Living History in the Now

Living History isn't a hobby for the faint of heart. Mama always said it was a difficult hobby because canvas is thin. She's right I think. It is one of the few hobbies that folks need to live together. I have been through my fair share of reenactment drama. It has built friendships and completely destroyed others. I have seen plenty of folks come and go, and I have learned a lot over the years. Somehow, living history has made itself a lasting part of my life as I am now the Living History Program Coordinator at a museum. That gives me a different vantage point than before and an opportunity to keep on learning!

Me at 4 yrs old - in a 
not correct for Civil 
War dress - Adorable
as it may be. 

As a kid, I ran off to play with friends I only saw a few times a year. I built endless forts in fence lines where us kids fought our own little battles. We were looking to be miniature versions of our parents I think. My folks were particularly proud of the year we build "Fort Pallet" a small stockade held together with baling twine from the hay and the pallet that the hay had been stacked on. We used hand selected pieces of firewood for tables and chairs and bared entry to those who swore allegiance to others. This was usually up for negotiation if you brought snacks. The one I remember most was on the line between civilian and Cavalry camps. In the fence line there there was a stone wall left decades before by some farmer, and we carefully arranged deadfall twigs to make walls. If you know where to look - the remnants of that one can still be found today. Meanwhile in the world of adults, every morning Pa got up and dressed before everyone else and headed off to military camp, he occasionally reappeared at lunch, we might see him ride by one one of those notorious bays on his way to tactical or battle, and then he would reappear near dark. I never gave much thought to the whole process until I was much older. 

I think when most couples begin their adventures in living history, or reenacting as is it commonly known, the gentleman imagines playing soldier, while the lady imagines strolling though the tent rows in a large hooped dress on the arm of her soldier. While the gentleman may get what he bargained for, the lady is quickly cast into a rude awakening when she doesn't see her beau for three quarters of the day. All of her crinolined dreams begin to melt in polyester puddle. As I move back into the hobby more and more, I remember the conversations mama had, and even some I have had over the years where these realities come to head for couples, and I think I will address this with a list of expectations that I have taken for granted over the years. 

1) This hobby exists to pay homage in some way, shape, or form to our forefathers and/or foremothers. Your part in that is important. 

2) Do not marginalize folks that have been in the hobby longer than you. They may not know everything, but they certainly have something to contribute to the workings of a unit, camp set up, etc. Listen, take what they have to say and choose wisely how you use it, but do your own research as well.  

3) Our foremothers said goodbye to their sons, husbands, beaus, fathers, etc for as much as four years. Makes an afternoon without your boyfriend seem rather trivial doesn't it?

4) Find your own thing. Many men choose to play soldier. Others might be more interested in being surgeon. Some might choose to be in a regimental band. Some ladies might want to be a nurse, or a sanitary commission volunteer. Maybe this means simply sitting at the table with other ladies and knitting socks. This is a recreation and homage to a time of clearly defined gender roles. Don't be mistaken that since is is the 21st century, the past is suddenly exempt from its flaws. We are trying to educate about them, but not necessarily become them.

5) Especially if your significant other is a soldier, there will be a lot of resources available for him. He will have an opportunity to use loaner clothing and equipment, but you probably won't. There are a few reasons for this. A) ladies clothing is expensive. B) ladies clothing is personal - the styles, color combos, etc. Us gals can be picky. C) ladies clothing is made up of several layers and those are fitted to the wearer. that is one wearer, not five. Bodies come in all shapes and sizes and as we have been taught from little on, there are no two the same. D) ladies often cast off garments because they are not as good of quality as they would like. We continually live and learn, and I would never feel quite right about dressing someone in clothing I personally would not wear. Expect that you will need to outfit yourself. Here are some thoughts on that:

    A) You don't need 5 dresses for a two day event. You need one. Make sure it is a good one. Historically appropriate, cotton, well made, and one you absolutely love. 

    B) While you don't need 5 dresses, you do need two chemises, 2 drawers, 3 petticoats, and one corset.  Make sure these are well made, 100% cotton items that are period appropriate. They are the very foundation you will build your wardrobe on. 

    C) Shoes - get good reproduction shoes/boots. They will last a long time, and are reparable. They may seem expensive, but you have spent money on dumber stuff I am sure, and they could take your outfit from "eh" to "ooo."

    D) You don't need a hoop - at least not right away. When you get around to it - It doesn't need to be huge. The vast majority of origiaals are 90"-110" in circumference. Any bigger is bordering on Hollywood, and that isn't the goal here. 

    E) When you can afford to add - add another set of chemise and drawers and a second day day dress. Extra items to consider would be a coat(Paletot), Sontag (Bosom Friend), Hood, and/or a wrapper. 

