Sometime in the spring of 1864, Johann and Barbara Krzmarzick left the village of Deschenitz in Bohemia knowing they would likely never see that home again.  Their four sons and a daughter were with them.  The family went north to the port of Hamburg.  There, they boarded the SS Bavaria bound for the United States.

They traveled in “steerage,” the part of the ship reserved for cargo and the cheapest fares.  They were common people, not designated because of any merit system.  When my great, great grandparents arrived in New York Harbor on July 1, it was the beginning of our family in America.  All Krzmarzicks in America are descended from them.

Johann was listed as “farmer” on the passenger list.  Working farmland in Europe then meant laboring as a tenant-leaser.  The opportunity to own a farm almost certainly drew him to this country.  After going through Castle Garden Immigration Center, they somehow made their way to Wisconsin, where a sixth child was born in Green Bay.

A short time later, the family travelled to Brown County.  They settled a farmstead in Home Township, west of New Ulm.  Family lore has it that they lived in a dugout on the Cottonwood River for a short time.

I was talking with my cousin, some-times removed, Peggy Tauer.  Peggy is a great granddaughter of Johann and Barbara and has researched family history.  We know frustratingly little about those first Krzmarzicks in America.  We can speculate that the hope for a better life pulled them away from everything they knew.  The journey across the ocean and half a continent must have been difficult, even treacherous.  Once here, they faced the large task of creating a farm out of the prairie.

Unless you are Native American, there is a story like this in your past: ancestors taking tremendous risks, allured by the promise of this country.  It is the American story.  In most cases, they were hardscrabble families who were at the bottom of society in their old country.  The upper class were not compelled to take such a journey.

There is another family that I don’t know much about, except that they have the same desire to come to America that my great, great grandparents did.  I am on the Social Concerns Committee for the Diocese of New Ulm.  A while back, Deacon Tim Dolan told our group that the Diocese was exploring the possibility of hosting a refugee family with some other groups.

The lengthy process had begun for that.  It was likely to be a Congolese family.  Following civil war in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, half a million refugees have been forced from their homes and are living in camps throughout the region.  These camps are unsafe places in poor neighboring countries.

Contacts had been made with local employers.  Southwest Minnesota has a worker shortage; there would be no problem finding jobs.  I started to think this was something I could help with.  It is exactly the kind of thing we Catholics should be doing.  It was the same American story Johann and Barbara were part of, separated by 150 years.

In September, it was announced that the number of refugees allowed to resettle in the United States would be cut from 100,000 to 45,000.  Our family was in the group that was cut.

45,000 is the smallest number of refugees taken by our country since 1980.  The Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Bush, and Obama administrations all supported a larger number.  This comes at a time when there are over 22 million refugees in the world.  They are in that condition through no fault of their own.  More than half are children.

When one sees a number like “22 million” in print it is easy to glaze over.  Don’t.  Stop for a moment and think of these people as real as those you live with, as real as your children and grandchildren.  Refugees are all in some heartbreaking plight.  Imagine your children or grandchildren in that situation.

To be honest, it angered me that our local effort was halted.  Countries like Bangladesh and Turkey are taking in hundreds of thousands of refugees.  Meanwhile, 45,000 is .2% of the world’s refugees.  Is that the best we can do?

The refugee issue is part of a larger debate over immigration.  There are those who see immigration as something to be feared and opposed.  That side is winning right now as immigration programs are all being slashed.

We are told that immigrants bring crime and take jobs.  But the crime rate among immigrants is lower than the general population.  And no refugee has ever been involved in terrorism.  These are simply facts.  As for jobs, immigration has always backfilled low wage jobs that are essential to agriculture and service fields.

In 1981, President Reagan released a Statement on Immigration and Refugees.  It included this: “We must recognize that both the United States and Mexico have historically benefited from Mexicans obtaining employment in the United States.  Illegal immigrants in considerable numbers have become productive members of our society. Those who have established equities in the United States should be recognized and accorded legal status.”

I showed that to a friend.  He said any politician who said that now would be tarred and feathered.

Reagan again: “More than any other country, our strength comes from our own immigrant heritage and our capacity to welcome those from other lands.  We shall continue America’s tradition as a land that welcomes peoples from other countries.”

As citizens we need to weigh these issues.  As Christians, we are called to a higher standard.  The Bible is filled with exhortations to care for the alien and the foreigner.  In the Old Testament we are told, “In whatever tribe a foreigner resides, you are to give them an inheritance declares the Sovereign Lord.”  In the New Testament, we are told, “Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing so some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.”

