Leafer Madness

With gas prices bouncing around like a caffeinated kangaroo and my old Impala drinking a tank a week and bombarding me with fix me messages, I started hunting for something cheaper, cleaner, and less moody. My regular routes — from Cushing to St. Croix Falls, Luck, Grantsburg, with occasional flings to Amery and Siren — didn’t need a space-age Electric Vehicle, just something that didn’t complain when I turned the key.

My electric obsession started in 2021 when I bought Margo, my wife, an electric golf cart. It was magical: no gas, no oil, no weird noises at startup. You just plugged it in, and it silently zipped around like a very polite robot. Meanwhile, every other vehicle on the farm was acting like it needed therapy or a new carburetor.

So, I began browsing for cheap used electric cars — mainly the Nissan Leaf. They came out in 2010 with 86 miles of range, but many used ones had been driven hard with barely 40 miles left in them. Still, if I could find one with 75 miles of range, I’d be golden for 90% of my driving. I set a goal: under $5,000, decent range, not too sketchy.

After two years of ad-stalking, one finally popped up: a 2015 Leaf, 36,000 miles, 12 bars of battery (that’s Leaf-speak for 80 miles), and listed at $4,000. Scott and I drove the 65 miles to meet the seller — a one-man dealership operating out of his yard with six cars and a strong “trust me” vibe.

“I don’t know much about electric cars,” he said cheerfully, which was oddly comforting. We took it for a spin. Everything worked, tires were new, battery looked good. I offered $3,800 cash. He said yes — as long as I handed him a wad of bills, which felt a little like buying a car and starring in a heist film at the same time.

The only hitch: the Leaf wasn’t fully charged. It had 60 miles left, and home was 65 away. So, Scott fired up an app and found a free charger at a Goodwill in Forest Lake. He drove the Leaf, I followed in the gas-guzzler. At the charger, we plugged it in, thrift-shopped for 15 minutes, then hit a drive-thru. When we got back, the Leaf had another 60 miles ready to go.

I drove it home, white-knuckled at first, but quickly grinning. It had a GPS, touch screen, backup camera, and about 50 mysterious buttons I still haven’t dared touch. “Something has to be wrong with it,” I said. “Maybe,” Scott replied. “But for $3,800, let’s just enjoy the mystery.”

I named her Leafer Madness — inspired by the old movie Reefer Madness, where one puff turns teens into maniacs.

I’ve now driven it over 1,000 miles. I plug it into a regular outlet, it charges overnight, and costs me about $2.60 for 70 miles. It’s quiet, smooth, and doesn’t demand oil, gas, or affection. The Impala’s collecting dust, and honestly, I don’t miss gas stations at all.

I'm hooked on my Nissan Leaf—high on kilowatts—like the couple in Reefer Madness, only my leaf gets me amped, not arrested.

My Salty Fair Lady

 

My Salty Fair Lady

Margo and her Grand
Champion Butter 

Margo Hanson loved county fairs. She grew up on a farm near West Bend, Wisconsin, where 4-H was as essential as Sunday church and mosquito spray. She could sew a zipper, bake a pie, and milk a cow before she was old enough to drive—fair material through and through.

When she married me in 1972, I introduced her to the Polk County Fair. Or rather, my mother Alberta did. Alberta was a seasoned fair veteran, hooked ever since the 1960s when her boys needed wrangling—and their 4-H entries needed help. She loved everything about the fair, except the sideshows. By then the bearded lady and two-headed calf were mostly retired, so she could stroll the barns and exhibit halls in peace.

Alberta took Margo under her wing. They’d haul in entries—paintings, flowers, cookies, apples—and always her trademark fruit-and-veggie boxes, decorated like miniature parade floats. But her real pride? Homemade butter.

In the 1990s, my brother Byron joined the fair board and gave us an alarming update: “Butter entries are down. If it keeps up, we might have to cancel the whole category.”

Now, back in the day, Polk County had over 30 creameries, and butter-making was a competitive sport. Win at the fair, and you might just get a raise—or at least bragging rights at the co-op.

So the Hansons leapt into action. That year, five of us entered: Alberta, Byron, his kids, and Margo. There were four categories—salted or unsalted, colored or uncolored—because butter, like life, comes in all varieties. Spring cows eating dandelions made rich yellow butter, but winter cows needed help, hence the coloring. And salt? It wasn’t just for flavor—it was preservation, the butter version of embalming.

Carl Johnson, a former buttermaker, judged the butter.  He liked it salty! 
Margo stands watching. 

Carl Johnson of Amery, a retired buttermaker, judged butter for years. He liked his butter like he liked his opinions: salty. “Salted butter should taste like salted butter,” he declared. “Two percent salt minimum!”

Margo took that to heart and ladled it in. For several glorious years, she was crowned Grand Champion Buttermaker. Then Carl died. The next judge? A health nut. His comment on Margo’s masterpiece: “Too salty.”

Making butter the easy way -- pour in cream, add some salt and 
mix, mix, mix, and more mixing.  