    F) The vast majority of events are outdoors - you will have little to no use for a ball gown or a silk dress as much as I am sure you want one. It doesn't mean it can't be on your list... it just means it can be pretty low on the list. 

6) Learn a craft. This is an expensive hobby - most are in some way shape or form. You can alleviate that if you can make some of the items yourself. Bartering is still a currency in living history If you can knit, some one might do some sewing for you in exchange for an item you can knit - plus it looks good to have handwork out at an event.  

7) Learn to research. Learn to distinguish primary and secondary sources. Read as much as you can. It is how you will know the proper things to say when speaking with the public who have not done the work they expect you to have done. Studies show that museums are more trusted than any other institution in the United States today. When you are onsite at a museum, you are part of that museums reputation and their mission to carry out to the public. Do your part. 

I take this all a lot more seriously as an adult than I did back in the "old days", but there has always been a part of me that wanted each dress I made to be increasingly better than the one before it. That has led me to some wonderful places and some irreplaceable knowledge. 

The Neighbor's Woods

Mother’s Day always puts me in mind of Schaub’s woods. The neighboring farm had a block of woods within walking distance of our farm. In the old days, and often now still farmers have a few acres of woods here and there. In days gone by it was used as a good place to make firewood. Often cows were pastured there, finding deep shade and comfort there. I found deep shade and comfort there too. I still do. Mama hikes there still.

The steers with the woods in the
background in the spring.

 I spent a lot of time in those woods as a kid. Mother’s day was was usually the first trek. By then it wasn’t as muddy, and made for good walking. Each year I went on a walk to gather wild flowers for Mama. By mother’s Day the trilliums were growing thick. I remember the first time I picked one for Mama because it was so pretty and Mama told me not to. You see, a trillium is a delicate plant that takes a long time to grow. My little brain couldn’t quite fathom how a flower that grew so thickly in our neighboring woods could be endangered. My little bouquet had all sorts of early spring gems in it; strawberry blossoms, and my personal favorite - violets! I spent the an hour in the outhouse, hiding, so I could assemble the most perfect corsage. 

My daughter on the rock.

The woods was and still is a lovely place on a summers day. It is shady and cool, and if it weren’t for the bugs, it would heaven. In heaven, I imagine there are no skeeters. The canopy didn’t let a lot of light through. It was dim, and I followed the paths left by the deer, avoiding the sharp brambles that grew on the forest floor.  I spent hours there. I built tipis and other lodges along the creek; the same creek that crossed though our own pasture. I watched the birds and the squirrels while sitting in the great oak that had been taken down in a storm. It had all sorts of comfy places to snuggle in with some snacks and a book. There was also a huge rock. The kind with the holes in it like Swiss cheese and was fun to perch on. If nature built a stage it would be that rock. It has a rugged sort of beauty folks now days would call “primitive.”

Come Christmas time, Mama hiked to the woods with her Ash splint, pack basket to gather greenery to decorate the house. The house smelled delicious after those trips. 

In the crisp cold of January, I snowshoed  or cross country skied to the woods. Sometimes I brought friends along, but often I went alone. Myself as a lost trekker in the Alaskan wilderness, that instantly disappeared as soon as my cherry nose smelled fresh ginger cake just out of the cook stove oven, and I was back in my cozy house in Wisconsin. 

In the fall, Pa and I rode our horses to the woods. Pa on one of the many bays and me on good ol’ Sam or eventually my own horse. We galloped up the hill and plodded quietly though the peaceful woods. Peaceful except when Pa left a branch swing back and hit me in the face, giggling as we do when out for a ride. We came out on the back side of the woods, further than I often went on my own, and circled back towards home. When we crested the hill. The horses chomped on their bit begging us to turn them loose for home, but we never did. Any horsemen worth his salt won't give a horse its head returning to the barn. Holding them at a walk, we plodded back into the yard. Just in time for chore time and a cup of tea.

The rainbow ending in the woods as it often did.

I truly hope these treasured little pockets of woods are something that is always there. Schaub’s woods hold a few little plants found very few other places. They are little glimpse of what was. If you look closely and listen hard you can probably still hear the people who once called the land home, or catch a glimpse of the cows that sought its cool shade in summer pasture. Little places where generations of kids got lost until suppertime and I can’t imagine the world without such places. 

The Kitchen Range and Other Warm Things

When my parents bought the palace back in 87,’ there was no central heating system. Life without central heat means a variety of things; keeping cupboard doors open to avoid frozen pipes, frost on the upper level ceilings, but also a nice place to preheat your pants before you put them on in the frosty February mornings. 