We will be measured as Christians by this.  We are to care about the 22 million refugees.  We are to care about the Haitians and Salvadorans who are being forced to return to their struggling countries.  We are to care about families being torn apart here in America to achieve some imaginary security.

In this debate, I’ll stand with the Bible and Ronald Reagan.

Everybody I know grew up on a dairy farm.  Okay, it just seems that way.  Most of my farm kid buddies spent time with cows.  We dairy kids had a certain subtle scent when we came to school after morning chores: “Eau de bovine.”  Hundreds of farms in Brown County sold milk back then.

At some point, things from our youth become treasured as memories.  Time in the barn with my dad was when we had the best conversations.  I feel warm inside remembering the toasty barn on frigid winter nights.  I wasn’t fond of cleaning calf pens, but less pleasant things get shoved to the bottom of the memory-chest.  Memories sort themselves as we age.

I was talking with Terry Helget about this phenomenon of dairy kids embracing recollections of our shared childhood.  We were comparing remembrances of barns and calves and haying.

That is when I had the Greatest Idea Ever.  I’m pretty sure a lightbulb went on over my head.  I told Terry we’re going to open a Retirement Dairy Farm where aging baby boomers can come and relive their youth.

We’ll have twenty cows in stanchions with calf pens across the way.  There’ll be an AC Ochs silo on one end, feed room on the other, a hay mow up above.  Our customers’ hearts will skip a beat when they step inside and are suddenly young again.

I told Terry this is going to be big, really big.  He was skeptical.  That’ll change once I’ve shown him how this is going to make us a fortune.

Former dairy kids will be able to buy a season pass; they’ll be part of the Cow Club.  Others can purchase a week-long pass for Cow Camp.  We’ll leave spots open for those who want to come for the day.  They’ll be able to buy a Cow Card at the driveway ticket booth.

Grown men and women will tear up when they lean on a cow for the first time in fifty years.   A big ol’ Holstein is a wonderful creature, docile and huge, sort of a cross between a kitten and a brontosaurus.  Throwing a strap over Bessy and attaching the milking machine, even with the risk of a tail-slap, is an extraordinary tactile experience.

Besides the bovines, other critters will be part of the experience.  A farm dog will love you unconditionally and want nothing more than to follow you around.  (You know, like your wife did before you got married.)  The dog will be named Shep.  My dad called every dog we ever had Shep, and that’s good enough for me.  Barn cats will be near, ready for spilt milk and a back scratch.

There will be a barn radio up on a shelf behind the cows.  Our Retirement Dairy Farm will have Dad-Reenactors who will tune it to old-time music on KNUJ.  Our clients can try tuning in hipper fare like Steve Canon or rock ‘n roll on WDGY.  “Dad” will come back and switch it back to KNUJ.  He’ll tell you how the cows don’t like that modern stuff.

In season, though, “Dad” will let you listen to Herb Carneal and Halsey Hall announcing Twins games.  Cows like baseball.

Of course, some things won’t be exactly as they were in those long-ago days.  The gutter cleaner will actually work.  We all spent hours fixing those with our dads, learning useful cuss words.  We don’t need to duplicate that experience.  Our gutter cleaner will work, and when the stanchions are scraped, fresh straw put down, and barn lime spread on the cement, our visitors will remember the absolute perfection that is a clean barn.  This is just before a cow disrupts that with some type of excretion.

After a time, our guests will wander up to the haymow.  With haybales to climb and build forts, they will instantly be a boy or girl again.  The great thing about a haymow was the layer of hay that covered the floor, making it seem impossible to get hurt.  There’ll be a basketball hoop up at one end where they can pretend to be George Mikan, Bill Russell, or Larry Bird, depending on whether they were a Fifties, Sixties, or Seventies kid.

Calf feeding will bring a cascade of senses rushing back.  After getting warm water from the milk room, you’ll stir in the milk replacer with your hand, turning the powder chunks into a soupy mix.  Then you let the calf suck your hand clean.  This was the most exciting physical sensation you knew.  (Remember, you’re a kid; this is long before sex.)

A cup that came in a bag of milk replacer will be hanging on top of the hydrant out in the yard where our clients can get a drink.  The cup will be crusted in green gook.  That is disgusting, but now scientists understand that was how our generation inoculated ourselves.

