Behind the Curtain

 

Behind the Curtain   

    The country school audience watched two first graders on wood plank stage, singing to each other.  Susan; “I’m Sunbonnet Sally,” me; “I’m Overall Jim,”  We were seated in  old rocking chairs and dressed in old time clothes   Hidden at the side of the stage, behind the curtain, was 6^th grader Dennis who had been singing along with me—providing the volume so even the back rows could hear.  We finished the song and as the applause dwindled, Dennis smiled at me and pulled the bed sheets together; closing the curtain on a month of practicing our song together.  I had a brief glimpse into the life that was much different than my own.

    Dennis was slim, of medium height, light complected with nicely combed brown hair.  He was quiet and polite, a serious student.  He smiled easily.  He didn’t get in playground fights.  He was clean, as were his patched clothes, not always true of kids in those days.  He liked recess and schoolyard games, especially softball.  He had a very old glove, and could catch any fly or grounder that came his way.  He liked to sing and had a good voice.  

    During our practice sessions, he was very nice to me, and asked me questions about my home and family.  He liked to hear me tell what it was like to come home to a warm house, with milk and cookies and parents and to have supper as a family, even to ask  what we might eat that evening.     

    In those days when neighborhoods rarely changed other than through births or deaths, everyone knew all that there was to know about their neighbors.  We all knew about Dennis in that way.          

    He lived a mile from school with his dad, a drunk, in a decrepit two story house, weathered black, a few upstairs windows boarded up, an old outhouse and a junk filled yard that a few wandering goats trimmed.  His Dad spent most of his days and nights at the Wolf Creek bar, doing a few odd jobs for neighbor when he needed more beer money.  Dennis was left pretty much to raise himself after his mother got a divorce and left with his young sister to live in Denver.   

    Dennis worked for his farm neighbors to earn money for his own needs.  He bought an old bicycle to ride to school and proudly showed us the handlebar basket, bell and light he added.  He went barefoot in the summer and for school had an old castoff worn set of work shoes that were many sizes too large.    

   His neighbors, Mac and Nancy, raised string beans for Stokeleys.  Dennis could earn few dollars some weeks for long days of crawling up and down the rows picking string beans, to be weighed and sold at Milltown.  Nancy often invited him to join them for meals. They kept his money for him, carefully keeping a ledger of his earnings and purchases.  If he needed something, Mac let him ride along in the old Ford truck when he hauled the beans to town.  Dennis had worked this out with Mac to keep his dad from beating him to get beer money. 

     His neighbor across the road, Old Man Wicklund, raised 20 acres of watermelons on his sandy River Road farm.  Dennis earned some money hoeing melons and in the fall, helping load the trailer to take to them to town.  He got all the melons he wanted for free.  Many late summer  days he brought a melon to school, overfilling his bicycle basket.  He put it in a cold spring near the school house, and brought it out at noon for the whole school to share.   

    Dennis bought most of the groceries for him and his dad and did the cooking, washing and cleaning at home.  Dennis pumped water outside and heated it on the stove.  He always came to school clean and with clean clothes that he patched himself.

    The summer Dennis finished 7^th grade, he got a steady summer job with a nearby farmer.  He earned more money and took a 20 year old car as part of his payment.  When school started he proudly drove his car to school instead of riding his bike or walking.    He kept working for the farmer during the winter.  Everyone in the neighborhood knew he was too young to drive and that he hadn’t licensed the car, but as the town constable said, “Dennis has it hard enough with out us piling on too.” 

    When spring came, he passed his eighth grade exam and graduated with his class.  At the last day of school picnic he told us “My Dad say’s I am 14 and on my own from now on.  I got decent tires, two good spares, and all my stuff loaded in my car and a little money I saved.  I am driving out to Denver to see how Mom and Sis are doing.  If they will have me, I will stay and get a job and try to go to high school there.”

     He brought out a well folded US highway map and showed us his route.   As the picnic wound down, he went around to his neighbors and his school chums and said his thank you’s and good byes.  We gathered round as he got into his car, lightly loaded with   all his worldly possessions.  He started it up, waved a last time and disappeared forever from our lives, south down the Old River Road.  We watched until the faint trail of blue smoke disappeared.  We hoped he was heading into a better place.

