January 20, 2026

History Press Copy is at TuckerSecurity at PODIUM 1-19-26 When did we get electricity, 1950 Gas refrigerator, 2 big propane tanks before electricity milking machines, 1950, bathroom 1950. Deep ditches frost line from well hire bailing instead of pitching hay, got rid of horses, 1953 big sled, big wash machine—2 versions ever a wash board When did Kovnesky build addition first the covered stairway stealimg Christmas trees picking blueberries from other property stone wall house---Christine Lawrence I’m going to be a dancer How did we get water for washing clothes Throwing beer can Spooner park family reunion Bats in attic Whip-poor-will H.L.Mencken “Heave an egg out a Pullman window, and you will hit a fundamentalist anywhere in the United States" Christmas, stealing tree, home-made ice cream, waiting for presents Berries on farm, blue berries, June berries, choke cherries, pin cherries, goose berries, plums, wild straw berries Picking berries on other people’s property Clay falls Spring playing around trees and along falls along streams along road Old stone wall Sheets on line in winter Dad angry about spraying along ditches Saw mill across the road Dinosaurs in the Ark: This should be a chapter heading A Wisconsin Childhood According to legend Victor Hugo locked himself in his room, took off all his clothes and vowed to stay there until he finished his novel, The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Preface Maureen Murdock, Mary Karr, The Art of the memoir Life . . . is like that. You live it forward, but understand it backward. Cutting for Stone, 9 Am I fooling myself? I know I’m skilled in self-deception, and maybe for the sake of argument I ought to suppose I am. (Jayber Crow, 247) Maureen Murdock, Unreliable Truth: On Memoir and Memory (2003) Our memories are unreliable. If we have not thought about an incident since it happened, it might be more reliable than something we’ve repeatedly mulled over in our minds. But even as the incident is happening, our observations are unreliable. Two people standing together seeing a car accident right in front of them often are at odds about what happened and who was at fault. We do well to look inward for bias and to recognize that we are skilled in self-deception. Precious memories, how they linger How they ever flood my soul In the stillness, of the midnight Precious sacred scenes unfold Precious father, loving mother Fly across the lonely years And old home scenes, of my childhood In fond memory appears verses: 'Mid pleasures and palaces Though I may roam Be it ever so humble There's no place like home A charm from the sky Seems to hallow us there Which seek thro' the world Is ne'er met with elsewhere To thee, I'll return Overburdened with care The heart's dearest solace Will smile on me there No more from that cottage A gain I will roam Be it ever so humble There's no place like home It was Sherwood Anderson, in New Orleans in 1925, who encouraged the young writer to return home and write about what he knew. Willie Morris, Faulkner’s Mississippi, 8 “We contain all the ages we have ever been.” Anne Lamott It’s an elegant counterpoint to the conventional narrative of aging as loss—aging as a rich process of accretion—and it also connects the generations. November 17, 1957 was the last day of my childhood—the day the stalking began. Weeks earlier, brother David had gone off to Michigan State on a full-ride scholarship. That meant I would be taking over his chores. Jeannine was technically next in line, but the barn at milking time was the last place she wanted to be. I chuckle at her sidling up to a cow and trying to properly fasten the suction cups. So, I won the jackpot. Twenty cows, a two-unit milker, and heap of confidence added up to quick one-hour job. I actually enjoyed it. But as the fall days grew shorter, darkness swallowed the barn and wind whistled through the cracks. I didn’t mind, but I was glad when Dad came after eating his supper to finish up the work. But then, the Sunday evening news. Ed Gein arrested at his farm near Plainfield, Wisconsin. If it’s true that there are some 12 billion acres is farm land on earth, how was it that I ended up living on the most beautiful 200 of those? Of course, my 200 acres as the most beautiful is a subjective opinion like a man telling a woman she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. “There is not a square inch in the whole domain of our human existence over which Christ, who is Sovereign over all, does not cry, Mine!” these are the words of Abraham Kuyper, a Dutch Calvinistic Reformed scholar. When I was teaching part time at Calvin College, I often heard people quote that with great appreciation. I regarded it with less than enthusiasm and even less of understanding. Why is Christ crying “Mine!” when presumably its already his, or if it isn’t, couldn’t he have it without crying out for it? taxidermy INTRODUCION Burnett County. The Geography of this book s largely Burnett County, northern Wisconsin. Family farms, few of them prosperous. Not like the rolling hills of wealthy farms in the south of this the “Dairy” State. Snows of winter thundered across the Great Plains and heaped up in Burnett County. Forty below zero. School canceled, though never farm chores. More than any other factor, Burnett County is rural. In fact, there are no incorporated towns in the county, only two other counties in the state that rank so rural. Hardly a disadvantage to us. Our farm was a stone’s throw (if you had a mighty good arm) from Washburn County). Stand on County Line Road and hurl a rock across the Yellow River and through a patch of wet land, and it would land on edge of our property. East of the county line was Washburn County, with a city of more than two thousand. Spooner is where we did our business, particularly selling strawberries. To supplement income from our dairy farm (which barely paid for expenses), we raised strawberries. I don’t ever remember buying new plants. Rather, we would cut the runners every few years and start a new patch of them in a new garden that had been readied early in the spring. June berries are typically larger and brighter red, but Dad preferred everberries. And our customers often raved about how sweet they were. Spooner was also where we did our banking. Dad deposited each week of the summer all of the cash he had earned from strawberries, and us kids were expected to do the same. We earned four cents a quart for picking berries, and I often volunteered to sell them door-to-door which earned me an extra penny, a quarter if I could sell twenty-five quarts, though I rarely did. So, three or four of us kids lined up ahead of Dad and deposited a dollar or more in a savings account. By the time I graduated from high school, I had saved $1600 from various jobs, enough to pay for my first year at St. Paul Bible College. We also shopped in Spooner—at the grocery store for items we didn’t produce at the farm. Vegetables all came from our gardens. Mom butchered chickens by cutting their heads off. Sounds gruesome, but how else was she supposed to kill them? And there was a common saying about someone was running around like a chicken with its head cut off. The bird was then put in scalding water and the feathers plucked, after which it was cut down the middle and the innards were scooped out by hand, the gizzard thrown away. Little was wasted. Butchering a heifer was more complicated, Dad would shoot the animal, slit its throat, and hang it up by its hoofs, and then skin it. I recall helping in the skinning, pulling the hide away from the meat and slicing a knife down the thin tissue as the hide fell off. Dad sold the hide at the meat locker where the two sides of beef were cut and wrapped for future meals. If anyone thought us poor, it wouldn’t have been based on our diet: lots of milk, a variety of vegetables, poultry, fish and good cuts of meat. True, we occasionally ate squirrel, which I found tasty. Deserts almost always accompanied our meals. Cookies, cake, and pie was standard. My absolute favorite, Mom’s strawberry shortcake, topped by home-made whipped cream. Besides canning, cooking and baking, Mom was a great seamstress. We shopped together with her for fabric in the basement of the JCPenney store on Main Street. How well I remember wandering through the bulks of material from which to choose, together with a pattern size that I could grow into. Jeannine, three years older, was often along, looking for fabric for her own clothes. We were in a local 4-H club, and with Mom’s help and her own ingenuity, she won blue ribbons. Spooner also boasted