I loved reading about Laura and Mary Ingalls being shoveled out of their bed when it snowed in the Little Town on the Prairie book because it was almost the same as waking up with frost on the ceiling like I did. No matter how you stoke a stove, it usually doesn’t throw a lot of heat after not being tended most of the night. I was in about 1st grade when we finally did get central heat. My folks exclusively used that for a few years, basking the the break from chopping an hauling wood. Then one, crisp day a fire in the parlor stove was suggested and now the thermostat is really only there to prevent the pipes from freezing, or for days when there hasn’t been anyone in the house to tend the fire all day. Most cold days the stoves burn and crackle merrily, inviting us to gather round. 

Mama will tell you that the break up of the American family was not TV or video games or most of these other contraptions, though I am sure they haven’t helped. The real culprit is central heat systems. Teenagers spend much less time alone in their rooms when it is 45 degrees there. Families gather by the fire - where they won't freeze to death. There we sat. Pa in his chair with a book in his lap, maybe he is momentarily napping. Tea cup on the walnut table nearby. Mama in in her chair with her stack to books and a notebook with her cup of tea in one hand while she reads. And there is me, knees up in another chair with a book of my own, or a sewing project on my lap - turning button holes. The parlor stove has a glass window in it. Sometimes I would pretend it was a TV when I was a kid. I had all those videos of the fireplace burning way before it was cool. There is something deeply comforting about it, which is probably why they make it a setting on the TV nowadays.

Lack of central heat also means the existence of the kitchen range. The first kitchen range had belonged to me Great-Grandma on my mother’s mother’s side. Maybe even my Great-Great-Grandma since no one can remember how long it was at their farm. Grandma and her siblings broke the oven door from sitting on it on their frosty mornings in their childhood. A lovely 1930’s Kalamazoo stove that was green - little lime, little pistachio, little key lime all mixed up in the same color, with almond accents on the doors and the backsplash.  It had an oven, cooking range, water reservoir on the right end, and a warming shelf up top. 

Kitchen ranges make it easier to get out of bed for kids in the morning. If you know Mama already has a fire roaring in there you make a mad dash for the cozy kitchen and your oatmeal tastes that much better. I spent my winters before school sprinting down the freezing cold stairs and stuffing my clothes in the warming oven of the kitchen range. There is hardly a better feeling than putting on cozy warm clothes that smell like fresh baked bread, and burn your skin in places.  In the days after central heat was installed, there were days when the stove wasn’t lit yet when I got up and it was the biggest letdown ever. I dash to the kitchen and find it cold - it takes everything a girl has not to dash back to her hopefully still warm bed and try again later. It is warmer in bed - plus there are books!

The Kalamazoo fed my imagination and  childhood obsession with being Laura. Mama could scold me throughly by saying "Laura" in a certain tone that all mothers know and it worked even though my name wasn't Laura. When I was old enough to cook. I dressed in my Civil War reenacting dresses and cooked from the Laura Ingalls cook book on the kitchen range. One recipe I made was ox tail soup. The old Kalamazoo was a comfort in kitchen. My friends and I baked from the American Girl cookbooks in it and fashioned our gingerbread houses next to its warm presence.

As a child Mama and I visited many historical sites and museums over the years. Many guides had much different expectations for a kid my age. “And do you know what this is?” The kind lady asked motioning to the far right end of the old Kalamazoo kitchen range in the museum kitchen. “That’s the water reservoir.” I stated, and the kind, elderly lady was surprised. She looked at my Mama and back at me. “We have one at home,” I said, “it has water in it too.” It is perhaps one of my favorite things about being raised as I was - shocking old people with my rad knowledge of old things they don’t expect to find in a person my age.

That Kalamazoo was a good old stove, but for Mama’s 40th birthday we got a brand new, Waterford Stanley cook stove shipped all the way from Ireland and it is wonderful. While the old Kalamazoo was a good stove, but Stanley is solid cast, heats hotter, and has a real warming oven instead of a shelf. Stanley is forest green with black trim. Perfectly cozy. Mama’s first test was making tea, and if I remember right, she went from building a fire to boiling water in somewheres around 20 minutes. In the colder months, the tea kettle can be found at the back of the range waiting and ready to be pulled to the hot spot for a needed cup of tea. 

Stanley the Stove

Stanley has a cast iron, tight sealing oven. Especially when it was new. This heats far more evenly than the old Kalamazoo and it also heats much hotter. Once when baking with a friend, we left the kitchen before the last tray of cookies were out of the oven and Mama found them later in the week as charred, blobs that resembled a hockey puck more than a cookie. When she went to thrown them into into the fire, they came off as ash. No one ever smelled them though. 

