.  The closest I ever got to recognition in this way was going through a red light in Mason City, duly reported in the Globe-Gazette and gifted to me by Mildred Hendrickson. A memorable detail, I guess. And those who climbed the water tower back then never got caught and thus listed.  I guess.

Perhaps this weekend, Labor Day, I'll have a chance to visit with Dan again.  He's a dandy.

The Farm Boy's Wife

In my visit with the Farm Boy we were joined by his wife Shirley, and she added much to the conversation.  She grew up near the Twin Cities, midway between Red Wing, MN, and Ellsworth, WI, where she attended high school.

(As an aside, you need to know that Ellsworth is the home of the Ellsworth Creamery, where the very finest cheese curds in the world are produced.  If you're ever in the area about 45 miles southeast of the Twin Cities some morning, stop at the creamery to buy the curds that are produced that day.  They will still be warm, and will squeak like crazy if you eat them as you continue on your way.  They're so good they're the official cheese curd of the Minnesota Twins!)


Returning to the story - Dan and Shirley met at Luther College.  She sang in the Nordic Choir and became a music teacher in the Twin Cities while Dan was a counselor in the same St Paul School system.  And when I mentioned my grandson is now having his final audition for the Nordic Choir, she grabbed pen and pencil and asked his name.

"Bryan," I said.  "And what's his last name," she asked.  I told her, not really understanding why she wanted to know, until it dawned on me that she would look his name up on the program when they went to Nordic Fest this year.  Luther Blue is apparently thicker than water.

Shirley knows of Lowell Gangstad, but since he was an upperclassman.he probably would not know her.  Or maybe he would . . .

As she has done throughout her career, Shirley continues to give voice and piano lessons, and I suspect the Birchwood, WI, area is blessed by her ability.  She laughed with pride as she told about some of her students, like the 60-year-old man who wanted voice lessons, the 65-year-old man who took piano lessons from her, and her very favorite - a 95-year-old woman who took piano lessons.

She was very proud of her oldest student, a woman who had considerable music knowledge and experience singing, but had never taken piano lessons as a youngster for lack of piano and money to buy the lessons.  When the woman mentioned she would have loved to have done so, Shirley offered - several times.  But the woman turned her down, until another lady mentioned to Shirley that the woman just didn't want anyone to know she was doing it, thinking some may make fun of her.

So Shirley suggested they do it quietly, privately, without telling anyone, and immediately the woman agreed. "She was excellent.  I knew she knew music, and sure enough by the third lesson she was playing music."  The lessons continued for a year until the woman was no longer able.  She lived to age 99 and Shirley sang at her funeral.

Shirley is a real gift to Birchwood, and I look forward to visiting with her and Dan in the near future.  Some people just bring a lot to the table.

What's Time to a Pig?

The Iowa Farm Boy is of the age of 'CCO, the iconic Twin Cities radio station that is as blue collar Norwegian as you can get, and no doubt you have personally listened to it at one time or another.  Dan Sorenson can cite the names of all the announcers and what time of the day they were on the air, just like most folks of his age.

One Christmas back in the 70s we were gathered with Lonna's family in Lake Mills and a storm of some sort was brewing.  Her older brother, who then was living in Golden Valley, had some concern for being able to travel  home in that weather, and determined the best way to get weather news was by pulling in a scratchy, barely audible report from 830-WCCO, 125 miles away.

Personally I thought it was a bit bizarre since the weather information all came from the same place and could have been more easily understood by listening to a station in Mason City or Albert Lea, but you get the point about the sanctity of 'CCO.

In his book, the Farm Boy tells about the WCCO announcer who one morning shared the story that became legend in Dan's family and at work.  Seems a farmer had a pig that became fond of apples, and soon cleaned up everything under the tree.  Then he took to running and jumping at the low-hanging apples, reached all he could, and further modified his strategy to climb the tree part-way with his front legs until that supply was also diminished.

Being a helpful fellow and knowing the nutritional value of the apples, the farmer began helping out by grabbing the pig around the waist (if there is such a thing) to hold him up to the tree branches.  A neighbor happened to see this, so made it a point to go to the mailbox one day as the farmer headed out to get his mail,  to get the story behind it.

"Well, the pig likes apples and I thought I'd help him out," was the reply.

"But doesn't that take a lot of time?"

The farmer thought for a moment and said, "But what's time to a pig?"

This is a very condensed version of the story on pp. 171-172 of the book, but you get the point.  I laughed with Dan about the story on my recent visit as we recounted the numerous times that the home office or district office would send out information requests that were basically a waste of time, and I have seen but did not photograph, unfortunately, the needlepoint that Dan's daughter did in honor of this story.  It hangs on the wall in his office, iconic in its own right.

When it hung on the wall of his counselor's office he was often asked to explain it, and puzzled people would turn and walk out after hearing it.  Then, sooner or later, they would pop back into his office, point at the needlepoint, nod their head, and walk away chuckling.  They understood.

The Norwegian Lutheran Iowa Farm Boy

Long ago I mentioned I would stop to see the Norwegian Lutheran Iowa Farm Boy the next time I went to Birchwood, and this week I got the job done.  Dan Sorenson, author of Snapshots of an Iowa Farm Boy, was home when I knocked on his door.

Well, truth is it was his wife Shirley who answered the door, since Dan was at a doctor appointment, but they welcomed me back later when he had returned home, and like true Norwegians, didn't have the heart to kick me out once I got there.  My thought was to spend perhaps 15 or 20 minutes and then come back another time, but soon enough I had been there for an hour, thought it was probably time to take my leave, but was told in very friendly tones that there was nothing on their schedule so I should stay.