 

A Plethora of Ninety Year Olds

 

  A Plethora of Ninety Year Olds   Russ Hanson   

Written December 9, 2007 for the Inter-County Leader newspaper column River Road Ramblings. 

     At least four people in our area who have shared local history stories are having  birthdays  in the coming week.  Three are in their 90s and Eunice Kanne of Grantsburg is having her 100^th birthday.  I wonder if being born in December when it is so cold that the germs all froze out in cold houses of the old days helped December babies live long lives? 

    Vernon Peterson of Siren is having an open house at his son’s home on the farm to celebrate his 90^th birthday  1-4 pm on the 15^th.  He was our Watkins man in the old days.  I am typing up some of his stories for a book he is writing and include an excerpt here.   

   “When Pa died, April 4, 1931, I was 14 years old. It was a pretty sobering thought that morning after Pa died to realize that I was the man of the house, with all that it meant on a farm in Depression Days.  The cattle, the crops, the wood cutting and more were my responsibility.  I was finishing 8^th grade and wanted to go to High School the next year.  

    I knew then that I was a man; the only man in the house, with all the work and responsibilities of a man.  We had only a few cows by today’s standards, but it was so primitive; no electricity; no running water.  We pumped water by hand, milked cows by hand, hand cranked the cream separator, pitched the manure by hand, pitched the hay by hand (if there was any during those dry years), cut the wood with an old buck saw, carried it in and filled the stove.  I always worried about Mother keeping warm.  She was quite ill those days, so stayed in bed a lot.  I was cook part time.  My sisters Lucille and Loraine had to stay in town to finish high school and Lu teacher’s training at Grantsburg. 

      There was no welfare; people would be ashamed to accept that.  The township did have a so-called relief fund.  There was no county fund.  I find in studying the old town records for Daniels Township that a few small checks were issued; perhaps $5 to $8 for a few people who had nothing.  Mother would not accept that. 

    The Federal Government had purchased Red Cross flour to be given away to anyone who needed it.   It came in 100 pound bags.  Mrs. Chatlain cried when she accepted a bag, Mother said.  The flour was at the Town Chairman’s place,  Clarence Nelson’s, about two miles away.  His brother John gave me a ride on his old wooden wheeled wagon and horses with to get a sack of flour for Mother.  I’ve always been extremely grateful for John Nelson. No one today would expect a 14 years old kid that weighed no more than the flour could carry that flour up our long uphill driveway.  But John did, bless him. He hoisted the bag on my shoulder and spoke to his team and was gone.  I had tremendous respect for John and his wife Constance.  Good People!

    A. T. Nelson was our first principal at Siren High School in 1932 when I started.  He was admired by everyone.  He was one of the great ones.  He taught a couple of classes and was the coach on sports teams.  There was no auditorium then.  For basketball, we hiked to Greenland Hall, where South church is now.  Games were played not too far from home—Webster, Grantsburg, etc. 

    Mr. Nelson could present a very eloquent lecture.  One day he told a rather lengthy story of a poor fatherless boy with a tremendous work load on the farm.  That boy walked four miles to school and four miles home for the school day.  Then after the evening chores, he walked another eight miles round trip when there were school activities.  The student was making straight A’s.    He named no one, but it was embarrassing as he was talking about me.”

*****  

  La Vern Larson, who lives on 87, just south of Cushing will be 93 on December 17^th.  I recently visited with La Vern and his wife, Doris Jean to get some information on the Larson family as part of our History of Cushing book.

    La Vern was the only child of Alert Larson, whose father Hans came from Denmark to live on the farm where another of Hans’ grandsons, Bud Larson and his wife Betty live now, just east of Cushing.  Alert’s wife, Lily Peterson Larson, lived to be 107.

     La Vern grew up in the house that George Laier recently remodeled south of Cushing.   He said it was moved from the Harry Saville farm across the road to the south by putting logs under it and winching it down the road and to the new location.  He remembers when it came time to build a new barn you started with cutting logs with the cross cut saw and had the sawmill come in to saw the logs into lumber.    