In truth, I don’t know how people survive holiday meal preparations without an old style cooking range. Stanley’s warming oven is packed full while certain dishes wait for others to be ready. Pans are pushed back and forth across the top from the hot side to the cooler side as they cook. Mama has both the electric stove and Stanley blazing with all the good aromas spilling from the kitchen. The activity and stove makes it warmer and cozier than any other place in the house. Every time I walk in I thank the Lord that holidays are in the colder weather so we can all enjoy the convince and comfort of the old kitchen range. The rest of the family gathers around the parlor stove. I can’t imagine what we would do in July. Though, I suppose that is why folks grill out for the 4th of July. 

Still, a kitchen with a good, wood fired, kitchen range is homey to me. The whole kitchen seems to glow with its warm readiness. Nowadays, I always feel like something is missing in the modern kitchen. There are tasks I do where I wish I had one. Days where my modern stove stays on all day to simmer a sauce or cook down the last bit of maple syrup. Days where I wish I could just push those kettles to the back of the range and leave them there. The original “set it and forget it” cooker. I miss the beauty of sliding a pan across the stove top to find just the right spot. When the weather turns cold perhaps most of all, I miss wearing warm clothes just out of the warming oven while I drink my morning tea.

Minimalism is Lame and No One Should Do It

It has been a crazy past few weeks here, our family just having lost great friend and mentor Neil Ostberg. It causes a body to look down the road to perhaps one’s own demise and what will happen to a life’s work. 

There are plenty of things in these modern times telling us to be minimalists. It’s the “in” thing. How to downsize your closet. Never have more than thirty books. If you haven’t used it in a year - get rid of it. All of this while simultaneously selling mass consumerism - get every gadget you probably don’t need super fast by telling Alexa you need it so it appears on your doorstep the next day. 

Neil's Diagram of the Button Lathe
 that is now mine.

Neil(some of his work can be found here, Dude and Rusty and Pa make an appearance too), passed on like we all will someday. How we first met Neil is too early for my memory to know, but I do know it had something to do with Pa building his Kentucky long rifle. I can also remember snippets of conversations over various things Pa built over the years. "You should paint the Windsor chair black and then strip it." because that is the best finish for a Windsor chair apparently. "and why not cast a thousand brass tacks for this project?" I don’t really think the "how we met" is the important part of the story here. The important part is that Neil, like those in my family, was not a minimalist. Defiantly not. Upon his death, his widow and her children were left with masses of stuff to sort through and find new homes for his lifetime of collecting. A first look at the situation left me feeling sad and depressed. Staring at the tables filled with things that he had collected over the years, the stories they held, and the bizarre gadgets and tools few people would even be able to identify let alone what to do with. Old junk some might say. The second look at the situation brought opportunity. I realized how much Neil passed to Pa. The same sorts of tools, and a very similar style of building things. Two things, which I think I have always known, became glaringly obvious. One, minimalism is lame and no one should do it, and two, bizarre old junk is and will always be the foundation for creation, creativity, preservation, and most importantly, handwork.  

Here are my notes on the subject - 

Where a minimalist probably would have had a heart attack, there was a gathering of people and their minds to pour over Neil’s collection. Even in death this gathering of thoughts continued. What if the point is not the mountain of stuff he accumulated during his life, but the mountain on knowledge he accumulated? What if the point is not the buildings packed with tools, artifacts, and broken things, but instead things to be fixed and skills learned. More importantly, the people who learned so much from him over the years. What if it is the same is for you? Not the things in the back of your closet or the junk in your craft room, but the skills and knowledge you accumulate in your mind and hands- and, most importantly, can you have one without the other? I don’t think so.

We are all taught in some way or form to work. How to keep a tidy space, how get our school work done, how to apply ourselves to an extra curricular activity - but at the same time, few are taught what they are capable. How to make and create with our hands the way our foremothers and fathers did. Laura Ingalls Wilder committed her whole girlhood to stacks of legal pads with a pen, by hand, and I am reminded of my shortcomings as I type the story of mine on my MacBook. While I think we can take this all too far, I mean, Laura didn’t make her ink and use a homemade quill. Perhaps it is a bigger accomplishment, or even a bigger self satisfaction results in staring at a stack of legals pads filled with ones own story verses my product which is a one inch icon on the upper left corner of my home screen.  No matter what way the writing is done, there are still tools and a finished product in evidence. Is it really clutter?

Somewhere is the mess of consumerism and minimalism, we are loosing skills. Mama never learned to spin by throwing her spinning wheel onto the burn pile. Pa never learned anything because he owned less than 30 books. Even though progress demands that more skills be honed, it also demands that some be lost - unless we hide them away in out closets, craft rooms and workshops. Important to save because newer is not always better, and because there is always more than one way to do something and some things are just plain enjoyable. Too enjoyable to throw away. 

