Usually, there were two catastrophes that would take place when cleaning barn, that daily chore that involved moving out the many pounds of….organic waste deposed of by the cows sheltered in the warm embrace of the barn.  Neither was good, each had its share of challenges and tribulations.

The first was with the actual cleaning mechanism itself.  Though the idea of a big chain dragging manure out the back of the barn might sound simple, there were four corners that it needed to go around, a giant sprocket at the end of the barn cleaner that drove it, and a nasty curve with a small lip that kept the chain from going askew that it came back inside of the barn and was set on its taut circuit around the barn.

Any one of which could go horrible wrong.

Normally, summer, when the cows spent most of their time in the pasture, wasn’t a problem.  In winter, when temperatures could dip to sub -50F (about -45C), things were a different matter (fecal matter to be precise).  The metal would become brittle.  Links in the chain would break.  The reverse curve would ice over with frozen…matter…clogging it and causing the chain to jump out of its course.  Each of these would require time to fix and repair…time when precious heat escaped from the barn, heat that kept water pipes from freezing and water flowing to the cows.

In the bitter cold, the breaks had to be fixed with metal pry bars, shear strength, and bare wet hands and fingers - freezing in the bitter cold.

But that wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.

The spreader, a complex piece of machinery which was a trailer that consisted of a box with a moving chain that circled the bottom of the trailer moving the animal waste slowly to the back were a beater (think of an oil drum with sharp metal points) would throw the manure high in the air and deposit it evenly behind it.

In theory - an easy and simple process.

In truth, when the winter temperatures plummeted, the manure spreader too suffered under the cold.  Chains became brittle.  The sheer force of the pto shaft that normally moved the manure out the back strained under the cold and stiffness of the machine with multiple moving parts.  No amount of grease can keep things moving in the bitter cold.

Inevitably, in the bitter cold of winter, a chain would snap.

If we were lucky, it was in the gear box, though small, it could still be fixed with relative ease.

If we were unlucky…it would be the big apron chain that moved the smelly mass through the trailer…this was usually more complex.

It involved moving that big smelly mass of manure.  By hand.  In the bitter cold.

At -45F, the stuff freezes.  Fast.  Usually, if not dispatched fast, the job would involve pitch forks, axes, and grub hoes.  Then what was left (and there was always some left) would have to be backed into the barn…would it would slowly melt in the +45F heat of the barn.

A smelly and uncomfortable proposition.  But the manure had to be moved.

The spreader would eventually be fixed in time for the next day’s cleaning, and though tired, we would retire to the house for a good long shower, a good meal…and prayers for a warming trend.   

 January is a stark month on the northern plains.  The coldest month of the year, and while not the darkest, the extended nights of the far reaches of the Northern Hemisphere of January don’t have the twinkling lights and breezy air of December and Christmas.  It is just a cold, dark, barren landscape, with the trees sitting seemingly dead as silhouettes on the horizon, like the rest of the earth, waiting for spring.

But life doesn’t stop.  Work doesn’t stop.  The day to day business of living goes on despite the cold winds that howl, the bitter winds, and the white, snowy landscape.

Part of growing up with a herd of dairy cattle was the daily chores - rain, snow or shine, from -50F to +110F the cows had to be milked and cared for, their needs and performance the lifeblood of the family livelihood.

In the chill of winter, when the cattle were nestled in the barn, that meant the usual feeding, milking, and bedding, as well as the continual daily chore known as ‘cleaning the barn.’

‘Cleaning the barn’ sounds like some innocuous chore like ‘cleaning house,’ or ‘taking out the garbage.’  In truth, it was literally making sure that the tons of feed that were carted, hefted, moved, and fed each day was properly disposed of once its job in the delicate interior of the cows was done producing milk.

In short, it was carting away the crap.

Sure, it was more than too - it was the left over waste feed, the scraps from the table so to speak, the uneatable parts of the feed, as well as the soiled and soiled straw, put down to make sure the cows were comfortable. As well as any liquid that they might have passed.