a shoe store. And not just an ordinary one. It was one with an x-ray machine that you stand on and look down though a glass device to see how close your toes were to the end of the shoe. Like our clothing, shoes were sized to last. Spooner was also school where we attended school—after Gaslyn Creek school was closed. It would nave been nice if I had enjoyed a soft landing on entering Hammill elementary school. That was not to be the case. The teacher Miss Sin was a fitting name. She was a large woman with bulging eyes whose loud threats and scolding were scary enough, but actual punishment was severe. Outside her room was a small closet where she sent us seven-year-olds for misbehavior. She would lock the door, and leave the child in the dark. I was locked in only once for a short time. My crime was turning around and whispering to another student. When she let me out, I was crying so hard that she threatened that if I didn’t stop, I’d be locked in again. I returned to class stifling my sniffles. Third grade was much better than second. My teacher Miss Madden was a lively, though hardly young, Irish women. She had a shillelagh (pronounced shill-lay’-lee) that she, in fun, threatened us with. Hers, unlike the traditional weapon for self-defense, was like a thin conductor’s baton. We all behaved in class, but whenever we did get a little rowdy, she would get out her shillelagh and shake it at us. I loved her, but took issue when she refused to give me credit for more than one book report when I repeatedly read The Boxcar Children. In fourth grade my teacher was pretty Mrs. Johnson, who I have essentially forgotten. Not fifth grade. Mr DeLano was a good-natured, heavy-set man who transferred to Taylors Falls, Minnesota, and with whom I corresponded for several years. For sixth grade I moved four blocks west to the Junior High campus, next door to Horace Mann High School, named for the much-admired Massachusetts reformer who argued that twelve years of free public education should be offered to all children. Closer to home, was Frank Hammill, for whom the Spooner elementary school was named. “Spooner,” according to one source, “was his hobby, his dream, his delight.” He arrived in the village, then made up of “the old Scribner Hotel and a few scattering shacks at Chandler Pit.” He was Spooner’s first mayor, serving from 1910 to 1918, overseeing the building of infrastructure that made both water and electricity available to residents that stimulated significant population growth. Indeed, he was involved in every facet of life in the early days, not the least of which was his ownership and editor of the Spooner Advocate, still going strong today. Though not openly heralded, as were his public initiatives, behind the scenes Hammill sought out poor families and brought food and clothing, including coats and shoes for bitter winters. Nor did he forget toys for the children and tickets to picture shows. The youngsters knew him and considered him their friend. He made loans to those who needed extra help, expecting repayment, though never demanding it. He and his wife Helena had endured terrible loss in their own lives when daughter Alpha Catherine died at age two and son Nat Goodwin died at five. One can only imagine what he might have accomplished, if Hammill had lived until old age. He died at sixty-four after a brief illness. Because he was so well known and highly respected, the only place large enough for his funeral was the Amory, and even then, standing room only. SOURCE: Frank Hammill left his mark on Spooner BY BILL THORNLEY, Apr 2, 2009 I had friends at school and was invited to birthday parties when I was a preteen, one that Mom hosted for me. I remember only because I’ve seen a photo with seven or eight girls sitting in the shade of an old oak in our front yard. I don’t remember what gifts I might have gotten, but I do remember the party for Penny Hoppe. Everyone—I mean everyone there—gave her panties. I’m horribly ashamed that I must have been one of them. There is no one else to assign blame. Along about sixth or seventh grade, town kids began separating themselves from farmers—that often being our designation. I did have one good friend but she had a boyfriend, and noon hours belonged to him. So, I began taking books to the lunchroom and studying there after I’d eaten. Often Jerry Jensen would join me, more to study than to talk. It was around that time—seventh to eighth grade that after I got home from school in the afternoon, I would be joined by three friends, all of us on bikes after school: Jean, George, Tom and me. Gorge was Jean’s boyfriend; Tom was mine. The were imaginary friends. If I didn’t have a real boyfriend, by golly, I’d have an imaginary one. I never told anyone, though one time when I didn’t see Jeannine in the garden by the road, she asked me who I was talking with. Of course, I didn’t tell her. At fourteen, I did have a boyfriend, Ronnie Christner, but we didn’t date—not by my choice, rather, my mother’s. But then on my fifteenth birthday, July 17, 1960, he made a trip to my home to talk with my mother. He was told we were a half mile west picking blue berries. He parked and walked across a field. He asked my mother if we could date. She said no. He left, and before the week was out, I learned he was dating someone else. Telling this story leads me to another topic. Time and again as I tell my story, I relate incidents where we are on other people’s property, whether harvesting a Christmas tree, picking berries, picnicking or hunting. Today you might as likely as not be shot. Too bad. I’m reminded when we were hiking in the Lake District of England. It was just assumed that hikers would follow trails through private land where cows were often grazing, styles provided to cross fences. And I do remember stopping along a remote two track and eating our fill of black raspberries. So, maybe we’ve become too uptight with all our signs, NO TRESPASSING under penalty of law. Indians in our Neighborhood Today when I speak of Indians, I’m referring to people from India. Native American is the proper term to use when speaking of people whose heritage goes back to those who inhabited North America before white immigrants arrived from Europe. are employed by St. Croix Chippewa Native Americans than any other entity in Burnett County, thanks to Casino money. That would have been impossible to comprehend when I was growing up in the 1950s. Back then and in the decades following natives were poorest people in the neighborhood. Our closest neighbors to the West were the O’Maras, always struggling to just get by. Archie O’Mara and his brother lived two miles north. He had welding equipment, and Dad often used his services. He lived in what appeared to be no more than a tumbled-down shack. Beulah and Dwayne Arbuckle, who were enrolled in our one-room school, also came from a very humble background. 1. Ed Gein and Me 2. Saved at Seven 3. Dinosaurs in the Ark 4. Gaslyn Creek School 5. Best Pal and Brother 6. A Neighborhood Heritage 7. Two Hundred Acres and a Goat 8. Pigeon Lake Bible Camp 9. French horn Fanatic 10. Critical Decisions and Complications Imaginary friends Chapter 1: Ed Gein and Me The fear of the unknown is the greatest fear of all. Howard P Lovecraft Nov. 17 1957: the night I first became aware Ed Gein was stalking me. I was in seventh grade. No doubt he frightened a lot of people—especially those living in and around the small town of Plainfield, Wisconsin. But no one was stalked as I was. He would be lurking in the shadows behind the giant red oak near the corner of the barn while I was milking cows or he would be moving warily between the chicken coop and granary. Sometimes he was slinking around by the corncrib—never near the house. That is, except for late at night when I was trying to fall asleep in my twin bed, older sister nearby. I had long been used to bats, crawling and scratching five feet above me in the attic at night. But Ed Gein made no sound—only his shadowy and silent presence. It would be six years before I would leave home and go away to college. That’s when he apparently lost track of me—except for appearing in my dreams. Indeed, I have never fully escaped his presence. Gein’s notoriety coincided with David, my older brother, leaving home to study engineering on a full-ride scholarship at Michigan State University. His first choice was MIT, but the school offered him only tuition, a hefty stipend, but he needed all expenses covered. I was a proud sister, six years younger, and it was my choice to take over his barn choirs, happy to leave my older sister Jeannine with Mom