In my journey through the world of historical things, I settled into sewing and dressmaking as a comfortable spot. Through the years I have made many beautiful dresses and tailored items for menfolk. But! In 2019 I made my first gown entirely by hand sewing. An adventure into eighteenth century impressions, left me with the need and want to make a gown with the appropriate techniques. I began the intimidating project by investing in quality fabrics and turned out a nice gown I am rather proud of. So far- out of everything I have made, my eighteenth century clothing is that which I am most proud of because I made it with my hands. My many times great grandmothers sewed with the same techniques and stitches I hadn’t heard of because Singer made it easier, but not necessarily better. So, I relearned the stitches, and the gown is better for it. 

The recaned chair

We live in a consumer culture. You know why Facebook is filled with notes on purging our houses and becoming minimalist? Because there is no pride of ownership, or investment of self in plastic things from China and ikea furniture. Nothing is learned. The cure for a consumer culture isn’t minimalism, it is handwork and skill. Handwork is an investment in ourselves that cannot be undone. It helps us grow in ways that a big box store can’t. It gives us skills and teaches us life lessons along the way. The new dress or book shelf is really a bonus. And when I die, and my body is committed to the ground, and my stuff divided up, it is my hope that the skills are divided up too. Neil’s things are all scattered to the four winds now, but his knowledge and the things he taught everyone who crossed his path are all still here too. In some ways the non tangible things are attached to the tangible. I took an old chair, spinning wheel, and button lathe from the sale. I have re-caned the seat of the chair, oiled up the spinning wheel, and am still tackling the button lathe… learning lives in it still, even after all these years. If I hadn’t picked these things up from Neil I likely never would have tried any of these things, and I am sure I am not alone in this. 

My Son and the new/old
spinning wheel 

Given my experience and that of my family, I invite everyone - no - I challenge you all create with your hands. Make great-grandma’s pie recipe from scratch and bake it in her old pan - no premade crust, no instant pudding. Build that book shelf you always wanted, and don’t be afraid to carve those joints out by hand - our forefathers had spectacular tools for this that can still be found if you are willing to look. Sew the dress with just your needle, thread, and thimble. Will it be hard? Yup. Will you get super frustrated at some point? Also yes. Will you learn something? Absolutely. And will it become one of your most treasured things because of all of the challenges? Defiantly! 

When someone close to you passes on, take one of their torches and keep it lit. Light someone else’s torch with yours, and pass it on. Lest we forget what out hands and minds can do.  

Cabin Fever

Jack Frost paints pictures on the window panes at night until I can’t see out of them anymore. The ornate ice crystal pictures that creep up the windows are one of the things I miss now that I live in a house with new fangled, double pane windows. Pa tried to sell the old wooden windows to a window salesman on the phone once. 
“ You got any of those old time, drafty, wooden windows? No? Hmmm. I tell ya what.” I am sure the telemarketer never had a conversation like that before and probably won’t again.  

To scratch a place to look out window with my fingernail is to ruin Jack’s masterpiece, but sometimes I can’t resist holding my face close to the chilly glass and letting my breath melt away a peep hole. If I do I can see out how the drifts wash across the fields like white waves and I am imagining I am lost at sea. The wind picks ups ice crystals of snow and slows them in billowing clouds of ocean spay across the open space.  Perhaps an arctic explorer. I wouldn’t be surprised if a polar bear went strolling by. It is quite the contrast to the warm golden sea it will be in just seven short months, a lifetime away when I am looking out the window on a January morning. 

Snow gathers in drifts across the driveway at the end of the shed and the space between the house and the old wood shop.  Pa pushes it up onto piles where I pretend I am an ice queen in her castle, long before Frozen in the a glimmer in Disney’s eye. 

Winter activities include our usual barn chores. The horses come in every night, so the stalls need to be cleaned on a weekly basis. Formerly done on Saturday mornings, this task is now done as needed. 
Firewood is hauled to the house daily. And some years we spend some of the winter in the woods making firewood. Chain saws echo in the empty woods with no leaves to soften the sound. Mama and I haul wood to the truck or wagon and stack it neatly, making every trip count. 

Over the years Pa has pulled a few vehicles around in the snow. Before the days of tractors and newfangled equipment on the farm. Pa plowed snow Dude and Rusty. If it snowed while he was away at work, he pulled the two wheel drive truck into the driveway as far as he could and then walked the rest of the way to the house. After supper, he hitched the team and pulled the truck to its usual parking spot with the team and then plowed out the driveway with and old road grater. 

Winter driving in Wisconsin becomes a survival skill. In the rural country side this sometimes means knowing the roads well enough to estimate where the road is supposed to be. Pa’s parting line is “Keep it between the fenceposts” and this phrase calls to mind wind blown snowy fields that blend into the road.  If you are lucky enough to have fence posts, your chances of staying on the road and between them(Of course this phrase can also be applied to trips home from the typical Wisconsin small town on a Saturday night - and I’ll give you a clue its isn’t from the church, it’s from the only other establishment in town.). You can only keep it between the fence posts if there are fenceposts though. 