In the winter, there will be a line waiting to climb the silo chute to throw down silage.  Being inside a warm, fermenting silo on a cold day is about as close as you’ll ever come to be in the womb.  Silage itself is a wonderful goulash that looks and smells almost good enough to eat.  Then you get to pitch this corn-hash to appreciative cows with large tongues.

In the summer, for an additional fee, patrons will be able to make hay.  Men can choose to cut hay with a Farmall H or a John Deere B.  They will drive out to the field shirtless because a tan is cool.  The smell of fresh cut alfalfa will open the memory vault like a damn burst open.  After they get sunburnt, our Mom-Reenactor will rub Noxzema on their back while scolding them for being stupid.

When it comes time to bale, we’ll stack the bales three, four, or five high depending on our client’s oomph-ability.  Around 3:00, our “Mom” will bring out a lunch of bologna sandwiches on Wonder bread.  Later, “Dad” will let you have a Hauenstein from a case of returnable bottles, even though you are a 13-year old kid on our farm.

I was explaining to Terry how great this is going to be.  I recalled the scene in the movie Field of Dreams where Terrence Mann (James Earl Jones) tells Ray that he has to keep the ballfield.  “People will come, Ray.  They’ll turn up your driveway, not knowing for sure why they’re doing it. They’ll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past.  They’ll pass over the money without even thinking about it. For it is money they have and peace they lack.  It’ll be as if they’d dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick, they’ll have to brush them away from their faces.”

Barn of Dreams, Terry!  We are going to make so much money.

You’ll remember a couple of years ago, we learned of a fellow who had been at Babe Ruth’s barnstorming game in Sleepy Eye in 1922. And he was in the well-known photo of that event. And he had one of the baseballs that Babe hit that day. And he was still living in Virginia, Minnesota!

Len Youngman was 11 years old that cold October day in 1922. Len was 104 when Scott Surprenant, Dean Brinkman, and I drove up to visit with him at his home. We were amazed to find a man who was living at home, still driving, and volunteering at the hospital.

Len could describe in wonderful detail the day Ruth and Yankee teammate Bob Meusel played at the local ballpark. He also could vividly take us back to Sleepy Eye of the early twentieth century. We spent the afternoon with him recalling the hometown he left in 1942. Len told stories about people and places like it was yesterday.

Scott, Dean, and I returned last year. Len had slowed a bit, no long driving. (I joked to friends, “Watch out when you’re 105; it’s all downhill.”) But his mind was as sharp as ever.

We went to visit again earlier this month. We’ve gotten to know Len’s family and they make us feel welcome. Someone comes in once a week to clean, and family stops by each day. But Len is still in his home, still reads a newspaper every day. He continues to astound at 106.

Tom Larson came with us this time. Tom knows Sleepy Eye names and families better than anyone I know. As I suspected, when Len and Tom got going making connections with people and homes and businesses across the century, it was enough to make your head spin. Sometimes they would go to a street in their minds and go house to house and generation to generation.

Although some of it was going over my head, it was as if a history book had come alive. Len told stories of people, some of whom I knew when I was younger, some just a name I had heard. Occasionally the conversation took us down a dark alley; there were stories of misbehavior and bad acting. It’s good to remind ourselves that these will survive our time on Earth, too.

History as taught in school can be a stifling bunch of names and dates. There is a growing emphasis in the study of history that looks at how common folks lived amid the larger currents. Len gave us a real feel for living in Sleepy Eye 75 years ago. Not only that time and place, but also from his decades traveling the Iron Range as a salesman for Hormel.

I suspect “history” is something I will be thinking about a lot. I joined the board of the Sleepy Eye Historical Society last year. I missed the Annual Meeting in November, so of course was elected president. Actually I had agreed to that beforehand. In a small town, we’ve all got to take a turn at these sorts of things.

I enjoy history. But whether we enjoy it or not, all of us live in it. The day we lived yesterday has become part of our own history.

We can’t escape history. We might want to believe that we are robust individuals living lives we have scripted. The truth is that most of the way we think and act is an amalgam of the people and events that came before us. The more we understand those people, the more we can know ourselves.

Here in Brown County, history is thick with its presence. The US-Dakota War of 1862 was the inception of the Western Indian Wars that would end at Wounded Knee 28 years later. The international milling industry was centered here early in the twentieth century. From the Native peoples to the Turners to the German Bohemian farmers to the more recent inflow of Hispanics, waves of people have made their impact.