and kitchen duty. By the middle of November darkness in Northern Wisconsin came early. I didn’t mind. I knew every calf pen, feed barrel, ladder, door, and stanchion where each cow was locked. I got used to the darkness, the only light being a sheltered bulb on top of a high pole some distance away. I well remember the shadows against the open barn door—oak leaves fluttering in the breeze. It gave me a sense of well-being. But then the day the news broke. A grotesque fabrication so inconceivable that only a Halloween prankster could have contrived it. Ed Gein couldn’t be real. But he was. With every grisly detail, I shuddered at the thought. And with every new detail appeared a new joke—the kind middle-school boys love to tell. Fortunately, I’ve forgotten most. However, I’ll never forget the one related to a department store some thirty miles away—Herbergers. What did Ed Gein serve hi guests? Herbergers, of course. The fact is that Gein never invited visitors—for good reason. But it has astounded me that he actually had friends. He certainly was not the life of the party, but neighbors liked him and sometimes had him do handy-man jobs for them. He also worked alongside neighbors on threshing crews and road repair. He was simply a normal guy. I look at the picture, and I see a family resemblance—my father, his brothers and cousins. He was born in La Crosse, Wisconsin1906, six years younger than my father. George, his father, was an alcoholic ne’er-do-well. His mother, Augusta, was an authoritarian religious fanatic. The marriage was strained, to say the least. Her husband, deemed a hopeless cause, she wielded power her two sons, Henry and Ed. She had a fierce love for them, while at the same time haranguing them about the awful sin of sexual fantasies, drawn directly from Old Testament stories. Women, she insisted were tools of Satan. When Ed was eleven, she was determined to get out of La Crosse, and move the family to a farm on the edge of the tiny town of Plainfield, Wisconsin. Except for attending school, the boys rarely ventured beyond the farm. Although George was scorned by his wife, he apparently earned enough money to keep the family afloat. After he died in 1940, the “boys” (now in their upper thirties) began picking up odd jobs to pay the bills. 1944 proved to be a strange year. Ed and Henry were cutting and burning brush on their own property. As the story goes, it got out of control, and by the time it was extinguished, Henry’s burned body was discovered. How does a scenario like that occur? Henry was able-bodied in his early forties. Did he just lay down and die? Hardly. He would have run for his life, perhaps dying at some point later of his burns. Was he killed? Did his younger brother Ed shoot him and tell law enforcement that the roaring fire scorched him to death? For an individual seemingly devoid of conscience, the farm provided cover by its very isolation. At that time, there was no reason to suspect him of murder. But why might he have he killed his only brother? From later testimony, we know that Ed idolized his mother, a beautiful woman if photographs are to be believed. Like most mothers, she no doubt loved her sons equally, and he may very well have determined to remove the competition. She died just before New Year’s Eve in 1945—apparently -non-suspicious causes. She was buried in the very cemetery where Ed would soon after begin his grave-robbing. From what authorities discovered after he was arrested, his mother’s bedroom was closed and kept as a virtual shrine. Gein apparently killed only two women: hardware store owner, Bernice Worden, whose murder led to his arrest and tavern owner Mary Hogan, missing since 1954, whose body parts were later found in his house. Not that killing only two people is not serious enough. But he is not accurately identified as a mass murderer. It was what he did with the bodies and his grave robbing, however, that has made him so notorious. Worden’s body, headless, was found hanging and skinned like a deer. Hogan’s body parts had been removed and what was left had decomposed. Furniture, it was discovered had been upholstered with human skin, so also waste baskets and lamp shades. Bones were fashioned into legs for chairs. Private parts were also prominently displayed. That Gein had friends is something I find strange. One couple attended movies and ball game with him. Their son had been in his house, only to be told the shrunken heads had come from the Philippine Islands. How could it be that there were no suspicions? The answer is that he was so normal. In fact, I look at pictures of him today and see only a nice-looking bachelor farmer—a neighbor who my mother might have invited to our house for Thanksgiving. Truly, he was a monster disguised as an ordinary man. I have known only the monster. His name is forever imprinted on my psyche. Chapter 2 My first memory, the summer I turned three, is being lifted up by my mother and set down in a playpen under the giant oak on the southeast corner of our house while my folks worked in the nearby garden. I had learned by then that crying—or screaming—would get me nowhere. My only scheme of escape was, trial and error, climbing over the top. Success would have entailed falling to the hard ground, then running to freedom. I’d like to think I headed straight for town, eight miles away, a true-life adventure. Rather, I escaped only to the nearby driveway to play in the sand. Once discovered, I would be returned to prison with a stern warning. And, so it went. By the following summer of 1949, I have no recollection of how I was held captive, nor do I remember ever trying to run away again. At that time we had no indoor plumbing. A potty chair was what I was trained on, until I was five, at which time I was expected to use the toilet, out beyond the garage and further yet, beyond the sheds. And yes, no toilet paper. True to common witticism, it was supplied with outdated copies of Montgomery Ward and Sears Roebuck catalogs. But then life took a serious turn for the worse. Mom contracted severe acute arthritis. It was a scary time. Dad cooked the meals—"spoon vittles”—is what he termed them, and we all feared she would never walk again. When she was able to get up, she crawled around on her hands and knees and we got indoor plumbing. Very few of our neighbors or relatives had bathrooms, but that changed quickly for us to accommodate Mom. But, the good news is that she did walk again, first by holding on to furniture and within weeks, entirely on her own—all to the credit of Dr. Olson. She raved about him, the miracle-working small-town doctor. At six, I was off to school. No kindergarten for country kids in those days. I began first grade at Gaslyn Creek, one-room school. Mr. Emerson was our teacher, a thin man who loomed over all twenty of us, grades one through eighth. His height was not just the memory of a little first grader. I look at the school picture today, and I reckon him to be at least. 6’ 4”. And there I am in the first row sitting directly ahead of him, proudly wearing my first ever store-bought dress. Gaslyn was a community located within the St. Croix Chippewa Indian reservation, named for a mid-nineteenth century logger, David Gaslin. For some seventeen years at the beginning of the nineteenth century it actually boasted a post office. Today the region is sparsely populated, half of the farmsteads abandoned. My mother was anything but nostalgic about the little clapboard one room school located in the middle of nowhere in Burnett County. In fact, she was determined her kids get a better education than a country school could offer, one like she had taught at in her younger years. So, she petitioned Spooner School Superintendent, H.J. Antholz, to close the school. She was a fighter and won the battle, making enemies along the way. If that little school was less than an academic powerhouse, it did incubate at least one shining star. Brother David earned his seventh-grade degree from it, transferring to Spooner schools, and five years later graduating valedictorian and a National Merit finalist, which earned him a full-ride scholarship in engineering to Michigan State University. Six years younger than he, I was proud when a write-up and his photo appeared on the front page of the Spooner Advocate. Saved at Seven C.H. Spurgeon once criticized a fellow Baptist minister, saying, he didn’t preach enough gospel “to save a cat.” Well, I ask, how much gospel does it take to save a cat—or a young child. I was six. I stood at the end of a short line waiting to get saved. God, if aware of it, was no doubt