Every twenty four hours this job had to be done - despite the cold or snow as long as the cows were in the barn.

It was a dirty job, but someone had to do it.

For the most part, it was pretty mechanical.  There was a concrete gutter, a square groove that ran around the barn behind the cows - all of which faced the wall.  In this groove was a big metal chain with paddles that would carefully move the waste around the barn out the back through a small hole next to the big back barn door where it was elevated upwards at a 30 degree angle and into a waiting spreader to be taken out into the fields and spread - a good fertilizer for the coming crop.

It was one continuous loop that was run by a big electric motor at the very top of the elevated portion - the very head of the barn cleaner as it was called. 

Each day, we would scrap down the concrete behind the cows (which were pretty poor aims) and clean out around the feet of the cows, scraping the wet straw from around each cow to ensure they stayed dry and comfortable.

It sounds pretty darn simple…but as with most things on the farm, it was the complications that would get you.

And those complications always seemed to happen in the bitter cold of winter, when things were cold, bitter and fragile.

 I didn’t understand them at first, little comments on Facebook, some emails, a few text messages, a few dropped hints on phone calls with family and friends….

So yes, I’ve got a confession to make…I’ve fallen behind…a two week vacation has now stretched into over a month of limited posting.

But, like a child, I’ve got some excuses…and some good stories.

Camping near Ninety Mile Beach, watching the mighty Snowy River head out to sea, losing two tires on one trip, going through the ancient Iron Bark forest, a day at the races, a trip to Singapore, Chinese New Year….and a whole host of other stories and observations, as well as stories of growing up on the wind swept plains of North Minnesota…

By the way, did I mention that I was beginning preparations to move back to Minnesota?

Yup, for those who haven’t heard, I’ll be heading back to Minnesota in about four months time…just in time for summer.

So I’ve got a little work to do, hopefully you’ll be coming back to check in now and then.

 Old Doc LaDue didn’t mince any words, he shot it straight.

“Jesus, you really screwed your back over.”  He said as he watched me writhe around in pain and agony as he poked and prodded.  “This is pretty incredible.”

Mom watched with her purse handles clutched between her hands, years of being a farm wife teaching her to be stoic in the face of her children feeling pain.

“Well, what do you recommend?” She asked.

“Well damn it Mary, ya got two options.”  Doc LaDue said, “First, take him to a chiropractor, but at his age, you will be going for the next ten years and likely it won’t do him a damn bit of good.  Second, you take him home and lay him straight on his back for about ten days.  Feet up on the couch or a chair.  No beds.  No chores. No school.  You need to let his back heal.”

Mom looked at him with a concerned expression.  On the one hand, understanding his wisdom, both from a medical as well as a pocketbook standpoint, on the other…how do you keep a thirteen year old flat on his back for ten days with school and chores calling his name…

“We’ll give him some good pain pills too…they will keep him from jumping around…” Doc LaDue said on cue, as if reading some of Mom’s thoughts.

But I think some of Mom’s concerns were about older brothers.  Without careful watching, like feral pigs, they would eat the weakest one in the litter…and it was probably her concern that they would either torment me to no end, or have me out in the barn helping with chores after only hours.

Mom and Dad both resolved that ten days of no school and no chores was a small price to pay for expensive chiropractic bills.

So there I sat…sedated, feet up on the couch, flat on my back…for a whole week.

And it was painful.

Not the back…the pills that the good doctor gave me cured that…but the agony of sitting…and waiting…and watching…

In the morning, waking to see my brothers go out to chores, Dad drinking his coffee, Mom waking up, little sister waking up…and me, watching it all go by…

The TV would go on…and the normal comforting shows that beckoned as we looked longingly going to school (But Mom…Good Morning America is educational!) seemed to mock me after a day or two.  The fun of watching it wore thin after only a few days…at night, I’d doze to sleep as Dad dozed in front of the television.

It was mind numbing and dull.

