October Transitions

COVID 19 cases and deaths continue to rise in Wisconsin.  Fall edges into winter and the presidential election looms just over the horizon.  I offer this poem for your reflection during this time of heightened uncertainty and transition. May it lighten any burdens that we carry.

AND THE PEOPLE STAYED HOME [Kitty O’Meara]

And the people stayed home. And read books, and

Listened, and rested, and exercised, and made art,
And played games, and learned new ways of being,
And were still. And listened more deeply. Some
Meditated, some prayed, some danced. Some met
Their shadows. And the people began to think
Differently.

And the people healed. And, in the absence of people living

In ignorant, dangerous, mindless, and heartless
Ways, the earth began to heal.

And when the danger passed, and the people joined

Together again, they grieved their losses, and made
New choices, and dreamed new images, and created
New ways to live and heal the earth fully, as they had

Been healed.

May the promise of this poem become a reality. Meanwhile, a cold and cloudy day has replaced the steady rain of the last two days. Snow is in the forecast. The warm days of early October are just a memory.

The eleventh season of caring for the Prospect Gardens has ended. A few days ago while autumnal (love this word) warmth was still with us, Ann and I once again put up the protective orange snow fences.  

The fences are showing their age battered by past winter winds and the forces of the snow plows. I considered asking the city for replacements, but like this aging body, I decided that they could withstand whatever lies ahead for another year.

Thanks Joyce for clearing out this area and preparing it for the winter. The cherry tree in the background is diseased and next spring will be removed. Not using chemical sprays may be a contributing factor. Over the years passersby and the birds have enjoyed the cherries. 

A few months ago Ann N. offered columbine from her nearby home. She gave me a shopping bag full of dried plants which yielded nearly a third of a cup of tiny black seeds. The seeds were in the refrigerator for about a month, mimicking winter, before I spread them. 

Ann N. also donated a few bleeding hearts roots which she and I planted while being fully masked.  Planting them indicates my belief that we will heal and the blooms will grace future springs. "God willing", as my mother would say. 

Another neighbor, Aileen, gave spider wort seeds which I also casted across the Gardens.  Here they are in a shopping bag. Thanks Ann N. and Aileen.

This stump marks transition and time passing. Eleven years ago the stump was deeply anchored into the earth and impossible to move. Earlier this month the stump easily gave way as I prepared a section of the Garden for purple cones flowers donated by Laura R., another neighbor. Thanks Laura.

The stump also reminds me that while we lovingly care for the Gardens the earth has its say as to what survives.  Another neighbor, Kate, posts poems on a pedestal in her front yard. Here's one that reminds us about the importance and spiritual significance of dirt. Thanks Kate.

“Ode to Dirt” by Sharon Olds (born 1942)

Dear dirt, I am sorry I slighted you,
I thought that you were only the background
for the leading characters—the plants
and animals and human animals.
It’s as if I had loved only the stars
and not the sky which gave them space
in which to shine.  Subtle, various,
sensitive, you are the skin of our terrain,
you’re our democracy.  When I understood
I had never honored you as a living
equal, I was ashamed of myself,
as if I had not recognized
a character who looked so different from me,
but now I can see us all, made of the
same basic materials—
cousins of that first exploding from nothing—
in our intricate equation together.  O dirt,
help us find ways to serve your life,
you who have brought us forth, and fed us,
and who at the end will take us in
and rotate with us, and wobble, and orbit.

I never have slighted dirt or underestimated the importance of dirt, because in part, of being raised on a farm. My farm experiences, while difficult at times, have left a residue of respect for the earth. Caring for Prospect Gardens also is a lesson in the importance of soil. For example, the soil of one section is heavily mixed with cinder and ash dumped before the path was opened. This poor quality soil has hindered plant growth. Also, planting among the rocks required us to haul in dirt as we carved out beds among the rocks.  

Aging has meant a greater appreciation of Sharon Olds final admonition that at the end of life earth " will take us in and rotate with us, and wobble, and orbit." A pleasant thought to contemplate as the grasses of Prospect Gardens, pictured here, wait for the upcoming winter. 

Paradoxically, these few daisies, continue to thrive.  A fly is resting on the flower in the right side of the picture and I imagine it's enjoying the pollen. Somehow seeds found their way to this spot outside of the Gardens, but near the Regent entrance and are defying time. In early spring, daisies are plentiful. These daisies will surely feel the effects of this upcoming weekend's predicted frost.  Hopefully, daisies will reappear in this spot during the next spring.  I will watch for them.

Here's another late October survivor: the hardy saw tooth daisy. They spread easily. I planted one clump in Prospect Gardens ten years ago. During this last month, we thinned out and removed these plants while preparing the Gardens for the winter. A few years ago, I moved a clump to an area near the next set of bike ramps east of Prospect Gardens. The clump of saw tooth daisies is now a large patch and some have spread even further east. 

This month of caring for Prospect Gardens reminds me of Autumn on my family farm; another time of transition. In a normal year harvesting would be just about done. The granary with its beautiful wood floor is full of oats. The loft in the gable roof barn is full of hay and the silo is filled to the top with chopped corn referred to as silage. The cows are kept in the barn and fed daily.

Perhaps some corn is being harvested for grain. Harvesting the cobs of ripened corn involved walking between the rows of corn, breaking off each ear by hand and throwing the cobs into an adjoining wagon driven by a younger brother.  We made our way to the corn crib once the wagon was filled with cobs.  We shoveled the cobs into a machine with rollers that removed the husk and an elevator took the cleaned ears into the crib. During the winter they would be ground into cattle feed.

