Valley City

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Sliding Home Again

– Clarence Holm

I saw us last night, as we were 50 years ago.
We were running and screaming
Yelling each other’s names
Staying out late and misbehaving.

You were a pitcher – I caught the ball
We mowed down every batter!
With pitches just striking corners,
How they swang made no matter.

Your waist was thin
My hair was thick.
You grinned like Friday mornings,
When we wuz faking being sick.

Teddy was our buddy
Sandy hung around.
Dale rode his bicycle
And followed the big Greyhound.

Schoolyard friends never grow old,
They live in special memories.
Where kids only get faster
And dreams preserve my reveries.

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The Lambs of the Prairie

As a child my mother spoke gently of her family’s story and those that went before. She spoke of a special recollection of young children buried way too young on the plains of North Dakota. Her haunting stories spoke of the children buried beneath the plain white markers embossed with fading lambs representing their youth. The Prairie Rest Cemetery is solitary remembrance dedicated to the youngest lambs who died while establishing our state many years ago.

The Lambs of the Prairie

– Clarence Holm

Beneath the broad Dakota blue
On a hilltop kissed with morning dew
Were the silent lambs on prairie old
Lying peacefully, a family’s tears consoled.

Soundless sentinels endlessly resting
Reverent callers gazes arresting.
Their fading faces don’t betray
Machine etched stones, long in decay.

An eternal place of gathering,
Sweet memories in stone are offering
Old stories lost and gone
Waiting together for their eternal dawn.

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Once Upon A Farm

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-Clarence Holm

Over the years my family had many dogs on the farm. Each in their unique way performed the duties that were expected of a working animal. A farm dog’s responsibilities included fetching the cows, guarding the chickens, killing rats and defending the house. If a dog could not handle those duties it was replaced. There was no forgiveness for mistakes, a dog that attacked chickens or stole their eggs cost money or at the very least stole food off our plates. Life on a small Dakota farm didn’t allow for tolerance.

That did not mean we didn’t love our dogs and treat them with reverence and respect. A good canine was a companion and friend. They possessed a spirit and seemed to have the ability to read minds and carry out unspoken commands. A good dog took the place of two men in the pasture and could easily maintain control of the herd as we drove them to a meadow for grazing. While the cows fed on the sweet June grass the dog would keep a wary look out as he sat with us on those lazy summer days.

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Farmers knew each other’s dogs. They recognized which had special skills as herders, hunters or guard dogs and spoke almost reverently of their talents. They were able to identify a dog on sight and recite which farm they worked on.

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When I was young we had a collie named Lassie. She was a smart dog and who did her best to keep me out of trouble. She loved to go with me to the pasture, where she could run and chase the pheasants she’d flush out of the weeds. If she came across a hay bale, she would wait patiently for me to turn it over, exposing the mice nests that were always underneath.

But Lassie lived to round up cattle, as we approached the herd she would quiver with excitement, waiting for the command to “sic-em” whenever a young heifer dared to separate from the herd. The older milk cows would just roll their eyes at the foolishness or the yearlings. They would watch, while lazily chewing their cuds, as Lassie nipped at the hooves of the insolent bovines. However in the back of my mind, I always suspected it was all an act, put on for our family’s consumption. We truly believed when we weren’t around, it was a good bet that the heifers and Lassie were out playing together.

My final year of farming was when I was 10. By that time I had learned to drive the truck and most of the tractors. I could successfully drive a tractor, while towing a wagon to a field to pick rocks. While straw bales were no challenge to throw around, alfalfa bales (at 70-80lbs) were still a little too heavy to throw. (Although I could pick them up by one end and slide them around.) I could sack grain and run the auger; in short I left one year before becoming an official field hand. But by far the hardest thing was saying goodbye to that dog.

We took Lassie over to our Uncle’s farm and left him there. As he had eight children at home, Lassie’s last few years were filled with joy. The last glimpse of her was as she took over her new brood of kids, waiting for one of them to say “Sic-em”.