I’m not sure if my classmates understood why I was so excited to get back to my seventh grade classes.  I’m not sure if my brothers understood why I was happy to get back to chores…

But I’d seen the otherside…and it was decidedly not for me.

 He was a bit of a legend on campus, for contradictory reasons.  He was a fantastic guy, but an ornery old curmudgeon.  A good professor and teacher, and a crank.  A fantastic man, but a bit of an ass.

And I’d agree with all of them.

In fairness, when I met Thor, as he was known among the students (Thor being his first name - a full blooded Scandinavian), was in remission from a very serious and ongoing battle with cancer.  But that didn’t make him any less ornery.

He was guest lecturer in our micro economics class, right before Thanksgiving break. His lecture was legendary.  He would give the class a concise breakdown on fixed costs versus marginal costs versus variable costs - and would use the example of a pig farm.  When you couldn’t cover your variable costs….then and only then would you shoot the pigs…

It was gruesome, educational, and hearing it from Thor, very, very funny.

The spring semester, I had class with Thor.  Where he would give us lectures on labor unions, on the idiocy of the government, on the wonders of Reaganomics, on a wide range of rambling and varied topics…some of them even related to the class.

But he was a strict teacher.  When a family emergency took me away from class for two weeks, I showed up at his office door to discuss making up the five quizzes (three in one day!) that I missed.

“What can I do to get my grade back on track?”  I asked.

“Well, you know there aren’t any make up quizzes in my class.”  Thor replied.

“But what kind of grade am I going to get?” I asked.

“Oh, you’ll fail for sure.” He replied.

“So what do you recommend?” I pleaded.

“Well, there are a lot of good tech schools out there.” He replied with seriousness.

I went to see my advisor…

“I need to drop Thor’s class.” I said intently.

“Come now.  The semester is almost done.  Surely there has to be something that can be done.  Have you talked to Thor?” He asked.

“Yes.  He told me to go to tech school.”  I replied.

“OK, give me that drop slip, you can take it next spring.”  He replied with a surprised, but slightly bemused look on his face.

About a year later, I was asked to speak at a career day at a major high school in central Minnesota.  And as luck would have it, the university was sending a recruiter to the event…

Wouldn’t you know it, the recruiter was Thor.

We looked at each other warily…then resigned ourselves to our fate.  We gassed up the car about a block from campus, I got a Mountain Dew, he got a coffee…about four miles down the road, he asked…as brown steaks came down the window…”Do you know where my coffee is?”

Sure enough, he left it on top of the car…and the mug had frozen to the top in the bitter cold temp.

I must admit, it was a great trip - Thor was a great story teller and a great man.  We talked for the entire three hour trip down there, and the three hour trip back.  We even talked about the dropped class, and he left me with some words of wisdom.

“Well, I figured you would either get pissed and quit, or you would suck it up and keep on going.  I’m glad you chose the path you did.”

Thanks Thor, for a lesson well learnt.

I was about eight that Christmas, and Christmas for an eight year old is a very exciting time.  Christmas Eve and come and gone, and we had had a very good Christmas - Santa had been very good to us.  As was typical, we had milked cows early, had our Christmas Eve Supper with Grandma and a few other relatives, and then had gone for a ride - when we came back - Santa had showed up and left the toys!  With a flurry of paper, we opened the gifts, then as a family, went to Christmas Eve Mass - to come home again, play for a bit, and watch the Christmas Eve Service from the Vatican on television.It was a fun traditional Christmas for our family.

And we were all usually pretty exhausted when it was done.

My brother Jaime, two years older than me, and I shared a double bed at the top of the stairs.  We did this for most of my first ten years or so of my life.  I slept in the back towards the wall - he slept out towards the hallway.

That night I remember clearly - Jaime started talking and jerking in his sleep.  Now, this wasn’t out of the ordinary.  Jaime was usually saying something or tapping a toe.

This was different.  This was scary.

This also wasn’t the first time this had happened.  Jaime had been diagnosed with epilepsy years before - I’d seen this already, but it was still terrifying.