confused. Catholic kids don’t do such things. Neither Episcopalians. Nor even evangelicals who go forward at crusades in numbers large enough to seen from heaven. I was left waiting alone. Mid-afternoon. Vacation Bible School was over for the day. A boy ran into the church to tell me my mother was waiting in the car to take me home. So, getting saved was postponed. Fast forward one year. Less than a blink of an eye in God’s timing. But every day a ripe moment to step on a rusty nail or fall from a tree house. To die and be cast instantly into hell. We sang the chorus: “A little child of seven or even three or four, can enter into heaven through Christ the open door.” The opposite, we were warned, was equally true. A little child could just as easily be cast into hell. That was my fear. It didn’t occur to me that there was any place besides VBS to get saved. So, the following summer on the first day of VBS, when I was seven, I got saved. I initiated the encounter. It was a sunny June noon hour. I caught up with Miss Buck, my VBS teacher on her way to the parsonage to eat lunch. I simply asked, “Can I be saved?” She was taken aback. And that’s when it happened. The setting, a musty basement of a small white clapboard church located on the corner of County H and Lewis Road, three miles from our farm in northern Wisconsin. She suggested I kneel at a cast-off pew on the rough concrete floor. In less than two minutes, I repeated after her words that confirmed that I was inviting Jesus into my heart. My name was now written in the Lamb’s Book of Life. The key word for me was written. Not printed, written. I had just learned cursive and I could visualize Jesus writing Ruth Anne Stellrecht in that book—even spelling my last name correctly. I don’t think I had ever heard of such a book before, but check it out. It’s right there in the Bible. Revelation 21:27: Nothing impure shall enter heaven only those who have their name written in the Lamb’s Book of Life. The implication is that only pure ones are written in the book and will get into heaven, presumably a sparsely populated place, occupied largely by young children. There is a chorus I learned as a young child that offered assurance: A little child of seven, or even three or four, May enter into heaven Through Christ the open Door. For when the heart believeth on Christ, the Son of God, 'Tis then the soul receiveth Salvation through His blood.” Of course. Who would deny a little child who dies a place in heaven? And what child, or any of us understands or truly believes in Christ the Son of God? Really? I know what son of Percy (my father) means and son of Abraham or Isaac. But of God requires some theological gymnastics that few people possess, much less small children Miss Buck, my VBS teacher, a student at St. Paul Bible College, came out to the car to announce my conversion to my mother. I look back now and am humored by the moment. The telling was interrupted by loud scolding by the preacher’s wife, perhaps fully warranted by the scoldee. But my mother without a pause snapped at Miss Buck: “Why doesn’t someone save her? A footnote: the minister’s wife was a loner and not well known, thus not well liked, by the congregation. And my mother, though well liked, was not an official member of the congregation, nor was my father. f 13 Sidebar “Every time he dies, he rises again.” That quote from my four-year old nephew when I was visiting one Easter Sunday. I asked what he had learned in Sunday school. He gave his usual shrugs, so I pressed. Did you learn about Jesus? He nodded. What did you learn? He shrugged. I pressed some more. And then that profound statement. In many respects it’s true, though perhaps not biblically sophisticated. Doubts: dinosaurs in the ark, praying for cantelope; canon of Scripture; where is heaven, poem; heaven as memory; God in the dark, Calvin seminar, Elie Wiesel; still love the Bible--well, much of it; And Hymns and Gospel songs The Christian and Missionary Alliance, the denomination I grew up in. Founded by a Canadian, A.B Simpson. When his wife refused to join him as an overseas missionary, he was determined to convince others to take his place., the result being the Christian and Missionary Alliance. Broken Jesus Ceramic mobile hanging in hallway, Jesus, rainbow, little children of the world: Red and yellow black and white They are precious in his sight. Reaching to dust, False move. Broken Jesus, Shattered rainbow, Little children maimed. News blaring: Water crisis, parched soil, pitiless sun. Little children crying for bread. Broken Jesus. In the 1930s, satirist H.L.Mencken quipped, “Heave an egg out a Pullman window, and you will hit a fundamentalist” every time. That would not have been true in the Green Grove community with family farms scattered nearby. Not that there were any fancy Pullman rail cars in the region, nor any churches, though perhaps a few fundamentalist Christians. As a matter of fact, the closest church in the region would have been a dozen miles east in Spooner. Green Grove. Enter Miss Salthammer and Miss Cowan. If they had first names, I never knew them. These “lady missionaries” had been commissioned by the St. Paul Training Home (now Crown College) to start a Christian and Missionary Alliance Church in the area. They were church planters, though back in those days the term was barely known. They began with a Sunday school and then started holding church services, preaching and leading the singing. Their first adult convert was Harry Lawrence, and within months they had propped him up against the pulpit to preach the sermons they had written. When the church was on solid footing, it called its first fulltime minister, and the two lady preachers moved on to plant churches in other locations. Years later they returned to teach Vacation Bible School. I regarded them as rather odd ducks, but today I often ask myself where I would be had it not been for their selfless service. And it truly was selfless. They boarded with farm families, and were often paid with nothing more than a bushel of potatoes or turnips. When she died, Miss Cowan was buried in a pauper’s grave. Shingles for the Lord When they first arrived, there was no church structure. When and how it was built appears to be a mystery, as far as my research goes. I have asked old people connected with the church and searched online with no luck. I could wish there were a record as detailed and humorous as William Faulkner’s “Shingles for the Lord.” In that case, there already was a church and a minister. Reverend Whitfield had climbed up to be the overseer of shingling the roof in his “boiled shirt and his black hat and pants and necktie, holding his watch in his hand.” Each neighbor was to bring his own tools, a froe and maul. Some didn’t own any or had lent theirs out. The ones already there insist those who arrive late make up their time. The boy relates the situation, quoting Pap:. “I see. It's me that's got to come back. By myself. I got to break into a full morning to make up them two hours that you and Homer spent resting. . . .It's going to more than jest break into a morning," Solon said. "It's going to wreck it. There's six units left over. Six one-man-hour units.” Pap was standing up now. He was breathing hard. We could hear him. "So," he said. He swung the ax and drew the blade into one of the cuts and snatched it up onto its flat end, ready to split. "So I'm to be penalized a half a day of my own time . . . to do six hours more work than the work you fellers lacked two hours of even doing atall. . . ." You're swapping me half a dog for a half a day's work," Solon said. "Your half of the dog for that half a day's work. . . ."And the two dollars!" pap said. "That you and Tull agreed on. I sell you half the dog for two dollars, and you come back here tomorrow and finish the shingles. You give me the two dollars now, and I'll meet you here in the morning with the dog, and you can show me the receipt from Tull for his half then." By the time the day is over the men are arguing about how many hours of work a dog is worth, or more precisely, a half dog. It turns into a comedy of errors, and in the end, when Pa and the boy sneak over at night to finish their hours, some of the dried shingles catch fire in the hanging lantern and the whole church burns down. William Faulkner was a serious Nobel-Prize winning author, but he was also very adept at writing humor. An important aspect of church planting and church growth in presenting a week of VBS (Vacation Bible School) in an effort to reach out to children—and their parents. Stephen Dunn tells of his experience in