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Twelve Feet is Less Than Eternity

All wound up and looking for trouble!

All wound up and looking for trouble!

Adventures On The Farm
-Clarence Holm
In the morning, we had fed the pigs, collected the eggs and run up the road to check for mail. By mid-morning we were slaying dragons and hunting wooly buffalo. The afternoon started with a circus, featuring the warted toads along with black and yellow salamanders we had captured near the well to be exhibited as wild animals. We loaded our side show into our red wagons, hooking them up to our bikes and trikes and held a parade. We sang “ta-da” and banged on the oil cans we used for drums.
For three young boys, ages 4, 5 and 9 we knew we had to keep busy. We had learned that people on a farm that didn’t have something to do, were given a job by my mother.
After an afternoon nap we were well rested, so we decided to go exploring and poking around through the old garage. Under a shelf we found a rusted hammer, with one claw snapped off. On the shelf was a can of used nails dad must have put aside to be straightened. Leaning against the wall was some old lumber that we knew could be built into something…
It was Jim, the eldest and most worldly that decided we would build an airplane. We had seen them fly over the farm many times and knew the basic shape. We needed two boards for wings, one longer than the other and a board for the planes body, big enough to hold one passenger. So we grab three boards, precut to length. We found a six-footer for the body with another the same length for the front wing and a four-footer that seemed just right for the tail.
With the nails we found in the shop, we pounded the ship together. It was Jim who remembered we needed to turn the plane over, allowing us to crimp the nails down. “That’ll make it extra strong” he said.
We dragged the plane out into the sun to do a final inspection. We had no wheels to put under it, but once it was flying it wouldn’t matter. 
We took turns climbing aboard imagining the flight. In our minds we soared up high and chased the crows from the sky. Our excitement really grew once we convinced ourselves that this plane could really fly. All we needed was a way to get it airborne.”If we could drag it up on the barn roof, I bet we could do loop de loops” I said. “I know I can fly it!” Eugene the youngest shouted.
“Because Eugene’s the youngest, he should be first.” Jim ruled. “But” he continued, “since he’s so small we should start off a smaller building- like the garage”.
With that bit of wisdom we agreed on a plan. We would climb up on the roof with the old wooden ladder, dragging the plane to the peak. There Eugene would climb on board while Jim & I would push as hard as we could to get him started. Eugene would slide down the roof, gaining speed and would soar off the garage roof out into the pasture where he could land safely.
Just a short test flight!
Next would be me, then Jim, who would go up on the barn for the grand finale. He planned to fly the plane over to our cousin’s farm and wave to them as they looked up in awe.
It was a grand plan – one of our best.
“Clarence” Jim said. “Grab the plane and head up the ladder, I’ll follow and push.”  With that we sprang into action and in no time all three of us were up on the garage roof gazing off into the wild blue yonder. Eugene was excited and wanted to go, but Jim had some last minute instructions. “Hold on tight and don’t fly to far, remember this is only a test flight.” Jim said.  Eugene nodded sincerely.
With a mighty 1-2-3 we pushed Eugene and the wooden airplane off the peak and down the roof.
It never really got going; in fact it skidded really slowly with Eugene bouncing it forward, urging the plane to the edge. As we watched it reached the edge and flopped slowly off the twelve foot drop, disappearing with a mighty crash.
When it didn’t reappear soaring into the sky, we ran to the edge and peered down at our brother- motionless. As we watched we heard him gasp, as if he was drawing in all the air in the world. We knew what was coming next; this was not our first adventure!
Eugene’s scream pierced that summer sky and reverberated off the barn. We knew we had to shut him up, before he attracted Mom. We clambered down the old ladder and ran up to Eugene. “Are you OK?” “Look at how far you flew!” “Do you want to go again?”
Confused at first, he struggled to his feet. After a moments silence he said. “Did you see me fly? I flew the plane, but now it’s all broken.”  Then he shouted out, “Should we find more wood to make another, so you two can have a turn?”
At that moment, Mom called, “Supper” and another day had ended.
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I’m Homesick!