I’m sure there are similarly interesting histories every place on Earth. But this is ours, and we should claim that.

That is where the historical organizations come in. The Sleepy Eye Historical Society operates a museum out of the depot which was constructed in 1902. The Brown County Historical Society runs the museum in the 1910 post office. Both these buildings have been given a new purpose, and they are centrally located and essential to the attractiveness of their communities. Brown County and the City of Sleepy Eye own the buildings and deserve a lot of credit for their preservation.

I am on the board of the Brown County Historical Society as the representative from our Sleepy Eye group. In both cases, I feel as if I am returning to my roots. Or to be more accurate, my wife’s roots. Pam was involved with the group that saved the Depot and began the Sleepy Eye Historical Society back in the Eighties. Then she worked for the Brown County Historical Society for 20 years. I hung around a lot there with the kids when they were younger. It’s interesting how things cross back upon themselves in life.

So, I’m going to give you a warning. If you see me, I am probably going to ask/beg/beseech you to become a member of one or both of those Historical Societies. There is also the Springfield Area Historical Society. New Ulm has the Lind House and Wanda Gag House Associations. All need support to continue their work.

These groups are working to preserve memories of our past. Of course, it would be good if we could just keep fellows like Len Youngman around. We reminded Len that we have him booked to throw out the first pitch at the centennial of Ruth’s visit to Sleepy Eye in 2022. He’ll be 111 then. We told him he can move in a few feet.

Farmers raise a lot of things, including now shrimp, hemp, and arugula. But corn is still king. When farmers aren’t raising corn, they like to talk about corn.

On a recent miserable day outside, I went walking/jogging on the track at New Ulm’s Vogel Fieldhouse (which is a great place).  There I and my fellow travelers went around and around with “oldies” serenading us from the speakers.

The music took me back to times and places decades past.  That is, I guess, what oldies are supposed to do.  Oldies are on at a lot of places I go.  Now and then a warm memory of young friendship or a school event comes to mind when I hear some song of yore.  But then comes a song that make me cringe.  Perhaps it’s recalling saying something stupid to a girl I had a crush on; sometimes it’s flashing back to something stupid I did.

There are lots of things I don’t understand.  One of them is the attraction of oldies.  It seems to indicate that a lot of people circumvented those coming-of-age years more adeptly than I did.

I’m happy to have survived the seventies, but I’m not sure why you would want to relive it musically.  One time around with “We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun, but the hills that we climbed were just seasons out of time,” seems enough to me.

I don’t have oldies on any of the preset buttons on my car radio.  Oh, occasionally I enjoy a Bruce Springsteen or Motown tune that drifts across my consciousness, proof that I’m not completely void of musical feeling.

It is undeniable that music can call forth memories.  Music heightens feelings in such a way that a time and place get stuck in our head with a song.  I’m not a neurologist, but clearly music goes to a part of the brain that words by themselves don’t.  Connections hot-glued in our mind between a song and a moment remain in place fifty years on.

Music can hold power over us with lasting and deep impact.  Certain songs cause us to smile widely, others, to tear up.  Witness the faces of veterans as the National Anthem is played at a Memorial Day event or a family as Amazing Grace is played at a funeral service.

I think everyone is touched by music, at least a little bit.  This ranges from heavy metal headbanging to soft instrumental elevator strains.  It’s remarkable the wide spectrum of things people find pleasing.

When I was young, my folks had old time music on KNUJ exclusively.  The kitchen and barn radios were set to the Polka Station of the Nation.  I don’t think I knew there was other music.  I remember later realizing those polkas and waltzes were oldies for my mom and dad, music that transported them back in time.  Their earliest dates were barn dances; those old tunes were part of their romancing.

I have thought of music as a gift from a good and kind God.  We can communicate most things we need with the grunts that evolved into words in the planet’s many languages.  But somewhere back in mankind’s history we began using voice in melodic ways.  Clapping hands and sticks and stones could sound out a beat.

I asked some friends, “Why is there music?”  Lora pointed to the sounds of nature that surround us.  Songbirds, the wind, rainfall, even our heartbeats: perhaps these prepare us for music.

Reaching further, for centuries dating back to antiquity, the notion of the Harmony of the Spheres was used to explain the universe.  The spheres were the stars and planets, and creation could be perceived as a type of song with harmony and pitch.  In Latin, this was Musica Universalis, the idea that music, mathematics, and astronomy are tied together.  Plato said astronomy was for the eyes what music was for the ears.