    La Vern remembers cold December sleigh rides from home to the old Cushing Church at the top of the hill.  The family would bundle up in the sleigh covered with blankets.   His mother told him that one time when she asked how he was doing he said “everything on me is frozen that can be frozen!”  The horse was hitched off center so it could walk in the sleigh tracks rather than break a trail in the middle.

*****

    Jennie Iverson Nelson of River Road will be 91 in another week.  Her husband Emil, who passed away a few years ago, was one of the 21 children of the John Nelson family.  Her own parents, the Iversons, separated when she was quite young.  Her older brothers and sisters were all quite musical, as was her mother and Jennie.   They moved to Cushing for a time when Jennie was still quite young.  She remembers that to raise money for food and rent, her mother would rent the big hall (above Vern’s) and the family would sponsor a dance.  They charged admission and supplied a light lunch and the family played the music.  One of her brothers, True Iverson, went on to be a professional musician. 

    Jennie has a great collection of old newspaper clippings that I have copied and has been very interested in working on genealogy.  Like La Vern and Vernon, she still drives her car and is active and has a wonderful memory.

***

    My own birthday is in December too.  I am much tougher because of it!  My story: 

It was December 17^th .    In a snowstorm, after milking the cows in the evening,  Dad started the old 31 Chev and headed down Hwy 87 to St. Croix to J. A. Riegel’s hospital in the Baker Mansion to pick up Mom and me, her new baby so she would be home for her birthday on the 18^th.    Just south of La Vern Larson’s farm, the fuse for the headlamps burned out leaving him to negotiate MacIntosh curve in the dark snowy night on the slippery hill.  Standing on the running board to see, door open, throttle slightly pulled back and grabbing the steering wheel he figured to get to Eureka and get some new fuses there.  But he slipped into the steep ditch, car tipping gently but only partially on its side against the bank, spilling the baby clothes and diapers into the snow.   A walk to the neighbors, phone call to Harold Jensen at the garage in Cushing got the wrecker out with fuses and Dad back on his way and soon he arrived at the hospital.  He shook out some of the snow from my diapers and clothes, but plenty remained as I was diapered, dressed and brought home, adjusting to the cold cold world with nary a whimper!

      The last two weeks I have been huddled over my computer working on Cushing History book trying to keep warm at the cabin when it is 20 below outside.  My brother Everett says “Tighten it up!  Take a candle and look for air leaks by watching the flame bend to the side.”   Well, the candle blew out anywhere in the cabin, but I have since tightened it up enough so my blowtorch stays lit unless I am near the doors or windows.   Since Mom (who will be 86 in a week) is probably reading this and getting ready to mount a rescue, I have to admit that with our good wood stove and plenty of wood that Margo cut and split, the cabin is pretty comfortable. 

     Margo left for Pine Island before the cold spell.  She seems to think that with the water system turned off, trips to the outhouse at 20 below are an inconvenience.  I say it just increases efficiency, especially for someone who started life with snow in their diapers.   I have to join her soon, as she is having trouble with the WD Allis tractor and snow bucket down there.  She forgets which wires to cross off for the ignition, thinks it is a bother to air up the tires each time, has a hard time cranking to start it and doesn’t like the taste of gas when you need to blow to clear the line every 10 minutes.  Oh well, she probably started life with warm diapers.     

     Our writers group includes Eunice Kanne as a member.  In honor of her 100^th birthday next week, we all are supposed to write a poem to write and read about her.   I haven’t ever done a poem, so thought I might try a limerick.  I am stuck looking for a rhyme.  My first line:    “There was an old lady from Grantsburg”.    Send your rhymes, stories, birthdays and local  history to russhanson@grantsburgtelcom.net or call 715-488-2776 WI or 507-356-8877 MN  or  2558 Evergreen Av, Cushing, WI 54006.   