I ran to get Mom and Dad - and they rushed into the room, along with the rest of the family.  Jaime was going through convulsions.  The bed was covered in sweat.  He looked like a man possessed.

Mom called the hospital while Dad kept watch.

As fast as the convulsions started they stopped.  What seemed like terrifying hours to us, was in reality only a few minutes.  His body went from being very stiff, to very relaxed.  Slowly, he opened his eyes - looking wide eyed at all of us standing around the bed.  Wondering what the heck was going on.

“They said to bring him in as soon as possible.”  Mom said, so she and Dad went to get changed.

Sitting on the bed next to him with older brother Tom, Jaime was still confused.  He grabbed my arm and looking at it then me said in a confused look, “Did you get that for Christmas?”

Tom and I were both confused until we realized that both Jaime and I had gotten watches from Santa the night before.  He was still coming around.

Dad came back and wrapped Jaime’s lanky frame in a blanket, picked him up and carried him out to the car.

As it turned out, it was just an adjustment of the medicine that was needed.  But Jaime would continues to deal with the epilepsy to this day - though medicine keeps it under control.

Not that it seems to slow him down much.  He went on from high school, got a degree from a technical college, and is the head mechanics at one of the top golf courses in the country.  He has a great family with two little boys that are as rambunctious as their father and uncle were not that long ago.

Years later, Jaime called me after a doctor’s appointment where they had used a new method to try and detect what might cause the epilepsy.

“They found a ditch in my brain!”  Jaime said with some gusto, “I should be dead!”

Sure enough, they detected a crease in his brain that shouldn’t be there.  They can’t figure out how his body survived or adapted to it.  Jaime found it pretty cool and pretty funny.

Fate, Faith, and a the wonders of our bodies….just one of the many of our Christmas gifts.

 The whole of December would be a time for decorating the house.  Mom would go nuts.  Wall hangings, garlands, wreaths, the big Christmas tree, greenery, knick knacks - it wasn’t overdone, but it was always done just right.  The center piece of the holiday decorating was always the Nativity scene.

The Nativity scene an old one and it was far from fancy.  Little baby Jesus wasn’t wrapped in swaddling clothes, but instead, was lying in a manger, the manger, loaded with straw, was at a thirty degree incline, so that little eyes could peer over the big console television to see Him.

Mary, in her traditional blue, looked on serenely.  Joseph, in his traditional brown robes, had his hand raised in the air.  At one point he might have held a staff, or perhaps a lantern, but some careless youth had long ago lost it in packing and unpacking.  A blue-grey donkey, traditionally placed behind Mary in the stable sat with one ear erect, the other at a skewed angle.  The cow, traditionally placed behind Joseph, looked like he was merely chewing his cud.

The stable itself had a story, on the back of it, the writing was still faintly visible, I believe it was ‘Empire Peaches’ - it was a job well done by Dad in his first year of wedded bliss.  The stable, made with the rough hands of a farmer, constructed out of a peach crate, but with no intricacies denied - with a hole for a light in the back and even small braces around the front, just like a real stable.

At the peak of the stable, was a small finishing nail.  This is where the angel perched, with her small hanger on her back.  Dressed all in white and holding a banner that said, “Excesios Deo!”  She looked down upon the little lowly manger scene.

The shepherds were there too, two of them actually, with lambs at their feet or around their necks.  The manger scene was usually covered in a white cotton bunting - growing up in Northern Minnesota, who could imagine a Christmas without snow!  That snow made it hard sometimes for those poor shepherds to stand, sometimes having to dig their base…er…feet…deep down into the snow to feel solid ground.

The three wise men, looking like they were from the world over, one looking European, one looking Asian, and one looking African, travelled with one lowly camel to carry their load (or maybe the other camels were just over the horizon…).  The wise men too struggled in the deep Minnesota snow cover, usually at least one of them had to lean his head against the edge of the stable to keep erect.