his poem, "At the Smithville Methodist Church." Thinking his daughter would be playing games and making crafts, he sent her off with no misgivings. But she came home with a “Jesus Saves” button and singing “Jesus loves You,” he writes, “it was time to talk.” But what could he say? That Jesus doesn’t love her? “It had been so long since we believed, so long since we needed Jesus.” He had no alternative story. Surely not evolution. It “stinks with extinction.” On the way home, after the evening program, she sang the songs. “There was nothing to do but drive, ride it out, sing along in silence.” For anyone wanting to avoid getting saved, VBS can be a dangerous place. For a childhood conversion, mine is actually rather interesting. It was the last day of vacation Bible school. I was six. The invitation was given, and my nine-year-old sister raised her hand. I reasoned that it she could do it so could I, so I raised my hand. I was then led to the back of the church where I waited at the end of a short line to get saved. But I missed out. A boy ran into the church to tell me my mother was waiting in the car, I ran out not wanting to miss my ride home. An easy decision—until the magnitude of that choice began to weigh down on me. If I died, I wouldn’t go to heaven. I’d missed my chance. There would be no VBS until the following June. I made it through the first morning session, but after my teacher, Miss Buck (a Bible college student), dismissed us for lunch, I caught up with her on the way to the parsonage. I had one very simple question: “Can I get saved?” she was floored. In fact, she started to cry. We returned to the church and there “knelt together on that cold concrete floor.” It was then “I invited Jesus into my heart.” Miss Buck assured me my name had been “written in the Lamb’s Book of Life.” The key word was written. I had just learned cursive, and in my mind’s eye, I could see Jesus writing Ruth Anne Stellrecht down in his book. No sooner had my name been written than the doubt began to surface. I can still remember going under my little lean-to, constructed against the well house for the purpose of thinking through difficult issues. The problem I was contending with was how dinosaurs could have possibly all gotten into Noah’s ark. To a seven-year-old’s mind somethings seemed way too unbelievable. On a more selfish level, why didn’t God answer prayer. Brother Jonnie, five, and I went behind the woodpile and prayed earnestly that our father would bring home a cantaloupe when he returned from town. He didn’t. In college, with a Bible minor, I struggled with the canon of Scripture. If bible writing was infallible, why not the church leaders—who some three centuries after the last of the texts were written—decided which ones to include a which to toss to the cutting floor? None of my professors had a satisfactory answer. Inconsistencies in the Bible, some of them major, also gnawed at my conscience. Then came the trial. The Trial of God was a film shown to a plenary session of a large course taught at Calvin College years ago, with a Calvin professor each leading one of the twenty or so discussion groups. I was an outsider, leading one of the sessions. As I watched the film, I wondered why it had been presented and what we were to do with it in our discussion sessions. I went out on a limb, knowing I was stretching the party line. The students, somber after the film, took their seats. Elie Wiesel, a well-known Jewish writer and winner of the Nobel Prize, had severely questioned God’s silence in the face of the Holocaust. ELIE WIESEL was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1986. The author of more than fifty internationally acclaimed works of fiction and nonfiction, he was Andrew W. Mellon Professor in the Humanities and University Professor at Boston University for forty years. Wiesel died in 2016. I announced that we were going to put God on trial. I would go first. I told about a car accident on a rural, lightly traveled intersection in northern Wisconsin. Mid-afternoon, September 23, 1969. A truck slammed into a car. The truck driver and my s5-year old sister were not injured. My mother was killed. If God is all-present, all-knowing—and all powerful, why did he permit that fatal accident. I I could have prevented the fatality by standing near the corner, waving a red flag for traffic to slow down, but failed to do so, I would be guilty of at least manslaughter. If God could have prevented the accident but chose not to do so, isn’t that equivalent to manslaughter? My story over, it was an unforgettable discussion session—accompanied by a lot of tears. The next day when all discussion leaders were expected to report how their session, I didn’t flinch. I told it like it was. There were gasps and an overall sense of shock, perhaps felling that tears and painful stories were out of line I discussion sessions. If not, why was the film assigned in the first place. Article 6: God’s Eternal Decree The fact that some receive from God the gift of faith within time, and that others do not, stems from his eternal decree. For “all his works are known to God from eternity” (Acts 15:18; Eph. 1:11). In accordance with this decree God graciously softens the hearts, however hard, of the elect and inclines them to believe, but by a just judgment God leaves in their wickedness and hardness of heart those who have not been chosen. And in this especially is disclosed to us God’s act—unfathomable, and as merciful as it is just—of distinguishing between people equally lost. This is the well-known decree of election and reprobation revealed in God’s Word. The wicked, impure, and unstable distort this decree to their own ruin, but it provides holy and godly souls with comfort beyond words. REPEAT of DINOSAURS in ARK doubts Within weeks after I was saved, I was seriously doubting—doubts that have matured over the years but never ceased. I questioned whether certain things I had been learning in Sunday school were actually true. I was troubled particularly about how dinosaurs could have possibly fit in the ark. I had been learning about dinosaurs in school, and I knew they were truly giants, and many varieties. At that time, I had a small lean-to against the well house—a lean-to for thinking. Sounds crazy, but I spent many hours there just trying to figure things out. Now looking back more than seventy years later, I smile at that ark conundrum—and the need to have special place just for thinking. Further doubts soon arose. In church we were learning how God answered prayer. Hey, why not try it out? So, I had Jonnie, my younger brother by two years, join me behind a wood pile and bow his head while I prayed that Dad would bring a cantaloupe from the store. He arrived home within the hour, but no cantaloupe. Emily Dickinson “sensed that her critical consciousness had shut her out from the innocense of childhood and had somehow made the assurances of Christian belief unavailable to her in conventional form. P. 47 As for me, I’ve long since moved beyond these simple expressions of faith and doubt, but I do cherish the memories. The church, now long closed, would become a very meaningful setting for me—for me, more than anyone else in my family. The doubts that sprouted as a child have grown into maturity—another analogy, from an acorn to a mighty oak with many limbs and branches. But I don’t bemoan them. They keep me on my toes. If I have a spiritual gift, and I’m not at all sure I do, it is skepticism—doubting virtually everything that has no verifiable truth. Years ago, my church sponsored a program, Discovering Your Spiritual Gift—or Gifts, if you happened to have more than one (such as hospitality, prayer, administration or music). I didn’t take part, convinced I had none, or fearing that if someone suggested I had the gift of, let’s say, teaching, I would be solicited as a Sunday school teacher. The church was not looking for skeptics and I managed to stay under the radar. *********bats in attic I had forgotten Abraham Lincoln was a poet, that is until I began exploring computer files, some decades old. The memory—"thou midway world Twixt earth and paradise”—conjure both pain and pleasure, the loss of loved ones as well as the delight in “woods and fields, and scenes of play, and playmates loved so well.” I resonate with those words, though he suffered more sorrow than I did as a child. My childhood's home I see again, And sadden with the view; And still, as memory crowds my brain, There's pleasure in it too. O Memory! thou midway world 'Twixt earth and paradise, Where things decayed and loved ones lost In dreamy shadows