One of the best and most memorable times of putting a car in the ditch is the time Mama and I were headed to school in a near blizzard when I was in grade school. There is/was an intersection just down the road where there is nothing but fields and no road signs. Mama says to me “I think it should be about here.” Referring to the road that was neatly blended into the ocean of drifted snow across the fields. “Wrong!” She declared when our car fell through the drifts and landed in the neighbor’s hay field. “And this is why you never leave home without hats and mittens.” She reminded me. We walked home, up the hill and into the wind. School ended up being canceled early that day. It didn’t matter to me, I was snug by the fire in my little frosted, window house. Later that day Pa came home wondering why the car was sitting in an open field. Turns out over the course of the day the snow drifted away from the car and a good share of it was deposited under the hood. Pa’s plan to start it up and drive it home was foiled. Since our truck was only 2 wheel drive at the time, Pa hitched up Dude and Rusty, ground drove them down the road dragging the evener along. He and the neighbor pulled the car home with the team. The heaved over the plowed embankment with the neighbor in the car and Pa driving. Pa slipped and fell and the neighbor had a mild panic attack at the thought of being in a vehicle without steering, breaks, and limited visibility since no one really bothered to clear the windshield of more than a two inch hole, but Pa popped up again and all was well.  I couldn’t see it from my cozy spot peeping though the hole in the frosty glass at home, but I imaged Pa riding on the hood of the car like king. It probably didn’t really happen like that, but that’s how it lives in my mind. 

In my free time, which I had a lot of between school and the few chores I managed to dodge, I enjoyed snowshoeing and cross country skiing to the neighbor’s woods and back. I shared this favorite past time with a few friends. Anneke was and still is a dear friend who enjoyed a good bit of dress up and a trip down the trail. At her house we packed a neat little lunch of cheese, wholesome bread, a bit of fruit and stroopwaffels. Stroopwaffels before they were cool and found in every trendy grocery store - because she is half dutch and stroopwaffels are as loved as tulips I like to think. We would disappear for the afternoon or at least until our toes went numb. Snow blind and chilled we then baked sweet treats and brewed cocoa or tea, sang rounds at the piano, and played games. 

Indoors, tea cups warm our hands and hearts as we go through our days. In The Morning It’s Tea You Want, is the name of a fiddle tune Pa plays, but we still have it with lunch and supper too. Also for second breakfast and another means in between. Pa starts talking about lumberjacks access. The very coldest days with blowing snow that cause most folks to barricade themselves indoors, he meets with gusto because - Lumberjacks. Lumberjack weather requires vast amounts of tea and doughnuts, though the later is a treat for us. Pa comes in from the barn with his beard covered in ice and snow and cold radiates from him like a freezer. Icicles dangling from his mustache and beard. Its nothing that a cup of tea and the parlor stove can’t fix up right quick. The winter solstice activities become a nightly ritual but without the Christmas tree.

Mama and Pa always read the “Old Oak” from the Sand County Almanac on New Year’s. A careful study of the advancing of the years though the life of an old oak tree. Each ring tells a story, just like us, but perhaps keeping a better chronology of the passage of time that our jumble of memories, where no two accounts of the same event seem to be a like. The coldest days of winter seem to advance the year at a snails pace, by fall it is flying by at break neck speeds. A bit like the beginning of a snowball - it is small at first and grows quickly as it advances. The activities of the farm gather momentum as we hurtle awards spring. Seeds are ordered, Pa begins to think of planing time, and what adventures the new summer will bring. Threshing time is indeed always just around the corner no matter how blustery it is out the frozen windows. 

The Search for the Next “One”

Pa and the one and old TawnaMar

Most horse folks have heard of what is sometimes called the “heart horse.” For those who haven’t, it is “the one.” The one that is not only a joy to ride but a once in a lifetime horse. The one that crosses mountains for you and with you. There isn’t any other way to explain it. The horse that is “the one” is more of a feeling than a tangible thing you can identify. Usually a first horse, that horse is a partner like no other. Some have it, some long for it, and some had it once before and keep looking for it.