The Corner Bar

There was a corner tavern in Barton, on the north edge of West Bend, Wisconsin, just a block away from my efficiency apartment. The rent was $120 a month—half my salary when I worked at the West Bend nursing home in 1971. After other expenses, I was left with precisely one dollar a week for entertainment, and every Friday night, fifty cents of it went to the bar on the corner of Barton and Roosevelt.

West Bend and Barton were solidly German, blue-collar towns where folks spent a lot of time in the local taverns. Beer was cheap—one bar in Milwaukee even advertised five-cent happy hour beers.

Every Friday at 7 p.m., I’d walk to the bar, push open the heavy wooden door, and nod to the half-dozen old men perched on stools or gathered around tables, smoking and talking. I’d order the first of three fifteen-cent tap beers—a nicely sized glass, full and cold, that tasted like something earned. Most nights, the bar had free popcorn, and occasionally, free peanuts. I sipped my beer slowly, crunched on buttered popcorn, and listened to the old men talk.

One of them was "the Chief," a weathered seventy-something with some Native ancestry. He was always there. Everyone called him "Chief" with a quiet respect—not the exaggerated kind, but the kind shared among men who had seen the same wars. He and the others had fought in World War I. Chief had some lingering war injury and a collection of medals to show for it. His pension covered enough fifteen-cent beers to get him through an evening, with an occasional round bought by a friend.

It seemed they were all retired. They talked a little about work, a little about sports, a little about friends in and out of the hospital. Sometimes, they asked Chief for a war story. He had plenty. The details shifted slightly with each telling, but the pattern remained—narrow escapes, close calls, and the moments that earned him his medals.

I stretched my three beers (forty-five cents) over two hours. If I was feeling adventurous, I’d spend my last nickel on a pickled egg. By nine o’clock, the bar started filling with younger folks, and the old guys drifted off. Filled with popcorn and carrying the slight buzz of cheap beer, I’d thank Wib, the bartender, say goodnight, and walk home to ponder how I’d spend the other fifty cents of my entertainment budget on Saturday.

Later, when I married Margo and we had two incomes in a $160-a-month apartment, life felt luxurious. We could go to a movie, eat at a restaurant, even splurge on a trip to Milwaukee to visit the Mitchell Park Domes—basking in the humid warmth of the indoor greenhouse on a frigid winter day. Of course, in those early married months, a good deal of our entertainment happened at home.

This evening, after attending my sister-in-law’s funeral, my son Scott stopped so I could take a look at the old bar in Barton. From the outside, it looked much the same. But inside, it was unrecognizable—TV screens blaring from every wall, people shouting to be heard over the noise. The old bar and stools were gone, the place gutted into one big, impersonal room.

Not a thing I remembered was left.

So I didn’t ask for a fifteen-cent beer or free popcorn. And I didn’t stay to listen, because the only old man there was me.

The Bar in Barton is now Jokers 5

The inside of a bar in Barton back maybe 50 years ago. It looks like

                         the one I remember, but might be another one nearby.

Efficiency?

Efficiency? 

After the funeral of my sister-in-law, March 14, 2025, and our drive to West Bend, WI to attend, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. I had lived in that area from 1970-1972 and that is where I met my wife, Margo. And I wanted to reminisce a little about those days 55 years ago.

I asked my son, Scott, to drive us to our motel, but on the way, I asked if we could take a detour past the old Wilkens farm, where Margo, my wife, had grown up. Merlin and Myrtle sold it probably 15 years ago. Very few of the apple trees from Margo's grandparent's orchard were left, however the 150 year old house looked nicely maintained.

From there, we headed to Barton, a northern suburb of West Bend, to a place that held a special memory for me—the tiny efficiency apartment I had rented in 1971 before Margo and I got married.

As we drove by, the apartment building was still standing and in use and looked much the same as I remembered it. I pointed to the window of my old tiny one-room apartment and started reminiscing about a particular day just two weeks before our wedding.

Margo had stopped by after work, and I had bought a sex education manual—one of those things you get interested in when you are getting married and was reading it when she stopped by. She looked at it and soon we folded the couch folded out into a bed, we were deep into chapter one when a sudden knock at the door interrupted us.