rise, And, freed from all that's earthly vile, Seem hallowed, pure, and bright, Like scenes in some enchanted isle, All bathed in liquid light. . . . Near twenty years have passed away Since here I bid farewell To woods and fields, and scenes of play, And playmates loved so well. Where many were, how few remain Of old familiar things; But seeing them, to mind again The lost and absent brings. I am forever grateful that I was born into a stable family. Five kids. I’m the middle child. Scandals and secrets were few and far between. In fact, my mind draws a blank. My brother failed to graduate from Michigan State University on time because he had been caught with a 6-pack of beer in the trunk of his car. My mother was humiliated. To her it was a scandal—and a secret. But she didn’t have to deal with any shotgun marriages or drunkenness, not uncommon in our neighborhood. Nor were any of us kids were suspended from school for cheating. We were a normal family without disgrace reaching our doorstep. Jennie Carlton Stellrecht She was a strong, intelligent, opinionated lady who would have served well as a New Deal congresswoman. Tall, toothy, and big-boned, she might have been mistaken on Capitol Hill for Eleanor Roosevelt. But women—apart from rare exceptions—didn’t go to congress in those days. Instead she was a teacher in a series of one-room country schools until she married Percy Stellrecht, my father. In my earliest memories she is working. She’s stoking the wood stove, checking the oven and watching over the kettles and frying pan; she’s stooped over in the garden weeding or picking beans; she’s feeding the ringer washer or hanging clothes on the line; she’s carrying wood to the basement for winter—all while supervising child labor with severity and a sharp tongue to match. She had a near obsession with education—determined that her five children would graduate from college. Indeed, she would single-handedly, if need be, pave the way for her children and others. Her initial efforts began when I was in first grade at a one-room country school—my sister and brother in grades ahead of me. After meeting with the superintendent of the school district, she began a petition drive to have our tiny school closed and the students bussed to the town school some ten miles away. She knew she would make enemies and she did, especially after she cajoled and argued enough neighbors into signing. For good or for ill, she was victorious in setting the stage for us five kids to graduate from college, though a tragic auto accident prevented her from seeing her youngest (now Dr. Kathy Stellrecht) from walking across the stage. But my mother was more than a hard worker and disciplinarian and avowed promoter of her children. I remember her as the one we sought for comfort and relief—a sliver, stubbed toe, or strep throat. My mother’s lap was the place to be. And when I was too lanky for the lap, she comforted me in other ways. One moment that will always stick with me is the morning I auditioned on my French horn, hoping to pass on to final competition. It was a good performance, with the exception of one major blunder. Work on the farm prevented her from staying to learn the outcome. But her parting expression of pain is something I will never forget. As it turned out the judge permitted me to move ahead, and late that afternoon, with my best performance ever, I won the top prize in brass for the regional competition. I was ecstatic when a phone call carried the good news that evening. Her words? Now don’t get big-headed about it. SEX ABUSE A grandfather and uncle who lived nearby, however, were serious sex abusers, leaving cousins in psychological distress—one ending in suicide. My grandfather sought to groom me, and actually forced a slimy kiss on my mouth when I was alone in the barn one evening milking the cows. I pushed him away, and when I was done with my chores said to my mother, If Grandpa ever comes to the barn while I’m milking, I’m just going to walk out. He didn’t. She made sure of that. But why didn’t she ask why? Why didn’t she tell him off? My sisters and I have postulated that she herself had been sexually abused by him. Pigeon Lake Bible Camp -- The Rev. Dellmer Smith, the housefather at Mamou from 1955 to 1957, sexually abused at least five girls during post-bedtime "tummy rubs" in the girl's dormitory, the commission of inquiry reported. Based on witness testimony, the panel also concluded Smith used part of a heavy rubber tire to inflict regular, frequent and bloody beatings - as many as 48 swats at one time. The commission reported Smith "completely and categorically denied any wrongdoing. He indicated a belief that the alleged incidents of abuse had been fabricated and reported by certain former students who desired to injure his reputation." Smith refused to comment for this article. -- The Rev. Dellmer Smith, the housefather at Mamou from 1955 to 1957, sexually abused at least five girls during post-bedtime "tummy rubs" in the girl's dormitory, the commission of inquiry reported. Based on witness testimony, the panel also concluded Smith used part of a heavy rubber tire to inflict regular, frequent and bloody beatings - as many as 48 swats at one time. The commission reported Smith "completely and categorically denied any wrongdoing. He indicated a belief that the alleged incidents of abuse had been fabricated and reported by certain former students who desired to injure his reputation." Smith refused to comment for this article. Because of our college and graduate education, we stood out in the neighborhood which included a lot of relatives. Drive a dozen miles west of Spooner, an you’ll encounter many more Stellrechts than Smiths. Our mother was the dominant parent. The neighborhood would have agreed. Chester (Chet) Peterson, 91, of Spooner Wi passed away on May 27, 2021. . . Chet was born March 12, 1930 to John and Jesse Peterson in Webster WI. Chet went to school at the Gaslyn Creek School until he was needed to care for his dad and run the family farm. Doris Margaret Perry, age 99, of Spooner, Wisconsin passed away on March 10, 2024, at Glenview Assisted Living. Doris was born June 29, 1924, at home on Benoit Lake to parents, Joseph & Margaret (Kimball) Christner. Doris graduated from Spooner High School in 1940 and received her teaching certificate from Superior Teachers College. Doris taught first through eighth grade in a one room schoolhouse, first at Dongola School in 1942-1943 and second at her childhood school at Gaslyn Creek. [which must have the 1920s or 30s if she went in her childhood.] Percy, mild-mannered; Jennie, watch out! For those who were deserving, Mom told them off, most often, her brother Don, who deserved it far more than he got it. We had a party telephone line in those days. Our number, a short and three longs. On one occasion when I was alone in the house, I picked up, and I heard “Get off the phone, Jennie, you rubberneck! Was rubberneck the standard term for such an individual? Or, was it for want of a better term that was neither swearing nor vulgar? How he knew the pick-up was our phone, I don’t know, but it cured me for a long time. Our phone was the size and shape of a giant shoe box with two metal half-round metal clanging ringers; an eight-inch speaker stuck out below the ringers, and an earpiece hung at the side. When it was no longer in use, younger brother Jonnie, without permission, took it apart—and ruined it. Her most controversial community activism was her petition to consolidate country schools, bussing the children to city school in Spooner. I understand the outrage. In his fictional stories, Wendell Berry painfully shows how closing small schools led to the demise of neighborhood businesses, grocery stores, barbershops and community connectedness. I for one will never regret my first grade at the one-room Gaslyn Creek school, still standing today. My worst day there was when David was beaten with a belt in front of all of us sitting at our desks. His crime: playing hooky. Going fishing in the creek. You can bet he faced a telling off by my mother. Jennie I was more than once the receiver of a telling off. She had a quick temper. Indeed, her fury had no measure when she spotted me across our large gymnasium, sneaking out of a hometown basketball game with my boyfriend. Although her love had a fierceness and I never for a moment doubted it, there were many occasions when I wished she might have kept her distance. Some of my mother’s flaws have been passed on—or picked up—and I see them when I look in the mirror. And the same process continues with my son. He