For Pa, that horse was TawnaMar. A buckskin quarter horse who ran races, carried Pa through battle at numerous Civil War events, and crossed mountains for him (more figuratively than literally, this is Wisconsin after all). Pa rode her though gravel pits, the up the trails at Wild Cat Mountain, and on many adventures with the old Civil War group. She was a sweet looking buckskin quarter horse with sandy muzzle, and she’s always throwing her head in the air in every photo because she wanted to go! Tawna was the fastest horse Pa ever owned and I think that was one of his favorite things about her, but there was more too. In the years when Pa was just out of high school, he spent a lot of time in the saddle and put on miles and miles and miles. Trail rides with friends included races and cracking cold ones under a shade tree on a rest stop along the way. The ladies who worked at the local A&W even kept carrots for the horses by the drive though window anticipating visits from Tawna and friends. Only the best horses can be trusted to silly business such as riding around the pasture seated astride, bareback, and backwards. And Tawna did all of this and more.

Tawna and Pa pulling up to round the judge 
during the Great Race

When out for a ride on Pa's regular route he would come to an open grassy stretch and he would ask her for a good gallop. Horses are smart, routine driven animals, and pick up on routines easily. After a few rides with this pattern Tawna began to prance in anticipation of what was probably her favorite part of the ride. Once after a long time of this routine when Pa finally let her go, Tawna lept into a gallop at a speed that likely would have won the Kentucky Derby. After that, Pa knew what it was like to fly. Fly - in a way that a horse will only do for you if they are very comfortable with you. Once in what I always hear referred to as the “Great Race” (I’m not sure how great its was since no one outside those that were there seem to know what it is) Tawna flew across the fields as if she had wings. This race was just two friends at a Civil War event. One boasted that his horse was fast and Pa noted that he doubted Tawna could be beat, so a race was called. Both reenactors and public spectators gathered to see which solider had the better horse. They were to race down the field turn around a judge positioned at the opposite end of the field and race back. The pistol sounded and Tawna was off like a rocket. Down the field she went, around the judge, and across the finish line. Meanwhile the other fellow raced down the field, missed the turn and landed himself in a trees in the fence line behind the judge. His horse came out of the shrubbery and finished the race without his rider. Pa was oblivious to most of this since he had made the turn well ahead of his opponent. Tawna won the race easily, with or without the other horse missing the turn. 

Mama says, “Tawna was not just a horse, she was Tawna.” And Mama is not a horse person in the same way that Pa and I are. Tawna colicked and passed on to greener pastures when I was a baby and my childhood memories of saddle horses are filled with quest for the next “one.” I wish I could have known her. Though Tawna was a buckskin, the search lead to a long line of mostly bay geldings, and they all sort of blend together in my head. 

Pixie was pretty chestnut mare ahead of my memory, but she is mainly remembered for being a pain in the butt, and her purchase a mistake. Judging by the short, home video of attempting to load her in the trailer to bring her home - that analysis seems accurate. I hope she found her person.

Pa and Scooper

Pa and Scooper

There was Scooper, whom some called Sunny. I only remember him as Scooper though. Pa rode at plenty of events and around the farm. Scooper was a gem of a horse. He might have been pretty near to the next “one.” I don’t remember a whole lot about him either, except that he eventually developed a bad cough. He coughed mostly in the winter when the horses spent time in the barn because of the cold and inclement weather. He was back to his usual self in the summer. Perhaps he had some sort of Asthma. The vet recommended he go somewhere cleaner, and was sold to an owner who had a newer, cleaner, barn. No matter how clean our old barn might be it is still a dusty, old barn. A short time later, Scooper ran away from his new home. He was found trotting down the road a few days later. Some thought he was trying to come home to us. 

Then there was Dimond, a lanky, bay Standardbred. Dimond is perhaps the most memorable for me and probably my favorite because he was also a buggy horse. The existence of Dimond on the farmstead meant Sunday afternoon drives. Trotting along down the road, Dimond clip-clopped along at a brisk trot, buggy sailing along gracefully behind with the steel tire rims creating a steady sound on the pavement and leaving a narrow calk line on the road behind us. This was a good time, and we had some nice rides with family and friends. We took him to a wagon train once, in our heads we envisioned clipping along with the rest of them but that was not how it turned out. We took up our usual place towards the end of the long line of horses and wagons plodding along down the road and Dimond began to put up a fight. Dear Mama was sitting on the floor of the buggy. Having had less than stellar experiences with buggies taking unplanned departures from the road she thought that was the best place to be. Eventually, we got to a place where the rest of the train was out of sight and he calmed down and went back to his usual self. We picked up a trot and caught up the rest of the group and Dimond when back to fighting. We repeated the cycle all day. The tattoo in his lip predicted this behavior. He was an off the track racehorse and being at the back of the pack just wasn’t his style, but it was Pa’s style. Dimond was eventually sold to a friend - he just wasn’t the one.

Somewhere in the line is a bay gelding named Banner. No one remembers much about him. In terms of leaving hoof prints on our hearts and memories, he comes up short. He was bay, and he wasn’t the “one,” and that’s all we need to know for now.