I want to return to my old neighborhood, the place where I felt welcome no matter which friend’s house I was in. I want to go back to the place where dark mysteries involved misplaced bats and balls and were normally solved long before nightfall.

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I want to hear the children’s songs of “Double Dutch” accompanied by the sound of leather soled saddle shoes landing on the sidewalk in time to the rhythm. I listen to hear “Ante I Over” and “Pum Pum Pull Away” in the night-time air just before the curfew whistle.

I hunger to taste hearty homemade doughnuts cooked in an iron kettle full of lard, heated on an old cook stove. I want to hear the voices of women gossiping in country kitchens about neighbors and friends and who were and weren’t at church last week.

I want to turn the scratchy tuner of a wooden AM Radio to KOVC to catch the broadcast of the noontime market report, followed by an hour of Polka Party, hosted by Dale Olson, hawking bedroom suites from the local furniture store. I long to hear the “Rest of the story” from Paul Harvey and smell the sulfur of a match lighting a Chesterfield my father would smoke before heading back out in the field.

I wish to feel of the power of the old John Deere rumbling through the field, tugging a four bottom plow and listen to the flutter of the pheasants flushed from the slough as my old dog followed along in the field. I hope to catch the morning sun burning the dew off the pasture where our Holsteins spent the night.

I crave warm hugs from people who are now long gone that still serve up memories that encourage me to do my best at everything I do, that remind me that the best part of life is still coming and I have family and friends that love and need me with them.

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Memories must serve as placeholders of dreams locked in my heart till I come home again in time.

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Privy Memories

Every farm had one, but not all were equal. There were “one holers” and “two holers”. There were wooden ones and tin ones. There were permanent ones and temporary ones. There were simple ones and fancy ones. About the only things they had in common was that outhouses were cold in the winter, stunk in the summer and were darn nice to have when you needed one.

The common outhouse, if there were such a thing, were two hole affairs. The seats were built into the structure with the opening cut with a hand saw and shaped expertly with a rasp to eliminate the sharp edges. A frequent upgrade was a store bought seat that could be lowered into place for the comfort of the ladies.

As a point of pride, the structures were built to last. The floorboards were made from good quality lumber and were attached to strong 2×6 joists that could take the yearly move. White pine was used for the walls and roof. A good sized one was 6 feet wide, 5 feet deep and about 8 feet high. The roof was a simple affair that tilted from front to back to shed the rain. Shingles were optional. Windows were rarely installed and the only source of light was the obligatory crescent moon which was cut high into the door to identify its true purpose. Outhouses, if painted at all, were normally white.

The structure itself was placed over a hole that was dug just for that purpose. The building was moved as needed and the old hole was covered with soil. The new holes were dug down to about a six foot depth, or to the point where the second or third oldest child refused to dig any further. The key to a successful outhouse hole was to locate it on a crown of the higher ground with soil that had good absorption. Nobody wanted to have the run off from a thunderstorm come roaring down a slope and flooding the hole, allowing the water to lift the contents out of the pit.

Another key consideration for location was privacy. A lot of farms placed the outhouse on the edge of tree line. This gave shade in the summer and cut down on the wind in the winter. However, distance from the house to the privy always had to be respected. When nature called, no one wanted it too far from the house.

The last concern that needed to be addressed was ventilation. How much was a matter of much contention and usually came down to the owner’s preference. Obviously the more ventilation used, the cooler (and less smelly) the building was in the summer. However, in winter, a draft cause by the ventilation could be very uncomfortable and with temperatures hovering at minus 30 degrees Fahrenheit, wind chill was a risk that had to be accounted for.

The most important accessory for the building was paper. Years before the environmentalists ever heard of it, farmers practiced recycling. The best source for outhouse paper was the pink wrappers from peaches. But, they were a seasonal item and were normally saved for guests.