I was thinking about music.  I’ve always been jealous of people in movies.  Movies have a score, music in the background as characters play out their story.  I have thought I’d like to have a score setting the mood for my life, building to a crescendo during the exciting parts.  Now that I have a phone with Pandora and Spotify, I have my score!  Problem is, the script isn’t all that interesting.  Music washing over me as I change sweeps on the field cultivator doesn’t make for a thrilling scene.

Baseball players get to choose “walk-up” songs.  The home team plays these as the batter steps to the plate.  The hope is that the energy-laced tune will provide a shot of adrenaline to the hitter.  Recently I announced to some friends that I was going to use a “walk-in” song when I entered their house.  I chose Viva la Vida by Coldplay.  I had to quit that when my walk-in music raised the anticipation level to a height that I couldn’t match live up to.

I mentioned saying stupid things to girls that I had a crush on.  Well, one of those girls married me.  Now I occasionally send her songs that express my feelings on her phone: romantic songs by Charlie Puth, Ed Sheeran, and, of course, Pitbull.  When I get home, I am invariably met by an eye roll.  It’s a look that says she is used to me after these 37 years.  (Happy anniversary Pam!)

This time of year, Christmas music makes its annual appearance.  No music associates itself with memories more so than Silent Night, O Come all ye Faithful, et al.  These songs were there at our earliest Christmases.  Joyful memories sometimes blend with melancholy.  Certain of these remind me of parents and brother who were part of my first holiday seasons and are no longer here.  Others remind of when our own children were young, and I miss that.  But often these old classics bring warm and gentle feelings.

Tradition has it that there was music at the first Christmas.  The Bible doesn’t exactly say that.  In Luke, we read, “Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests’.”

But it has long been held by Christians that this moment, now 2,000 years ago, was filled with glorious singing.  That might be the best oldie ever.

While combining corn this fall, I looked over at the outside row and saw something sticking up from the gathering chains.  Instinct tells me to immediately and frantically shut down the header whenever anything is out of the ordinary.  When it whirred to a stop, I could see an ominous strand of barb wire poking up.

It was the row up against the line fence. I imagined the worst: a length of incorrigible barb wire wrapped a thousand times around a stalk roll.  It turned out to be not so bad.  It was tangled under the snoot, but I wrestled it away with a pliers and only a bit of blood lost.

Through the years I have spent time untangling barb wire from most every piece of equipment I own.  Rarely do I have gloves with me; usually my hands end up looking like they were in a fight with barb wire and lost.

There are hundreds of feet of old barb wire bordering our fields.  It was strung on steel posts before my time.  I don’t think about it much; it’s just been there forever.  In spots, it remains taut and straight, four parallel strands with posts upright.  More places now it is broken, posts bent or missing, wire partially grounded.  That’s the stuff that ends up in my machinery.

It had a purpose once.  It goes back to a time when most of the farm was pasture for the cattle and horses.  Crops were intermittently grown on the higher ground.

When I was young we still had pasture, and I mended fence with my dad.  But the remaining pasture was up near the barn, and that was electric fence.  The barb wire on the farm’s far boundaries was left to keep the corn from getting up and crossing over to the neighbor’s field.

Line fences are a disappearing artifact in farm country.  That has less to do with farms getting bigger (they are) and more to do with farmers wanting to get an extra row of corn or soybeans.  About a third of my line fences are gone.  In each case, the neighbor asked if he could remove it and I agreed.  It is no small amount of work to do that.

Where line fences remain, I am fine to let them.  Some critters live there, and tiny remnants of prairie exist.  (Unfortunately, they have come to be a refuge for giant ragweed in recent years.  Giant ragweed loves that small area that the sprayer doesn’t quite reach.  It can grow the size of a small redwood tree during a growing season.)

As I lay on my back in the corn stubble dislodging the steel intruder from my corn head, I thought about barb wire.  The full name would be “barbed” wire, but most of us shorten that.  In some parts of the country, it goes by “bobbed” wire.  Whatever one calls it, it is nasty stuff. Mine is all rusted, good reason to keep current on tetanus shots.

I suppose someday in a fit of ambition I could remove it all.  The chore list around the farm is long, so there’s a good chance another generation will have this historic remnant to deal with.

Later I was reading about barbed wire.  There were some rough types used in France early in the 1800’s.  The first patent in America was granted in 1865.  It played a large part in the movement of farming and ranching westward across the continent.  Before that, a fence had to impede an animal by physically blocking them.  Stone or wood fences took a lot of effort to construct.