Standing on Smokey Joe

Smokey Joe was slower than dirt. He was a stocky, bay quarter horse that was advertised as former ranch horse, retired because he was too slow with poor stable manners. Turns out he had terrible manners. He bit, laid down on Pa a few times when he was riding, and he bucked. For Pa, these things added to his charm. Pa worked with him on these issues. He sat on his back in the slip stall and rubbed him all over. Smokey couldn’t bite him, and he learned to tolerate it, though he always pinned his ears in the stall pretty much until the day he died. Pa thought, and continues to think all of Smokey’s flaws and antics were, and still are nothing short of hilarious. A few of his first rides in his new home, Smokey laid down. Dad thought it was laughable, but the situation was remedied because he only pulled that a few times. He also wasn’t particularly fond of cantering. It seemed sometimes that he almost forgot how. The first canter of the day he would always, without fail, buck. After a few tries he would get the hang of it and there weren’t any issues the rest of the day. On long trail rides, Smokey Joe brought up the rear. Pa could stand on him just for giggles.  Smokey Joe was the next “one.” When he died, he was not replaced. 

Pa on Smokey and I on my mare Bacardi 
before one of Smokey's last rides

I, on the other hand, never had a great relationship with Smokey Joe. Sometimes when I rode him I couldn’t even get him to move. I never was particularly great at staying on him when he got the hang of his canter for the day, and he just wasn’t my favorite. For me, he even died at a poor time, just a few short months after I got my first horse of my very own. There hasn’t been a trail ride with Pa since. I like to think that someday there will be another “one.” Horses come and go, that’s the trouble with falling in love with animals with a shorter life expectancy than us. They trot into our lives and leave us with memories and stories that you would never get otherwise. Honest, I’ve never heard of an ATV with and attitude like Smokey Joe’s.

Corn Harvest

 Corn has never been my favorite crop. It seemed like every year Pa had a different method for harvesting corn. One year we binded and shocked it all, another we might pick all the cobs by hand or another year we would have the neighbor pick it with a corn picker. The possibilities are endless really. Some of these methods are more enjoyable than others.

The thing I remember the most about binding corn is the knotter malfunctioning. Knotters are fascinating bits of technology that require things to move seamlessly, which it often doesn’t. One of the years we hand corn bundles we built shocks, and they stood in the field all winter.  That wasn’t so bad for me. Pa ran through the feed cutter a few at a time most of the winter for cattle and pig feed. Corn shocks are built around a wood frame that would then be slipped out after the shock is complete. They don’t shed water quite like a barley shock, but they keep. See, and that is one of the great things about open pollinated corn.

 Seed corn cobs drying

Open pollinated varieties allow you to save seed and replant year after year. Mama and Pa both can list you a few advantages. One of the biggest ones in saving seed year after year. Another is livestock will eat it all without the fermentation of silage. Its stalk is more tender than modern varieties. This causes you to loose more bushels to the acre because the rows are further apart, not because it doesn’t grow as well. Mama would list red cobs as an advantage too. The old tradition of the husking bee has always said that if you husk out a red cob you get to kiss someone, sweet-heart, spouse, crush, what have you. Red cobs can be quite common in an open pollinated field. Mama insists on saving a few red cobs for seed along with Pa’s selections of the best quality, most uniform cobs. My twelve year old self failed to see the value in the red cob (Cue the embarrassed kid eye-roll).

Open pollintated corn cobs

One year our method of harvest was walking down the rows pulling cob off, husking them off, and then tossing them in the wagon. No matter which job you have it can be incredibly boring. Pa always worked the fastest, hands flying and the cobs making a rhythmic thud as they hit the back boards on the wagon. One year harvesting by this method, I got designated to drive the team. “Drive” is a relative term here. It was more like being a hitching post every five feet, Pull ahead five feet, stop for ten minutes, repeat. Pa informed me it was “great fun” and “quality family time.” I think I would have preferred a wagon ride that went more than a few feet without stopping, didn’t involve corn silk, and maybe included some cheese-its or skittles - but that is just my personal opinion. 

Most often these days, we pick a pail full for the pigs every evening. Whatever corn is left standing in the field before the snow flies it is put in the corn crib. Even through there is a saw mill standing where the old corn crib was, Pa built a little, wooden one next to the barn. It is a great deal smaller than the old one, but is exactly what is needed.

Corn stalks and stubble can make a mess of fall plowing, but Pa has this nifty way of just bending over the stalks as he picks along the rows. When he plows them under he drags a wire and all the stalks get tucked away under the sod, neat and tidy, ready for another year’s adventures. Fall plowing is the last of the field work for the year. The land will rest all winter long getting ready for the spring planting, because just as Pa says “threshing time is just around the corner!”