Startled, we jumped up. I quickly shoved Margo into the tiny bathroom with a pile of her clothes, while I scrambled to put on my own.

"Who's there?" I called out, trying to compose myself.

"It's me, Paul," came the reply from the other side of the door.

"Just a minute, I have to finish something," I called back, continuing to get dressed. I told Margo to stay put, the bathroom door firmly shut behind her.

Paul was a high school student who worked part-time with us at the nursing home after school. Once I’d straightened up the room, and folded the bed back into a couch, I let him in.

"What's up?" I asked, trying to act casual.

"Mrs. K," he said, referring to the administrator, "she said she was going to fire me if I didn’t get my hair cut." He had long hair, as was common in the 1970s, and it was clear he wasn’t too thrilled about the idea.

At the time, I was the head of the union for the nursing home staff, and people came to me with their problems. I listened as Paul explained that he did his job well and shouldn’t be forced to conform to outdated standards. For the next 45 minutes, we discussed the situation in detail. I called the Milwaukee union hotline for SEIU, spoke to someone there, and got the legal insight I needed.

"They told me the rules have to apply equally to both men and women in this case," I said. "You're in the right, Paul. You’re not going to be forced into a haircut."

I reached out to a county attorney I knew well, explained the situation, and asked him to speak to Mrs. K. He promised he would handle it, assuring me Paul could keep his long hair as long as it didn’t interfere with his work.

After that, I tried to usher Paul out quickly—Margo had been waiting in the bathroom for over 45 minutes. In the rush, I’d completely forgotten to give her the sex education manual, so she didn’t have anything to read while she waited.

When Margo finally emerged, she looked at me, exasperated. “No more sex education until we’re married and living in our own two-bedroom apartment,” she declared, shaking her head.

And that is why I ended up a virgin at marriage, despite my best intentions. And as I drove past that efficiency apartment, I remembered swearing to myself—never again would I rent one of those tiny places.

Margo's grandparents, Elmer and Julia Kirmse with Margo and me 1972

Hug Withdrawal

 Hugs   

“Hugs can have many benefits, including reducing stress and pain, boosting the immune system, and improving cardiovascular health. Hugs can also help you feel more connected to others,” says Dr. Google.

Since Margo died, my life has been mostly hug-free. And I miss that part. A few women friends have hugged me in sympathy, which is very kind. But the constant availability of hugs—short, medium, long, overnight, exciting, calming, loving, and all the variations in between—is gone. It wasn’t just me initiating them, either. Margo would often surprise me with a spontaneous hug, sometimes sneaking up from behind.

Now, all of that is lost, and I find myself going through what can only be described as hug withdrawal. I wonder if that part of my life is forever gone.

The other day, I hugged a friend—twice in one visit—and suddenly realized just how deprived I’ve become. I worry that if I’m not careful, instead of just hugging my friend, I might get carried away and embrace a complete stranger… and promptly get arrested.

Being a writer, I often process my emotions through stories or even poetry. So, in the spirit of self-awareness (and as a warning to my women friends), I wrote this:

There was an old man from Cushing,

For hugs, he was always pushing.

But folks had enough,

And called his bluff,

Now he gets his hugs by ambushing.

I’m not sure this poem is touching, though it may suggest that the author is touched.

Another thing I miss: holding Margo’s hand. That simple warmth and connection started when we were dating and lasted through her life. At first, it was exciting. Later, it was comforting—especially in her last weeks, when we lay in bed, and I held her hand to ease her pain. In her final hours, as she sat up, Scott and I held her hands until her last quiet breath. And before she was taken away, I gave her one last kiss and held her hand again—now cold, no longer Margo, but still her hand.

This Saturday, Scott and I are driving to West Bend for the funeral of Judy Wilkens, Margo’s brother’s wife. There, we’ll both give and receive hugs—offering comfort in our shared loss. And now, more than ever, I understand just how much a simple hug can mean.