This is the same crib in which my sister Angie and I played house during the summer months and when we were young children unable to do farm work. We made "furnishings" from boards and cardboard boxes. This was a precious and short time period before joining the family workforce. 

Wood was made before heavy snowfall. My older brother John loved "making wood." I recall working with him on a chilly cloudy day when I was about eleven years old. 

John pulled a saw rig like this one out from the machine shed. The blacksmith, located a few miles from the farm, had already sharpened the teeth of the round large blade. Each tooth was now razor sharp. We hauled the rig to the neighbor's woodlot. A pulley on the tractor with a belt connected to the saw's blade caused it to whirl at an amazing speed.

Trunks of dead trees were stacked on a pile. Sometimes John and I would cut down a dead tree using a crosscut saw, with him at one end and I at the other, pulling back and forth until the tree dropped. When ready, John placed a log on the wood platform, leaned into the platform which pushed the log into the whirling, whistling blade.  Meanwhile, with great caution and high alertness, I held the other end as the noisy saw sliced off a piece of wood about a foot or so in the length.  I can still hear the whirling piercing sound of steel against wood that could be heard for miles.

Here's John decades later riding his antique tractor in Pulaski's Polka Days parade that happens annually near my July birthday. Thousands from throughout the Midwest travel to the village for four days of polka music, dancing and Polish food such as Kielbasa (Polish sausage).  This year's 42nd festival was cancelled because of COVID. In 2019, several Polka bands, including one from Poland, played as people danced the polka, the official dance of Wisconsin. I have never attended the festival, but danced the polka at my three sisters' large weddings. 

John was an antique picker who often purchased his collections at auctions and sold many items to antique dealers. His barn near Bonduel, west of Pulaski, was crammed with old tools, lamps, appliances, farming equipment and other items.  

John loved discussing politics and he strongly favored Democrats. This election would be of intense interest to John if he still was alive. John's interest in politics started early. As an eighteen year old, according to my sister Jenny, he spoke at public meetings against consolidation of schools which ultimately meant closing of  Polandi, the one room school that I attended until the seventh grade.  

I don't know what was the basis of his argument. I wonder if John sensed how school consolidation, along with other factors, would eventually change rural Wisconsin and the township we lived in. Now I realize the changes were already underway at that time. 

When I was a child, the one room school house and small towns, such as Pittsfield and Laney, were important in our lives and we identified with these places. Social gatherings such as the annual picnics and Christmas programs were held at Polandi. 

During summers, we checked out books from the bookmobile parked in front of the school. It was our only source for books. I still have a certificate showing the books I read during the summer when I was in second grade. These included "Frisky the Goat" and "Jerry Goes Fishing."  

The cheese factory in Laney, owned by the Schrieber brothers, purchased the milk from our farm and we stored meat in the factory's rented lockers. They lived next door in a large white house. Loans could be made with the Schrieber brothers and paid off with future milk sales. My mother sold eggs and often shopped at Hussin, a store in nearby Pittsfield. The unincorporated town also had several homes, a one room school, a Lutheran church, Kolb's tavern and its dance hall. My Dad attended the school for seven years which was considered an adequate education. 

Today nothing remains of Pittsfield except the church's cemetery. The sign stating its unincorporated status is even gone. Laney still hangs on to an identity but the cheese factory has been closed for years. The Schrieber home and the building that once was the cheese factory still exists. Adjacent to the house is a cheese store stocked with fancy cheeses from throughout the United States. A hotel and saw mills were already gone by my time.  The two room brick schoolhouse was torn down several years ago. A fire destroyed the impressive brick building housing Mastey's Tavern, gas station, store and living quarters after these were closed for many years. I recall seeing the ruins and my brother gave me, a few years ago, two bricks from the ruins as a Christmas present. A three bay brick garage with dormers survived the fire and was the site for selling locally grown organic vegetables. I am unsure if the stand is still in business.       

In short, during my lifetime much has changed and in one sense transition was a constant. In many parts of our state rural and urban now overlap, creating what is referred to as "urban-rural interface." The Madison area is a prime example of this interface, which is very noticeable along the Southwest Bike Path going through Fitchburg. Clusters of houses adjacent to farm lands are all part of the city. The city has ordinances protecting farmland. 

My birthplace, the township of Maple Grove, is still largely rural. Farms now have more acreage than our family farm but many are still family owned. There are no large dairy farms with thousands of cattle.  However, many unused farm buildings have collapsed, including the barn that was part of our family farm. Some farm buildings along with lots have been cut out of the initial acreage and sold to individuals who work in nearby Green Bay. This is the case with our once 120 acre farm. Somebody from Green Bay owns most of the 120 acres, and another family owns the house and a small parcel of land.

Researchers now study how rapid change and our habit of moving frequently affects a "sense of place."  This concept refers to both the attachments and the meanings that individuals or groups hold for a specific place. Such attachments contribute to self-identity and satisfaction with life. 

Caring for Prospect Gardens, along with my wife, Ann, and neighbors, contributes to my deep sense of place and to being satisfied with my life. I am grateful for the neighborly connections that result from caring for the Gardens. These connections have sustained me during this time of great uncertainty and this time of transition. Hopefully we are turning towards what O'Meara says in her poem, AND THE PEOPLE STAYED HOME: 

"New choices, and dreamed new images, and created
New ways to live and heal the earth fully, as they had

Been healed."

May it be so. Peace and good health to you and your loved ones.