It was a simple set of figurines to remind us of the true meaning of Christmas.  But there was another story two, of two newlyweds with barely a dollar between them that would go in each year and pick out a few more pieces for their Nativity set from the dime store.  Mom and Dad would make sure that it slowly grew each year, just as their marriage and family did each year as well.

 The idea was genius.  Pure genius.  Most people…ok, a good chunk of people that I know…send out some form of Christmas card.  These range from the very traditional Christmas card with short greeting and signature, to the Christmas letter with an update on what everyone in the family is doing, to the very funny Christmas newsletter, to the very political active rants….

But there was a handful of friends that chose the path less travelled, they chose something just a little bit different.  They chose to send out a musical Christmas card, a lyrical feast of the Yuletides finest, funniest, and sometimes self-composed composite of each.

And it was very good.  Though they only put together the CD’s for three years, like fine wine, they only get better with the ages, and each one got just a little bit better than the next.

The first year included commentary between songs, which made it seem less like a professional studio CD, but made it a lot more humorous….

First voice, “Hey guys, we only have about 2 minutes left on this tape, think you can fit in the next one?” 

Second voice “No way.” 

First voice “Just do it double time!” 

Second voice, sternly “NO!  Get another tape.”

First voice, “Hey!  Only joking…”

Then a double timed version of “Silent Night” ensued, before the very real, very reverent version was expertly sung.

The music on that first one too was a mix of the old and the new.  The first song, “Light of the Stable,” is one of my now favorite Christmas songs, as is the song, “It Wasn’t His Child.”  Both heartfelt and poignant.

For those that listened to the very end, they were treated to one of the funniest out takes of the CD.  I won’t go into detail, but add a little accordion into “Born to be Wild” and hilarity ensues.

Year number two had more of the classics - a stirring rendition of “Oh Holy Night,” and the “First Noel” as well as the new and self-composed, “That First Christmas Eve.”  The best track on the album was also a self-composed song with a Jamaican beat, “Santa’s Off Season” that talks about what Santa Claus does when the toys are delivered with the help of the internet and frequent flyer miles.  The risqué is there too with “My Baby is Santa’s Baby Tonight” which just proves that Santa too is a very giving old elf….

The third year was missing the intermittent comments and some of the original compositions, it made up for it in style, clarity and recording quality.  And there was some awe inspiring songs.  “What a Wonderful Beginning” is sharp and clear.  “Follow Me” tells the Christmas Story from the point of view of the inn keepers son.  “Run, Run Rudolph” is just good fun.  “Let It Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow” is both good fun and some rocking piano riffs (sounds like an old fashioned player piano…in a very good way!).  “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” is a very non-traditional version using some non-traditional instruments for fantastic effect.

It is no wonder that this hodge-podge of provisional musicians use the name, “Tale Spin” - because they whip up a great story told with great rhymes in great time.  Still one of the best Christmas cards I’ve ever got!

Our basement was old and cold, like most old farm basements.  Ours at least had a concrete floor and walls.  That made it usable.In the southwest corner was a row of refrigerators and freezers, used to store meat, summer produce, and anything that wouldn’t fit in the fridge upstairs.  In the northwest corner was the gas tank for the furnace as well as piles of old furniture - school desks from the country school, an old china cabinet, the crocks, and a few other odds and ends.  In the northeast corner was the floor drain, and next to that was the wood pile.  Though we had only burned wood for a couple of years, there was still some wood there, just in case.  In the southeast corner was the canning shelves and the big old butcher table, which us boys had converted into the train set.

It was the permanent home of that old electric train set, and we dutifully covered it…most of the time…with an old bed sheet to keep the tracks from getting to dusty and preventing train from getting the necessary juice.  There was nothing worse then having the train die on the back of the table.

Rolls of green artificial grass, made for train sets, were rolled out and tacked onto the table.  My older brothers had dutifully built a town on one side of the table.  An old general store, a black smith shop, and a host of houses made up the little hamlet.  The cornerstone of the place was the big old elevator, made from milk cartons, covered in tinfoil, and attached to the outside grain bins (old cardboard kool-aid containers - metallic colored, before the new plastic ones) and connected to the rest of the grain elevator with the grain leg (aka: straws).  It was complete with its own rail siding and loading spouts (also straws).