Daylight Savings Time

  It is dark out yet as I got up at 6am DST which would have been 5am "God's Time" on the day we change the clocks ahead. That God's Time comes from Grandpa Eugene Hanson, who naturally was a late riser and had decided that he would not get up an hour earlier just to please some city folks who wanted to get home with more daylight left to do things after work.

And so he chose his reason for not turning his clock ahead on religion. He said God's time was good enough for him.

And so when we went to Grandpa and Grandma's for Sunday dinner it was at 1 pm DST. The neighbors thought he was a little "touched" which was the graceful way of saying maybe a little crazy about religious folks.

Grandpa was a "Free Methodist," a very conservative Evangelical church where a few folks who were "touched by God" might speak in tongues on rare occasions. Of course Grandpa and Grandma were quite doubtful that it was really God speaking though a person as it was clearly gibberish, but didn't want to judge those folks as maybe they really were touched by God.

And so acting somewhat odd, as in ignoring DST, rolling in the aisles or speaking in tongues hinted the person was a little or a lot "touched" with the line between a Godly touch vs a crazy one thin.

Anyway, the only problem Grandpa ran into was the milk truck hauler who had a route and came to pick up Grandpa's 3 milk cans each morning on his drive through the neighborhood where almost all people were farmers and had maybe 12-30 cows. The evening and morning milk was picked up each morning so the milk would be very fresh on arrival at the Cushing Creamery to be made into butter.

Grandpa was sure that the cows hated being milked earlier too, not getting their beauty sleep, and so the milk hauler rerouted so Grandpa was the last patron on the route.

We were sure that Grandpa was just liked sleeping late. For a farmer rising at 5 am is normal, and at 6 am like Grandpa, shows laziness by farmer standards. I think rising at 4-5 am by a retired man clearly could be considered a touch of being touched.

The old mantle clock that Grandpa Eugene Hanson refused to turn ahead.

Grandpa Eugene Hanson on the corn planter and Uncle Lloyd Hanson on the B Farmall

planting corn in the 1950s.

Morning Observations – A Dawn Log  Feb 25, 2025

It is 6:18 AM. The eastern sky glows orange, fading into deep blue as dawn unfolds. I sit on the open porch, bundled up against the calm 27°F morning. On the southeastern horizon, a sliver of an orange moon lingers, rising an hour before the sun. The sky is clear, and the silhouettes of trees stand dark against the glowing horizon.

This morning, I decided to document what I hear and see as the sun rises. The bird feeder in front of the porch is freshly filled.

The earliest sounds are those of traffic on Highway 87—people already in motion, caught in the world of work.

6:28 AM – A few turkeys gobble to the south, reminding me that a flock has settled on the prairie planting, feasting on the oats left from the cover crop. Several cars pass, including one I recognize—my neighbor heading to the plant nursery where she works. Greenhouse preparations must be underway.

A pheasant and a crow call out, their squawks distinct. The wing-whistle of mourning doves signals their landing on the driveway—the first birds to arrive at the feeder. Though barely visible in the dim light, their dark forms contrast against the gravel now exposed after yesterday’s 48°F thaw melted the snow. Three doves stand motionless in a group, not yet feeding—perhaps exchanging morning greetings?

6:35 AM – The light has grown, and the sky has brightened enough to nearly erase the moon. To the north, a dog barks. A group of swans lets out their soft, muted honks—likely checking in with one another after a night’s rest on the open waters of Wolf Creek.

My fingers grow cold, so I alternate between bare hands and my yellow work gloves, still carrying the faint smell of gasoline from working on the tractor. Two male pheasants call from the deep grass of the orchard. We’ve counted about a half dozen, both male and female, who frequent the driveway for sunflower seeds.

6:41 AM – The small-town maintenance truck rumbles eastward. Yesterday, we noticed crews cutting dead trees along 285th Avenue, clearing potential hazards before they could fall into the road.

The truck meets the school bus, flashing past on its westbound route to pick up children. The same bus has traveled Evergreen Avenue for 75 years—since the 1950s, when it used to stop for us. With the school bus comes a surge of traffic—pickups and cars, workers coming and going, starting or ending their day. The background is filled with the steady calls of swans, crows, and pheasants.