At first farmer-ranchers were hesitant to use barbed wire, for fear it would harm their livestock.  It became apparent that animals quickly learned to avoid it, and usage exploded.  It is even blamed for a significant drop in the number of cowboys, as the need to herd cattle faded.

Regardless of its functional place in history, it’s not a very pleasant material.  As my hands can attest, it succeeds by the possibility of inflicting pain.  By threatening to cut and gash the skin, it uses some of the worst type of pain.  Of course, the fenced-in animal can avoid that by compliance.

Out on my line fence, the jackrabbits and racoons go back and forth unharmed, and hawks set on top scanning the field.  My farm equipment and my hands are about all the harm this old border-guard inflicts now.

It would be good if the story of barbed wire began and ended out on the prairies and western chaparrals, keeping animals in their place.  Darker images come to mind when one conjures up barb wire though.  It surrounds prisons where people, not cows, are meant to be compliant.

I picture barb wire in old war movies.  My reading told me that it was used extensively in the wars of the late nineteenth century.  This year, we remember our nation entering World War I a century ago.  That cataclysmic event with its trenches and intractable battle lines became a gluttonous user of barbed wire.  I suspect many of our grandfathers and grand uncles were haunted by visions of barbed wire till their deaths.

Flash ahead to the next war, and we come to the concentration camps surrounded by barb wire.  There, it became a tool to aid in unimaginable atrocities.

It is like most everything human beings create.  There are good and helpful uses for barb wire that can benefit mankind.  Then it can be used for ill-intended purposes that bring harm.  Sometimes I imagine God looking down on Earth shaking His head amazed at the evil things we find to do with the most incorruptible of materials.

In school, we all read the poem Mending Walls by Robert Frost, the one that ends with, “Good fences make good neighbours.”  That poem begins with, “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.” It goes on to tell how nature and time and hunters work at sabotaging the stone wall that the farmer has worked so hard to construct.

Our old fences have also faced the ravages of nature and time.  Farm machinery, not hunters, have caused damage.  I guess something there is that doesn’t love a fence line.

The barn swallows who spend summers on our farm are gathering on the overhead wire.  One day soon they will be gone, leaving us for some unknown warmer place.

They are only here about four months of the year.  They live intense little lives during that time, eating heartily, mating, building nests, and hatching out two or three broods.  On summer evenings they dart above the yard, twisting and diving and turning midflight.  This gymnastic aerial show goes on nightly.

Anybody who eats mosquitos is a friend of mine, and I go out of my way to offer homes to them.  There are a couple outbuildings they nest in and I make sure there is a door or window open each May when they arrive.  

In last year’s June storm, the yard light pole that held our last overhead electric line blew down.  It made sense to bury that like all the others have been.  I sheepishly asked electrician Bill Walters if it would be stupid of me to put the dead wire back up on the new pole for the barn swallows.  He didn’t exactly answer my question.  (Thanks Bill!)  But he said he had done that for other similarly impractical customers.

Barn swallows gathering is but one sign of the shifting season.  A couple days of low clouds and northwest wind last week put a coda on summer if there were doubts.  We will have sunny days and warm days, but things are different.  Day length falls below twelve hours as dark becomes the rule.  Persephone returns in tears to the Underworld if you remember your mythology.

I feel a little sad this time of year.  I’m not sure why.  Fall is an appealing time of year on the northern prairie, so why the melancholy?  I’ll miss the summer birds.  I think of them as “the swallows.”  I looked it up recently; they typically live four years.  “The swallows” that have been here each of my 61 summers are in fact many generations.  Likely some of those on the wire won’t return next May.

I was talking to a friend about this slight sadness.  We agreed that we carry residual feelings from our youth that equate this time of year with going back to school.  School meant the end of carefree living and the ramping up of responsibilities.  You went from a schedule that is loose to one that is ordered to the minute.  

I have memory of going barefoot all summer and feeling discomfort having to put on shoes for school.  I must have worn shoes doing chores or going to church.  But in my mind I am barefoot for those three months.  I know I stepped on a few nails.  I remember getting a tetanus shot and thinking it was grossly unfair to inflict pain to treat something that was painful.

My brother Dean was blind, and the end of summer meant he would return to the Faribault Braille School.  Fall meant my partner in play would not be around, and that was sad.  