On the other side of the table was the little farm - complete with red barn and neat little farm house.  There was a herd of good steady Hereford cattle grassing on the dark green artificial grass.  In the far corner of the table, in the darkest corner of the table, was a mountain made of field rocks.  That is where the old side car station sat, with a mountain lion looking down from the boulders.

Crisscrossing the table in an orderly fashion were a series of roads - a highway that ran down the closest edge of the table, a dirt road that lead up to the farm, quiet streets that ran in a grid-like pattern.  Match box cars drove through the town and hauled the grain into the elevator.  Combines and tractors worked the fields.

Like a real railroad, the track needed constant attention, cleaning and fixing, with derailments common (luckily none of them through the little town…).  The engines too would require a certain amount of upkeep, occasionally needing to be taken apart and cleaned.

Overall, it was a classic small town scene.  We would drive the train, harvest the fields, and let our imaginations let us run this little idyllic piece of fantasy rural America - there would be droughts and disasters.  Good crops and celebrations.

Probably a few more robberies, car chases, and shoot outs then a town of eight buildings should have….

Through it all, the old train would chug its way around the little country scene, circling the table, dropping off cars at the elevator.  Stopping at the station, picking up passengers, and leaving the tankers on the siding.

Overtime, like a lot of the small hamlets, ours too decayed and withered with time.  The railroad pulled out, the buildings decayed.

The old table is used for storage now, the old train set sits in a box in one of my brother’s basement, but like a lot of the dreams of rural America, I think we hope to resurrect it so that our children can enjoy the simple pleasures, the simple fun, the imagination of the little country town.

As a kid, Christmas was a magical time.  After Thanksgiving, the last Thursday in November, the entire world changed.  As the nights got longer, the air got colder, and snow began to fly, the excitement would build.This was true even on television.  Coming home from school, we would have our little lunch - usually milk and cookies, while watching one of the carton classics like Scooby-Doo.  But once that was done, and before we had to go out for chores, one of the local television stations ran with their own programs.

One of the local news anchors would run the program, which was always featured with him sitting in a chair surrounded by excited young children (which could have been my classmates) next to a Christmas tree.

He would always give us watching at home a good welcome, than would come the cartons.

How they got permission to run the cartons I’ll never know, but it was always a hodge-podge of carton shorts and a wide cast of characters.  It would have Rocky and Bullwinkle - the carton flying squirrel and  moose from Frostbite Falls, MN) sometimes followed by an old Mickey Mouse carton, then might come Bugs Bunny, or maybe Dudley Dooright or Yogi Bear.  Most would have nothing to do with Christmas, but would just be good classic favorites.  Then there would be a mix of shows I’ve never seen before or since.  Cartoons that have been lost to world - but were sure entertaining to us kids.

Once the half hour was up, the show always ended the same too - the anchor would ask all the kids in attendance, “And what time is it now?”

In unison, they would all cry, “It’s time for Santa Claus!”

The kids would cry and jump up and down with excitement, as the big man himself strolled into the audience of screaming kids.  Laughing his jolly laugh as he called out names and handed out presents.

It always seemed so magical.

In truth, there was a commercial reality to the whole thing too.  The sponsor of the program was the big shopping mall up in Grand Forks, so as the final shots showed excited kids ripping open presents, I think they were hoping that the kids watching at home would rush to their parents and say, “Mom!  Dad!  I want that new GI Joe action figure!  And you can get it at the Center Mall in Grand Forks.”

Meanwhile, the folks would be quietly shaking their heads in disgust.

With excitement, we would hop up from the floor and get dressed for chores, always with a bit of excitement in our step.  Dad didn’t like us being late for doing chores, and inevitably, the show would make us late - we wouldn’t make it out to the barn until after 5:00pm.

But we always seemed to get the chores done a lot faster, knowing that Christmas was getting closer every day.