In most cases it was the Sears Roebuck Catalog that made the best impression, as an educational reference used to clean up the farmer’s bottom line. For farmers, the time spent in the outhouse let them keep abreast of new implements for the farm. For the wife, her daytime constitutional gave her a window into the luxuries of the affluent people in town. For the children, their efforts were rewarded with their first introduction into the secrets of the opposite sex. Many a young male was driven to distraction by the lavish description of corsets and braziers displayed in the drawings on the black and white pages of that book.

All of this information was provided by an ingenious marketing idea; that was recycled page by page by page.

Many people thought the worst thing that could happen in an outhouse was to run out of paper. However, it was not paper which caused the near tragedy on a nearby farm. It all came down to ventilation.

The farm was located a half-mile down the road from ours and was only a quick walk across the field. During those last few years there, our family had taken to moving into the cities for the winter. Our mother was employed as a teacher and we had stopped milking, so there was no real need for us to remain on the farm year round. Our neighbor farmed year round, so winter preparation was much higher on their priority.

It was because of this that the two farms subscribed to different theories of outhouse ventilation. Ours was loosely built to eliminate the heat, while theirs was built near the trees and was tightly sealed to stop all but the most persistent drafts. In fact, to help stop cold air penetration, a much stronger foundation was used on theirs which almost sealed the lower chamber of the outhouse.

Now this design has performed flawlessly for years on my neighbor’s farm and when we came out to visit in the preceding winter, their outhouse seemed remarkably warm. But during the summer of 1964 things had changed. It was much hotter than normal and the wind did not seem to blow as much as usual. It made for an uncomfortable June and it appeared that July would be following the same weather pattern.

As bad as that year’s weather was, we youngsters still had one thing to look forward to. It was the holiday second only to Christmas for us. It was the 4th of July! The 4th was a time of county fairs, watermelons, cap guns, potato salad and fireworks.

Now this was the old time Forth of July, when the firecrackers had much more pop. When you set off a Baby Gorilla firecrackers, you knew you needed to get away. The older children played with Cherry Bombs and Silver Salutes. (The Silver Salute was spoken about almost reverently and it was always mentioned that they contained a quarter stick of dynamite.) When my older brother placed a Cherry Bomb under a can and set it off, the can was blown fifty or sixty feet in the air. Cherry Bombs and Baby Gorillas were way too powerful for the smaller children.

Little children were given Lady Fingers, while not as powerful as a Baby Gorilla; they still made a nice bang. If you placed them under a can, they could easily launch it about 5 feet into the air. It didn’t take the those same kids too long to find out that if you set Lady Fingers off in a more confined area, the noise produced was greatly enhanced. So it was common for children to blow up their fireworks between the out buildings, trying to get the loudest bang from the reverberation.

This particular Fourth of July seemed routine until nature called one of my neighbor’s younger daughters. Unlike her brothers, a little girl could not just stop and run to between the lilac bushes; she would have to use the outhouse. So off she went, carrying her lit punk and the package of Lady Fingers with her. It was hot in there, but being the proper lady she was, she closed and latched the door before dropping her trousers and plopping herself down on one of the two seats.

It didn’t take but a few seconds for her to put this spare time to use and imagine what a great sound it would make to drop a Lady Finger down the other hole. The noise would be sure to be deafening in this small of a place! She resolved to try it before telling the other children about her great idea.

Still seated with her pants down, she took her punk and lit a firecracker and threw it in the hole. Nothing! — It had been a dud. Something must have put it out as it descended into the pit. So, she lit another and waited to be sure it caught properly before dropping it down the shaft. Moments after the firecracker went into the outhouse pit, a tremendous explosion was heard across the farm.

It was a combination of the hot heavy air and the sealed foundation that trapped the methane gas down in that hole. When that little firecracker went off, it ignited that sour gas and blew that outhouse and the little girl right off that foundation, twisting it off to the side.

Luckily, she survived her physical injury but still shudders when attending our neighborly gatherings, knowing that someone will have to bring up the story of her launching the outhouse.