6:54 AM – I set up the video camera to capture the sunrise and the first birds at the feeder—though none have arrived yet.

7:02 AM – The sun is fully up, but I missed the shot. The camera ran out of memory, and by the time I replaced the card, the moment had passed. In the process, I also startled the first finches of the morning as they arrived with the sunrise.

The squirrels have begun chattering. Now that it’s fully light, I can see the winter debris—twigs, sunflower hulls, and leaves—that had been hidden beneath the snow. In the deep grass of the orchard, some snow remains, but the yard is bare except for the piles left by shoveling and plowing.

The sun glares directly into my eyes, rising over a sky now a brilliant shade of blue. A single white streak of cloud runs north to south—perhaps the remnants of a jet trail, but wider and softened.

There is not a breath of wind.

7:08 AM – A swan honks overhead, flying northwest—likely heading toward breakfast in the newly thawed corn and soybean stubble, where melting snow has left shallow frozen ponds.

Yesterday, I spent much of the day at the Cushing Museum. Several friends stopped by to offer their condolences for Margo, and we passed the time visiting.

7:15 AM – The morning is now alive with sound—familiar calls, but more frequent, more insistent. Traffic has picked up as well.

With the sun fully risen, I decide to walk across the farm prairie to the pond. Yesterday, the ground would have been muddy, but now it’s frozen—firm beneath my boots, crunching softly where patches of snow remain.

 

Margo Winnebell Hanson Obituary

Margo Winnebell Hanson passed away peacefully at home near Cushing, Wisconsin, on February 6, 2025, with her husband and son holding her hands. She faced her final days as she lived—one day at a time, with quiet strength, grace, and resilience in the face of illness and pain.

Born June 3, 1947, in West Bend, Wisconsin, to Merlin Wilkens and Myrtle Kirmse, Margo grew up on a farm in the Newburg area, surrounded by a close-knit family of cousins, aunts, and uncles. She graduated from West Bend High School before earning a degree in horticulture from Rochester, Minnesota Technical College. With that knowledge and a green thumb, she launched her own greenhouse business, Geraniums by Margo.

On March 4, 1972, Margo married Russell Hanson, and together they built a life rooted in love and hard work. Their son, Scott, was born in 1975, and both Russell and Scott survive her, along with her brother, Larry Wilkens (Judy) of West Bend.

Margo dedicated much of her life to caring for others, working for many years as a nursing assistant. She treated each patient with the same kindness and attentiveness she would have given to her own grandparents. But beyond her professional work, she was a tireless volunteer, deeply involved in preserving local history and storytelling. She served as longtime president of the Polk County Genealogy Society, was a board member of the Luck Area Historical Society and the Sterling Eureka and Laketown Historical Society, and participated in the Northwest Wisconsin Regional Writers group, where she shared vivid recollections of her childhood on the farm.

You may have met Margo at the Red School House at the county fair, where she coordinated volunteers, or perhaps you bought plants from her at the farm on Evergreen Avenue during the River Road Ramble. Wherever she was, Margo was a bright and gentle presence, always looking for the good in life, always meeting very difficult challenges with cheerful persistence.

Per Margo’s wishes, no formal service will be held. She will be laid to rest in the Wolf Creek Cemetery in the spring. Memorial contributions may be made to one of the organizations she dedicated her time to, ensuring that her passion for history, community, and storytelling lives on.

We have created a website in her memory at 

https://sites.google.com/view/margowhanson/home 

Valentine's Day Sacrifices

 

Valentine’s Day 1953

"Remember, bring a valentine for each of your classmates," said Miss Jorgensen, our teacher for grades one through four at the two-room school in Wolf Creek, circa 1953. I was in the second grade, along with Melvin, Joyce, and Susan.

“And girls, don’t forget,” she added, “Valentine’s Day is girls-bring-the-lunch day. Pack an extra sandwich to share with a boy. We’ll draw names to decide the pairs.”

At home, I opened my prized 25-cent packet of 15 valentines, meticulously sorting through them. Each card had to fit its recipient. No mushy ones for the boys—Melvin would never let me hear the end of it. But Susan and Joyce? They deserved the mushiest. For Susan, I chose one that said, “My heart falls for you,” hoping she'd catch my not-so-subtle drift.

