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.