She laughed and entered again the next year cutting back on the salt.

In recent years, you’d find Margo at the Red Schoolhouse exhibit, parked behind the teacher’s desk, oxygen machine humming beside her scooter. She organized the volunteers for the local historical societies, ran the genealogy entries, and still made time to wave, chat, and sneak a funnel cake.

Even as her health declined, she showed up, grinning, butter in hand. The fair gave her something to look forward to, year after year. And if the judges didn’t appreciate her salted style, well, the neighbors sure did.

Margo wasn’t just a fairgoer. She was a fair fixture—part historian, part competitor, part parade marshal on wheels.

And though she’s gone now, I like to think heaven’s fair has a butter category. And somewhere up there, Carl’s holding a blue ribbon with her name on it.

Margo checking the tomato entries.  She generally entered flowers
and sometimes veggies. 

 

Judy and Margo in the Red School House as hosts.  Margo organized the 
volunteers for the school house for 15 years. 

June 29, 2025 Walk to Bass Lake

 

  Black Haw

 Black cherry 

 Prairie

 Wild Iris in the swamp

Siberian Crabs are dying 

Covid TP Blues 2020

 Covid TP Blues

  April 1, 2020, was the day that Covid worries really came to our farm!  “Half of the stores in Minnesota and Wisconsin are out of toilet paper and the rest are limited customers to 4 rolls each,” reported WCCO TV news.  

 We had been hearing rumors of shortages of all sorts of things but toilet paper was the first one that really struck us as an emergency.  Having our own rural septic system that has a tortuous path to the tank and drainfield, we knew that any substitute for TP would clog the pipes and bring the bathroom activities to a messy halt. 

“We have 4 rolls left,” I reported returning from the bathroom closet and immediately began worrying as did millions of other folks, some who got up right then and drove to the store and emptied the rest of the shelves while folks like me just put it on the list for the next shopping trip.  That proved to be too late to get any. 

   I found two more rolls in the camper, one with the camping equipment and 3 at the lake cabin and two at the museum closed for winter.  We were good for a few weeks with 11 rolls I figured, barring getting Covid of the bathroom urgency type. 

I instituted strict rationing – “just like meals you get 3 squares a day” I announced seeing myself as one of those brave ship captains in charge of life rafts eking out the water and food.  However, there was an instant mutiny by the crew..  

“Well, when I was growing up on the farm,” I told Margo, “we never used TP, just the outhouse and the Sears catalog.  We can do that again now if need be. I will just sweep out the old outhouse and we can use that.”

I remember when Dad built a brand new outhouse in 1949 following all of the guidelines for a “privy” on a Grade A dairy farm – concrete foundation, fly proof, ventilated, etc. We only used it 5 years before indoor plumbing came.  I remembered it fondly as the place where I studied the underwear section in Sears to get my education in human anatomy.    In 2020, it still stood firmly planted on the original foundation, looking ready for use, although unused for nearly half a century.  

A closer inspection showed the roof shingles were old and had leaked through rotting the small peaked roof boards and one side.  I spent 3 days tearing off the roof and one wall, replacing them and adding complete new metal roof.  I  scrubbed it with bleach and soap and readied the open house. The weekly Advertiser, cut into squares, would substitute for Sears pages.  

“We won’t need to worry any more about TP,” I bragged to Margo as I showed off the refurbished Grade A privy.  Margo was pleased “If you use the outhouse, and I use the bathroom, we can go for months.”  And that is what happened until the TP hoarders ran out of closet room 6 months later.  I found the outhouse fine, but it was nice to be indoors on those -25F mornings.

Eight Weeks after Margo

 It has been 8 weeks since Margo died, February 6th. 2025. It has been a difficult adjustment after 53 years of living and doing almost everything together and having each other as our best friends.

Scott and I have been doing more things together now. Maple syrup season has been helpful as it continues to keep us busy. I find that staying occupied makes life more acceptable as I adjust to being a single rather than a couple, and as I figure out what comes next.

Margo lived a good life and made it a good life for her family and her friends. She was able to accept what came next, good or bad, and although her last few years were increasingly difficult with health issues, she adjusted gracefully and as her end grew near, wished us to continue to live normally and enjoy life with or without her, while looking forward to the end of her own suffering.

And so life goes on. We keep busy. We don't forget Margo, but move on to whatever comes next, knowing she would approve of us living in the future rather than the past.

Margo learned to make maple syrup when she joined the Hanson family, and it became one of her most joyful times of year. Opening up the lake cabin, tapping the trees, arguing whose turn it was to get up at 3 am and feed the boiler, the kitchen boiling and bottling syrup with its mess and stickly spills, the selling it at the Eureka Farmer's Market with the chance to visit with the neighbors, and even having her own tractor that she bought at an auction to haul the sap. Every time I use it I remember her, the auction where she spent $850 to buy it, her driving it up the roads 120 miles from Byron MN to the cabin one summer day, and her worrying about it having good care. "Just like Grandpa's that I learned to drive on," she said proudly.

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.