I did.  For another hour, finishing with a trip to the shed where Dan stores his six or so antique Case tractors.  "I have one more to get," he said, "and then I will have one each of every tractor my dad ever owned."

You'll notice the model tractor sitting on the desk in the photo (click to enlarge it), just above his right hand.  The one with the red wheels.  It's a model of a steel-wheeled tractor that Dan drove as a youngster, I believe the first he drove.  "When you took it on a gravel road, it was awfully rough to ride on," he said.

As our conversation turned to the several model tractors lining his office, some of them visible here, I mentioned the Allis-Chalmers WD-45 that we owned, and it was then that Dan knew I, too, was a farm boy, since I referenced the model number, as a true tractor man would do.  He almost jumped out of his chair to tell me that.

There is much to share with you from those two hours, but it's going to be another day.  After being gone for a week, I need to get back into the writing mood.  Who knows when...

Post-Reunion Huzzah!

We're back home again following four days of 50th Class Reunion activities, and found this YouTube had been forwarded to me by my daughter, whose husband is farming not far from us.  The whole story can be found at this Yahoo page by clicking this link . . .  Seems very appropriate for us Iowa farm kids.  They call it a parody music video promoting agriculture, and it is.

Coming soon - some reflections on the great week back in Iowa, where the tall corn grows!

Hot Coffee - a Cool-down

I just returned from a bike ride on a beautiful day, 64 degrees outside.  Still, I got a bit warm, and the coffeepot was still hot when I got home, and that reminds me of the general rule of thumb that Dad used:  coffee is good for cooling down.

Huh?

There were so many hot days when we'd be baling hay and Dad and my uncles would have their mid-day refreshment of a piece of cake, cookies, perhaps some Norwegian delicacy - and coffee.  And they all swore that coffee was an effective coolant.  Even though it flies in the face of logic and science, coffee seemed to be just their ticket.

And they weren't the only ones.  The corners of my mouth had to turn up as I was reading the stories of the Norwegian Lutheran Farm Boy, who reported the very same thing.

The old Norwegians I worked with believed hot coffee was a great coolant and seemed to drink gallons of it in the summer.  The hired man of our neighbor really gave me a good tongue lashing for putting ice in the water jug, which I had brought out to the hay workers.  He made me put the jug, without the cover on it, out in the sun so the water could warm up.  No one was going to drink cold water when he was around and get sick on him so he would have to do all the work.  I can still hear him talking to himself the rest of the afternoon about "dumb kids nowadays."

Some years later I decided that beer was a much better coolant, and it certainly enhanced the esprit de corps, not to mention fueled the imagination of a group of twenty-somethings.  Now that I'm old enough to know that water is the true hydration system I also am inclined to avoid the situation for which it is well suited.

Unlike the practice of ample hydration followed by today's athlete, all through high school we were charged with "making ourselves tough" by not having ANY water during football practice.  On more than one occasion that theory made me sick when I gorged on the water we were allowed to have once practice was completed.

I just wonder - do those Norwegian farmers still "cool" themselves with coffee today?

The Norwegian Lutheran Iowa Farm Boy

Technically, that could be me in the title, but for the purpose of this post, it's not.  It's a take-off on Snapshots of an Iowa Farm Boy, or Growing up Norwegian Lutheran in the Heartland, by Daniel E Sorenson.

Sorenson grew up in Lyon County in Northwest Iowa, graduated Luther College 1958, spent 30 years as a counselor in the St Paul, MN, school system, then retired to a log cabin in Edgewater, WI, home to the Edgewater Store (beer, groceries, bait, coffee with table, the Pioneer Press, and 2 gas pumps), a resort, campground, a few houses, and the ChitChat Bar 'n Grill.  (What's a small Wisconsin town without a tavern?  A travesty, that's what!)

Edgewater is located on the north end of Big Chetac Lake,  a panfish paradise.  Edgewater is also about 1.5 miles from my daughter's cabin, so we've had occasion to visit this metropolis from time to time, though never at the home of Mr. Sorenson.

Marni bought the book for her personal reading, then husband Brad noticed the puppy dog look on my face so he picked one up for my personal library.  Nice move,  young man.

The title of the first chapter is "Well, For Crying in the Beer!"  I remembered hearing that, a memory that came from years ago, with my mother's laughter attached to it.  Understanding the connection was beyond me then and remains there today.  It's like his reference to "Judas Priest" that my mother would NEVER have said since that presumably mild epithet is beyond the pale for her even if Sorenson cited it as the pet phrase of his father.

It was his Uncle Herb who would bellow about the beer.  "On those occasions when we just didn't make any progress repairing a machine, he would stop as if challenging the gods in the sky and bellow the phrase we loved to hear.  Coming from him you could almost know he was thinking the worst swear word back in his brain, just like we were doing."

OK, so my mother would not have been thinking swear words; for her it was more the "can you believe that?" phraseology with a twist of sin added to it.  Remember, swearing was taboo.  And when Sorenson wrote of a neighbor's pet phrase, I was a bit dumb-founded because I know it's one I've heard, haven't heard in years, was always tied to a laughter of frustration, and normally came from my mother: "I get so mad I could cry!"  Or perhaps she said, "I get so mad I could just spit!"

Whatever.  Must be pure Norwegian Lutheran: don't swear, just say something with an absurd juxtaposition of human emotions, and you will pass any call to censorship.  We knew how to set that bar, eh?

To learn more about Sorenson, keep reading this blog because we all have much in common, Sorenson and I that is, or go to the New Century Press website, where I'm sure you can get a book, or write to Sorenson himself:

D. E. Sorenson
3015 N County Rd F
Birchwood, WI  54817

The book is $13 with shipping.  Next time I go to Birchwood I plan to stop to visit.  He has far greater recall of things we all thought unimportant at the time than you and I will ever have.