is quick to praise me as a mother, but I must be ever aware of that mixed bag that I have bequeathed to him. My mother was a strong, intelligent, opinionated lady who would have served well as a New Deal congresswoman. Tall, toothy, and big-boned, she might have been mistaken on Capitol Hill for Eleanor Roosevelt. But women—apart from rare exceptions—didn’t go to congress in those days. Instead she was a teacher in a series of one-room country schools until she married Percy Stellrecht, my father. In my earliest memories she is working. She’s stoking the wood stove, checking the oven and watching over the kettles and frying pan; she’s stooped over in the garden weeding or picking beans; she’s feeding the ringer washer or hanging clothes on the line; she’s carrying wood to the basement for winter—all while supervising child labor with severity and a sharp tongue to match. She had a near obsession with education—determined that her five children would graduate from college. Indeed, she would single-handedly, if need be, pave the way for her children and others. Her initial efforts began when I was in first grade at a one-room country school—my sister and brother in grades ahead of me. After meeting with the superintendent of the school district, she began a petition drive to have our tiny school closed and the students bussed to the town school some ten miles away. She knew she would make enemies and she did, especially after she cajoled and argued enough neighbors into signing. For good or for ill, she was victorious in setting the stage for us five kids to graduate from college, though a tragic auto accident prevented her from seeing her youngest (now Dr. Kathy Stellrecht) from walking across the stage. But my mother was more than a hard worker and disciplinarian and avowed promoter of her children. I remember her as the one we sought for comfort and relief—a sliver, stubbed toe, or strep throat. My mother’s lap was the place to be. And when I was too lanky for the lap, she still let me sit there. Stopped here Paper Men Did other children fashion crude paper men, as did we three siblings? Did they use scissors to cut a 6-inch-by 1-inch rectangle, rounding out the head and shoulders at the top, slicing out a two-inch arm on either side, and making a quick straight cut to separate the legs? I liked Jeannine’s best, though she was unwilling to trade or make me new ones. 1. Two Hundred Acres Our farm was non-descript as farms go—even in northwestern Wisconsin where farms were far less productive than the giant fields and herds that gave the state its portrait as “America’s Dairyland.” Ours was a dairy farm but we would have detracted from that proud nomenclature had the decision-makers been aware of us. Work horses, Dan and Colonel, pulled the plows to turn the soil and pulled the cultivators, maybe twice, to further ready the soil for planting. And they pulled the planters. They pulled manure spreaders and hay wagons and wood racks, and maybe even doubled as riding horses. I tried riding bareback once as a teenager, when we were visiting my uncle who still farmed with horses. He got a bench to use as a step-stool and I got my legs around him, but as soon as that giant horse moved, I fell off. I may have gotten hurt, though I distinctly recall denying it. But I never tried riding a workhorse again. Dick and Colonel earned their keep—until we got our FarmAll tractor. But did it modernize te farm? Actually, was no statistical evidence that corn was more likely to be knee high by the fourth of July either way. That was the benchmark. Not so now. If corn is not shoulder high by the fourth of July, we assume something went wrong. But, of course today the family farm has been replaced by industrial farms. Massive machinery with air-conditioned cabs, stereophonic music, and licensed drivers. Yellow River The best feature of our farm was a river running through it. The Yellow River meanders from east to west. A marker just east of Spooner offers a fascinating history, noting that French explorers first called it River Jaune “because of the bright yellow sand on the bottom of Yellow Lake through which it flows.” Some three centuries ago the Chippewa waged fierce battles against the Sioux to become the sole occupants of the waters, where wild rice was plentiful. When I was a teenager, my younger brother Jonnie paddled a canoe up from the Kenouwski Bridge in order to harvest wild rice. We had barely reached the wild rice field when we were told to get out in no uncertain terms by an individual who was not native. No argument from us. Years later Jonnie gave us four siblings packages of wild rice, at no small expense, for Christmas. Mixed with white rice and brown gravy, it made a tasty meal. Our farm that included a significant stretch of the Yellow River yielded no wild rice, as did a flowage on Rice Lake a few miles to the west. Here the river, warmed in the sun, was at a virtual standstill. The river was also a source of great pleasure. There is a spot above a twenty-foot bank that served as a perfect picnic spot where we would build a fire and bury potatoes wrapped in tin foil to roast. Add butter and sour cream, sprinkled with salt and pepper, and there’s nothing better. Hamburgers and garden-fresh veggies complete the meal. My younger brother who now owns the farm hosts a family reunion every October—after the wood ticks have died off. Indeed, those bugs, in my estimation are the most negative of northern Wisconsin. When I was thirteen, I designed and constructed a raft, the flat top made of boards less than five feet square. Beneath the top I wired air-tight gallon cans that were flat on the top and bottom. It was an ingenious design and my only means of navigating the river. I set out on a warm summer day, steering with a long pole that kept me out of the brush along the banks. Amazingly, it worked as together we floated at a leisurely pace--except when it very slowly began to take on water. I made it almost as far as the picnic area when I realized I could go no further and pulled it into the muddy bank and left it there. For the next our cows used it as a platform as they went to the river in the summer to drink and cool off. There was an actual swimming hole a half mile up river, though not on our land. It was some six feet deep and wonderfully cool on hot summer days. It was private enough for my two sisters and to dispense with clothes. Indeed, skinny dipping right there in the shade of an overhanging willow tree is a delightful memory I’ll always carry with me. Spearing suckers, however, is one of the activities I most associate with the river—the most exciting by far. It was (and still is) illegal. My father was a man of high principle, always diligent to make sure the he threw out spoiled strawberries rather than hiding them at the bottom of a quart. No one could ever accuse him of cheating. But illegal spearing of suckers to him was a different matter. His defense: I pay taxes on that river and I ought to get something in return, knowing full well that line of reasoning would not have impressed a game warden. Actually, sneaking through the underbrush, strapping on the hip boots, stopping to listen for sounds of voices, lighting the lantern, and slowly stepping into the river to be sure of my footing. When suckers are running, there might be a eight or ten within the space of the lantern light. Dad always gave me first strike even though my likely miss would scatter the fish and ruin his sure strike. But as we slowly made our way upstream, he would strike and pull his spear out of the water, grab the fish by the gills and slip it in his gunny sack. Holding his lantern and spear in his left hand, it took agility to hoist a 20-inch, 5-pound sucker into the sack. But over the years, he never lost his footing and fell, which would have been a catastrophe if he had—boots filling with water, weighted down with sack of fish, lantern smothered, and kid to be rescued. But his confidence, plus Mom’s work of cleaning and deep frying afforded delicious meals of fresh fish-and delightful memories of the yellow River. The “big hill,” a half mile west of our farm, was recognized as the best spot for our church-sponsored sledding parties. With an adult chaperone overseeing the excitement, a blazing fire built at the top of the hill added to the ambiance. After a couple of hours, the kids were invited back to our house where Mom provided treats, most often her hot gazed crullers and hot chocolate. For me, a childhood unmatched. TOPIC farm sheds because of the bright yellow sand on the bottom of Yellow Lake through which it flows The Yellow River was called the "River Jaune" by early French explorers because of the bright yellow sand on the bottom of Yellow Lake through which it flows. Located in the heart of the "Folle Avoine," or wild rice country, it was one of the first tributaries of the St. Croix to be occupied by the Chippewa who (ca. 1700) in bloody battles drove out the Sioux and established permanent villages on Clam and Yellow Lakes. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, rival fur-traders for the Northwestern and the XY Companies competed fiercely with rum, trade goods and credit for the fur-trade of the Yellow River, Namekagon, Clam and St. Croix bands of Chippewa Indians. Indian mounds indicate the residences of aboriginal Indians (ca. 300 A.D.) along the Yellow River and on Spooner Lake, two miles northeast of here. Succeeding the Sioux, the Chippewa maintained permanent vil¬lages on this lake from the early eighteenth to the early twentieth century. Jonnie: When did we get electricity, 1950 Gas refrigerator, 2 big propane tanks before electricity milking machines, 1950, bathroom 1950. Dep dithes frost line from well hire bailing instead of pitching hay, got rid of horses, 1953, big sled, big station wagon wash machine—2 versions—ever a wash board When did Kovnesky build addition first the covered stairway I’m going to be a dancer How did we get water for washing clothes Knee high b ythe fourth of July Saturday morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh, and brimming with life. Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer Haymow vs bailing David through screen door Killing gophers, crows My taxidermy, squirrel Eating squirrel Bats in house Tree houses Camps, journeys, Annie, rubber-noggen Moving from Packard to corncrib to brooter house Kitchen Washing clothes Outhouse vs bathroom Spearing suckers Yellow River Stilts Strawberries selling in town, migrant workers 2. Gaslyn Creek School Mother and uncle had taught in one-room country school Gaslyn Creek Like many country kids, I didn’t go to kindergarten. First grade was at Gaslyn Creek a one-room country school. Such schools were common up to the mid twentieth century. Both my uncle and mother taught in such schools, Rocky Ridge and Julius, two of which I remember hearing about. The 1930s when they would have been teaching was the heyday of Wisconsin’s one room schools—schools that numbered more than six thousand. Most of them, like Gaslyn Creek, technically had two rooms, an entry coat room with shelves for lunch boxes and a buffer from the cold. In the back of the main room was a huge pot-belly wood-burning furnace, chunks of aged wood corded up behind it. The fewer than twenty desks (with chairs attached) all faced forward with large blackboards both in front and to the right side. A bank of windows filled most of the left side, too high for students to see anything but sky. Gaslyn Creek, seven miles from our farm, was built in 1901. Mr. Emerson, a very tall, thin teacher, was expected to teach all seventeen of us. I was the lone first grader and have no recollection that I ever had any help from him. He spent his time with the older children. I was to answer questions in a picture workbook and help Jimmy Melton with his. He was a year older, but was still working on his book from the previous year. I had my first “store-bought” dress that year—red and white horizontal stripes—which I wore for the school picture. My only friend was Kay Weaver who paid attention to me only when other children wanted no part of her abuse. I recall three memorable occasions that year. One was at the school picnic and celebration on the last day of school. One of the events of the day was a foot race which I failed to win. I must have assumed I would obviously win the prize. When I didn’t, I bawled like a baby. Another incident I remember is when our bus got stuck between Bass Lake and Erickson’s farm. Dad brought horses and wagon to pull us out and when that failed took the kids home to their nearby farms. Sometimes snow drifts were well over our heads, but fortunately this was not one of those times. Still another incident occurred at Gaslyn Creek school. Brother David and another boy had played hooky one afternoon and went fishing in Gaslyn Creek. Mr. Emerson went out searching for them—leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves. When he spotted them at a distance, he yelled for them to come back. The other boy raced home; David obeyed, knowing he’d have to come back and catch the bus to get home. When he returned, Mr. Emerson took off his belt and, in front of the class, beat David on his bare back until it was raw. Mom was livid. She went straight to H. J. Antholz, superintendent of the schools. For academic issues, Gaslyn Creek would be closed, and the students would be bussed to Spooner schools. Many neighbors were furious, but Mom never looked back. I’ve since come to understand why many families were upset about closing of that school and other country schools, some of which were close to four corner gas stations and shops (too small to be considered a town). In fact, ever since reading Jayber Crow, by Wendell Berry, I have great sympathy for those who want to keep the local one-room schools open. In that case, its closing foreshadowed the demise of the small fictional town of Port William. In my search for background on Gaslyn Creek School, I came across two items that shine light on this treasured aspect of my own earliest education. Chester (Chet) Peterson, 91, of Spooner passed away on May 27, 2021. . . Chet was born March 12, 1930 to John and Jesse Peterson in Webster WI. Chet went to school at the Gaslyn Creek School until he was needed to care for his dad and run the family farm. Doris Margaret Perry, age 99, of Spooner. . . was born June 29, 1924, at home on Benoit Lake to parents, Joseph & Margaret (Kimball) Christner. Doris graduated from Spooner High School in 1940 and received her teaching certificate from Superior Teachers College. Doris taught first through eighth grade in a one room schoolhouse, first at Dongola School in 1942-1943 and second at her childhood school at Gaslyn Creek. Every October my family, that being my four siblings and many of our own children, meet in Spooner for a family reunion. In 2024, David, Jeannine and I lined up for a picture in front of an old blackboard at the Gaslyn school. The padlock had been torn off the front door and we got right in. No doubt the last picture ever to be taken of three sibling students. Native Americans A brother and sister, Wayne and Beulah Arbuckle, Native Americans, some years older than I, were students at Gaslyn Creek, and easily identified in the school picture. That in many ways is hardly worth noting since Native families had resided in the area for as long as anyone could remember, and they had immersed themselves in the communities where they lived. I learned a few years ago that Beulah did very well in the nursing field. Wayne, like so many Native boys, struggled with drinking and arrests, and died young. A few miles from our farm were Indian mounds and I was often told that people found arrow heads nearby, though none in my family ever did. I’ve recently learned that Wisconsin’s Woodland Indians had built burial mounds and began hunting with bows some twelve hundred years ago. As they settled down, they also began raising corn that supplemented the wild rice found near the banks of what is now known as Rice Lake near the Kenowski Bridge. (Hank and Bea Kenowski’s River View Resort was a popular destination in the 1950s, right on county road H, a dozen miles west of Spooner.) Expertly fashioned birchbark canoes had long been used to harvest the rice. The bark was water proof and had also been used in making tepees water-tight. Growing up there was a native family living closest to our farm. It never occurred to me that this might be something out of the ordinary. I simply took it for granted. On another farm some two miles away in the other direction, lived Archie O’Mara, whom my father occasionally had business dealings. I recall visiting one time and listening to Dad discuss the purchase fence posts from him. Looking back, if only I would have approached him and inquired of his Indian heritage. I don’t suppose I was that brazen, but if I had been, I would hope he would have been flattered and eager to talk. Hammill is end of childhood when I go up the hill to junior high school 3. Sexual Abuse “I stood up for myself and I’ve shown him I’ve stood up for myself so it’s been worth it” (Sexual Violence Survivor – Anon) Childhood Ending My period at 13