Valentine's Day arrived, and with it, the moment of truth: the lunch-pair draw. By some miraculous stroke of fate—or maybe teacher's intervention—I ended up with Susan.

“I hope you like tuna salad sandwiches,” she said sweetly as we settled in at her desk for lunch.

I did not. I hated tuna. And mayonnaise. Together, they were an unholy union of flavors I would normally reject with every fiber of my being. But this was Susan.

“I don’t have them very often,” I said, crafting my lie carefully to sound like polite enthusiasm.

Then I ate both halves of that sandwich, forcing down every bite with a smile that could have won an acting award. Big gulps of water helped, though they did little to wash away the lingering taste of sacrifice.

After lunch, we exchanged valentines. I waited until I got home to open mine from Susan, where I could savor the moment in private. Her card was perfect: mushy, adorned with neat second-grade handwriting, and signed with four bold X’s and the words, “I love you.”

I was ecstatic. For about five minutes.

Then reality set in. If my brothers found it, they'd torment me into eternity. I had no choice. Under the cover of evening, I burned the card in the woodstove, watching its romantic embers rise and vanish.

I wondered as I poked the ashes: what kind of person eats tuna salad with a smile and burns a valentine that says “I love you”?  

A second grader in love, that’s who.

Wolf Creek School children having lunch on the steps of the old school house.  Left to right:  Melvin, Russ, Joyce, Mary, Susan, and June.  Melvin, Russ, Joyce and Susan were second graders. Mary was in the 3^rd grade and June in the first grade.  We brought our own lunches to school. Melvin always had a paper bag while the rest of us had lunch boxes.  Behind is the Wolf Creek Cemetery. 

New Years 2025

 New Years Eve and it is already 7:00 pm -- just have to stay awake for 5 more hours and I can celebrate 2025 gliding in. I have a pot of coffee, a big dish of Christmas cookies and watching old Castle TV re-runs alternating with House and Bones.

I hope you have your New Year's Resolutions written down or at least mentally checked off.

I am considering the following:

Do less with more,

Write longer Facebook posts

Practice solitude in public

Adopt a "do it tomorrow" philosophy

Read less

Practice benign forgetfulness

Nurse grudges with more enthusiasm

Join sexaholics anonymous

Make my bed often

One of my other goals for 2025 is to get the Hanson family history complete. I already have the early part researched.

"The ice receded in Skee, Sweden 15,000 years ago and Ole Luigi Hansson and the Missus migrated back from sunny southern Italy where his ancestor Lars Ole Hansson and family had gone 100,000 years earlier to escape the glaciers. Over the next 15,000 years the family advanced through the wood age, antler age, stone age, bronze age, iron age, plastic age and rock and roll age to become small farmers in the isolated Skee valley on the Sweden-Norway border. Generations of inbreeding with occasional Viking raids to bring in new blood bring us to the mid 1800s when Ole Lars Hansson got tired of breaking his plow on the same rock that 30 generations of his grandfathers had broken their plows. Buying many sticks of a new invention, dynamite, from his nearby neighbor, Al Nobel, he placed them under the rock’s edge hoping to break it loose. Well, the rock was not nearly as big as he had expected, and the blast flung it far into the sky. It landed on the top of the rich, corrupt and mean sheriff Hans Ole Johnsson’s house a quarter mile away doing great damage.

“Here is your inheritance—100 riksdaler” said his father Hans Lars Olesson, digging up the small metal box that held the family’s savings from many generations. “Run to Stromstad and get on the first boat to America and don’t turn and look back at those topless blond girls on the beach or you will be lost!” warned Hans. Great Grandpa sailed to Wisconsin; married a brown haired inland girl who wore three layers of clothes even at the beach; had a large family; and made his fortune helping farmers dynamite stumps around Cushing. His long use of dynamite damaged his hearing so bad that four generations of Hansons have inherited it. " There is much more in the book.

Happy New Year!