Fall meant the end of playing baseball, a glorious game played with friends on brilliant summer nights.  That was replaced by football, a drudgery at best and a source of aches and pain at worst.  

There is a scene at the end of the movie Bull Durham that sticks in my mind.  Susan Sarandon (Annie Savoy) is walking in a driving cold, autumn rain on a wet, dirt road.  That alternates to shots of the ballfield where the season’s last game has been cancelled by raindrops splashing off the tarp.  The scene is mournfully sad; it is as if spring is an eternity away.  

Fall is the end of the growing season.  As a farmer, your work all season aims toward harvest.  It is exciting and challenging.  But when harvest is complete, it is months before the return of green to the fields.  Years ago, I was writing about fall work on the farm, and noted that a farmer had about forty harvests.  Now that I am nearly to that number, I hope I severely underestimated when I wrote that as a silly thirtysomething.

Speaking of forty years, it was forty years ago that I went to a show at the Caboose Bar in Minneapolis.  A friend had suggested we go see Jerry Jeff Walker and the Lost Gonzo Band.  Walker is a country/folk/cowboy singer from Texas.  It turned out to be one of those Funnest Nights of My Life that happens when you least expect it.  

I’ve seen Jerry Jeff a few times since.  Most recently was July at the Minnesota Zoo.  The amphitheater there is a wonderful setting for a concert.  It was likely Walker’s last time in Minnesota.  His voice is still strong, but he sat on a stool the whole night in a nod to his 75 years of sometimes rough living.

Walker was reflective as he worked his way through songs, many written about experiences he’s had along the way.  He mentioned early visits to Minnesota, referring to that night at the Caboose as a “life-altering experience.”  That was met with cheers from a few dozen of us who had shared that.  

Jerry Jeff talked about being a young man traveling in the South with not much more than his guitar, playing where he could for a few dollars.  Someone asked him what he did.  When informed that he travelled around playing music, Jerry Jeff was told, “Well, you can’t do that forever.”  After a pause, the crowd laughed and applauded at the realization that, in fact, that is what exactly he had done.

At one point the singer referring to those younger years said, “Looking back, things are a whole lot clearer now than they were back then when I looked ahead.”  I suppose that is self-evident, but the line has stuck with me.

Poets have long used the seasons as a metaphor for life.  Spring brings birth and growth, and is like our childhood.  Summer is a time of maturing, as our middle years are.  Then fall is the season of decline.  Well, let’s just stop this poetic exercise right there.

The harvest looks to be an abundant one.  Already tomatoes and cucumbers fill the kitchen counter.  Pumpkins and squash are ripening on giant vines.  Farmers are hopeful about the corn and soybeans.

I will enjoy many of these fall days.  That tinge of sadness will fade in the busyness.   

Baseball can be a pleasant distraction from the weightier issues that surround us.  The worst that can happen is your team loses, and the sun will come up tomorrow.  But sometimes real life intersects with our games.  That happened seventy years ago for the town of Sleepy Eye.

When I was young, a lot of folks in town knew the story of Marty Ledeboer whose death on August 3, 1947 reads like a tragic movie script.  Now that memory fades.

Martin Ledeboer came to Sleepy Eye as a fresh faced, 18-year-old in the summer of 1945.  He was recruited to play for the Sleepy Eye Indians.  The nation was entering the post war period.  Baseball was immensely popular, nowhere more so than around here.  The New Ulm Brewers, Springfield Tigers, along with the Indians played in front of crowds in the thousands.

The Western Minny League was a semi-pro league that hosted a high level of baseball.  Each town mixed the most talented local players with hired talent from further away.  Ledeboer came to Sleepy Eye out of high school to play for the Indians.  He also played college ball at Moorhead State Teachers College and was talented enough to draw attention from pro scouts.

It was common for hired players to be given a job to supplement their baseball earnings.  Marty worked at Hollmer Drug Store on Main Street.  Ray Hollmer was on the baseball association board and a big supporter of the Indians.  By all accounts, Ledeboer was personable and liked by all he met.  He was known for putting on an apron to work the soda fountain at the drug store and joking with the customers.  Kids were especially drawn to Marty.  When I talked to folks who remembered him, it was invariably with a smile.

In Ledeboer’s first season in town, the Indians made the State Tournament.  In that time before pro sports teams in Minnesota, the State Baseball Tournament was a big event, receiving front page coverage.  Unfortunately, Sleepy Eye’s ace pitcher in 1945, Chief Wonson, was declared ineligible for the tournament because he had played a few games early in the year for the Minneapolis Millers, and the Indians lost out.  Regardless, a love affair had been cemented between the community and their team.  Ledeboer was the fleet footed centerfielder and a fan favorite.

On August 3^rd, 1947, the Indians had an afternoon game at Redwood Falls.  It was an important late-season match for playoff position, and hundreds of Sleepy Eye fans would make the trip to Redwood as they did for every road game.  They liked their team’s chances with Dick Lanahan on the mound.  The 35-year-old Lanahan had pitched for the Washington Senators and Pittsburgh Pirates.  The year before he had played with the St. Paul Saints before signing with Sleepy Eye.

The team had a makeshift locker room in the basement of the Lincoln Tavern in downtown Sleepy Eye.  As they were preparing to leave for Redwood Falls, Marty assured friends there that he would get a hit that day and break a mini-slump he was in.  They wished him luck as he flashed his infectious grin.

The game was something of a slugfest when Ledeboer led off the seventh inning.  Sleepy Eye was ahead 9 to 4.  Marty was still looking for his first hit.  He laced a single to right, his Lincoln Tavern promise fulfilled.  It was a hot, muggy afternoon and Marty was sweating as he pulled into first base.  The Indians coach was Bugga Stellges, and he flashed the steal sign from the third base coach’s box.  Catcher Casey Dowling was coaching first and Ledeboer asked him to lift the sign.  Something wasn’t right.  He felt fatigued.  Worse, his heart was racing.

Years later I talked to Marty’s sister when I was doing work for the Brown County Historical Society.  She told me that a doctor had identified a weakness in his heart.  Marty also had high blood pressure, and the doctor recommended Ledeboer stay away from strenuous activity.  His family talked about him quitting baseball, but Marty said he loved playing too much.  He knew there was risk.  He even told his parents once that if he was going to die he would just as soon it be in his uniform.

Carlie Sperl was the next man up for the Indians.  There would be no chance for Marty to catch his breath.  Sperl pounded a ball that got all the way to the fence for a triple.  Ledeboer took off as best he could.  Fans noticed that he began to weave as he rounded third, and appeared to stumble across home plate.  He turned toward the Indian dugout, but only made it part way before collapsing onto the grass.

Marty’s father Garret had travelled from Moorhead for the game.  He was sitting with family friend and Marty’s pastor Hillis Slaymaker.  As the crowd grew silent, they raced on to the field and knelt over Marty who was conscious yet.  When he saw his father he said, “Dad, I got a hit, didn’t I Dad?”  Then, “Dad, I’m leaving.  Say goodbye to Mom and the kids and Millie for me.”  Millie was Marty’s girlfriend back home.  Marty looked up at Pastor Slaymaker and said a small prayer and then lost consciousness.

Marty was taken to the hospital in Redwood Falls where the town’s two doctors did what they could for him.  He briefly came to and told Ray Hollmer that he would have to take care of the store now.  Marty passed away soon after.

Word spread quickly in Ledeboer’s adopted town.  Al Anderson of the baseball board said, “Ledeboer had the best disposition of any player we have ever had here.  He will be a tremendous morale loss to the team and the town.”  Marty had many friends among players in the Western Minny.  Hank Nichlasson of the New Ulm Brewers said, “What a swell chap Marty was.  If every player conducted himself like he did, what a pleasure it would be to play baseball.”

A funeral service was held Wednesday to a packed church in Prinsburg, the town where Marty was born 21 years before.  Besides Marty’s parents, three brothers, and seven sisters, all his teammates and many fans from Sleepy Eye attended.

A lot of us talk about doing something we love in our final moments, dying in the saddle, so to speak.  Few of us get that chance.  In Marty Ledeboer’s case that is exactly what happened.  The death of such a personable and talented young man is of course sad.  But there is a nobility in the story.

Later in August, 1947, the Sleepy Eye Herald Dispatch printed a tribute to Ledeboer.  It was a poem written by a handicapped man from Lake Lillian who Marty had befriended.   Here are a few verses:

The final game is over, the ninth inning has been played,  And our centerfielder has laid his bat away.

He went out, as God would have it – among a sporting throng, With his fans and pals around him – after a run so very long.

It was not the opposing pitcher who did finally him retire, It was Death who made the putout, and God was the Umpire.

Now the Angels are his teammates, and they’ll see him safely thru To a richer, better ballfield, where all men are tried and true.