After several days of visiting old haunts, friends, colleagues and my adobe in romantic old Mesilla, N.M., I head back to Wisconsin. I hit U.S. 54, stop in Corrizozo for my ritual chile cheeseburger, and head for Tucumcari, hometown of Monroe Clinic's Spanish-English interpreter, Delores Leibold.
In Tucumcari you can still get a clean and pleasant motel room for $30. This appeals to my ethnic sensibilities on money management. I chat with Mike, the proprietor of the "Historic Route 66 Motel," have a beer and hit the sack.
Next morning, I forego my ritual breakfast of huevos rancheros at the Pow Wow restaurant on the main drag. I should visit Jeff, the Quay County Ag Extension agent, and Rex, the director of NMSU's Northern New Mexico Agricultural Science Center. But there are storms brewing in the Midwest, so I hit the road.
The open highway northeast of Tucumcari always gives me a feeling of liberation.
I stop in Liberal, Kan. (apologies to fans of Rush Limbaugh), for lunch in a hideaway downtown off the main highway. I tend to search those places out.
I leave Liberal, listening to High Plains Public Radio, and my phone rings. It's my wife, Sherry, advising me that it's snowing in the Midwest. I assure her that it's 50s and sunny in southwestern Kansas. But that is short-lived. An hour later I run into a solid fog bank heading into Meade, locus of the hideout of the notorious Dalton gang. How could the Dalton gang find a hideout on these open plains? One day I'll take that four-block run south of the highway to find out.
But it's foggy and I continue on to Greensburg, the town that was leveled by a tornado a couple of years ago. It's weird going through what once was a picturesque Midwestern farm town. They are valiantly rebuilding it, but it cannot possibly be the same.
Midway between Greensburg and Pratt, there is an old J.I. Case threshing machine parked in a field just south of the highway. It marks the approximate halfway point between Las Cruces and Monroe. Cloaked in fog, it evokes distant memories.
That threshing machine is exactly like the one that Herby Scherer used, powered by his Oliver 99, for our threshing ring just north of Monroe in bygone days. I think of my dad and our hardworking neighbors of that threshing ring - Ticky Kubly, Hank Leuzinger, Lawrence Pest, Walter Brunkow, Wilbur Wirth, Clark Bechtolt, Carl Schlittler, Earnie Messerli, Ray Hare, Erwin Storandt, John Pattinson and, of course, Herby himself. Fritzi Messmer owned the farm north of our east sixty.Albert Heimann rented the farm just north of our main 160.
These farmers have long since joined that great threshing ring in the sky, but their descendants are well known around here. Ticky's grandson, Randy Smith, can be seen stocking shelves at Monroe's Pic 'n Save. Walt Brunkow's son, and my classmate, Bobby, works at Family Dollar on 8th Street. Clark Bechtolt's son, Nathan, still resides on that farm north of town, the house in which I enjoyed many threshers meals. Carl Schlittler's daughter, Nancy Edmunds, resides in Monroe.
Hank Leuzinger's son, Richard, resides near the Monroe Country Club. Hank's son, Curtis, lives on 11th Avenue in Monroe and always puts out a nice display of Christmas lights. I occasionally see Hank's daughter, Barbara Whitehead, around town. Hank's granddaughter-in-law, Jill Leuzinger, is prominent in public school functions and in St. John's UCC.
Herby Scherer's wife, Martha, still lives in that house on Highway 69 that prominently displays the Swiss flag. Their son, Jake, runs Monroe Cleaners. Another son, Louie, with his perpetual grin and sense of humor, a carbon copy of Herby himself, can be seen muscling furniture in and out of his moving van - just like Herby used to muscle machinery around the farm. And of course, my own brother, Louie, is still on the home farm.
Albert Heimann's son, John, resides in Juda. One of life's stranger-than-fiction tragedies is that between my first draft of this piece and its publication, Albert's daughter, Sandra Paulson, and her husband died in that recent car accident. I had intended to visit Sandra to review some items for this very column, but I put it off a day. Tragically, that day is now forever. As a teenager, I had pitched oat bundles up to Sandra's father as he was loading the wagon.
We descendants of those hard working farmers share a common cultural heritage. The tradition of the threshing ring is gone forever, and with it a sense of rural neighborhood cohesion that may never be regained.
Amid the fog and early December darkness, the lights of Pratt, Kan., bring me out of my trance. I refuel my GMC and push on to Emporia, home of the Emporia Gazette and William Allen White, one of the most revered journalists in American history. I grab a bite to eat and push on to Kansas City, and north to Cameron, Mo., where I spend the night.
It's snowing heavily in Wisconsin, but I don't get home till the next night. The roads by then are clear - but not my driveway, packed with a mountain of snow.
My pal and classmate, Joe Donny, and I had reviewed this issue before and have similar philosophy. Since we grew up with shovels in our hands, we don't need snow blowers. Joe's wife, Marsha, had quipped, "You two guys are just alike - a couple of Swiss farm boys who would rather work than spend a little money." She's right, of course. Besides, we couldn't possibly have two winters in a row like last winter - or could we?
Sherry tells me that before I start shoveling, there is some stuff in the garage to unload.
OK, OK, then I'll start shoveling. I am neither in the mood to shovel nor unload stuff. I step into the garage and turn on the light. That "stuff" Sherry mentioned is a snow blower, her early Christmas gift. There is such a thing as good timing.
I get it assembled and started, and make short work of that mountain of snow. I feel a bit guilty having succumbed to this technology - I know, it sounds perverse. But if my ethnic heritage gets the best of me, I can always resort to more ancient technology. That is, if the snowfalls are lighter.
I'm sure there are more to come.
- John Waelti is a native of Monroe Township. He resides in Monroe and can be reached at jjwaelt@charter.net.
In Tucumcari you can still get a clean and pleasant motel room for $30. This appeals to my ethnic sensibilities on money management. I chat with Mike, the proprietor of the "Historic Route 66 Motel," have a beer and hit the sack.
Next morning, I forego my ritual breakfast of huevos rancheros at the Pow Wow restaurant on the main drag. I should visit Jeff, the Quay County Ag Extension agent, and Rex, the director of NMSU's Northern New Mexico Agricultural Science Center. But there are storms brewing in the Midwest, so I hit the road.
The open highway northeast of Tucumcari always gives me a feeling of liberation.
I stop in Liberal, Kan. (apologies to fans of Rush Limbaugh), for lunch in a hideaway downtown off the main highway. I tend to search those places out.
I leave Liberal, listening to High Plains Public Radio, and my phone rings. It's my wife, Sherry, advising me that it's snowing in the Midwest. I assure her that it's 50s and sunny in southwestern Kansas. But that is short-lived. An hour later I run into a solid fog bank heading into Meade, locus of the hideout of the notorious Dalton gang. How could the Dalton gang find a hideout on these open plains? One day I'll take that four-block run south of the highway to find out.
But it's foggy and I continue on to Greensburg, the town that was leveled by a tornado a couple of years ago. It's weird going through what once was a picturesque Midwestern farm town. They are valiantly rebuilding it, but it cannot possibly be the same.
Midway between Greensburg and Pratt, there is an old J.I. Case threshing machine parked in a field just south of the highway. It marks the approximate halfway point between Las Cruces and Monroe. Cloaked in fog, it evokes distant memories.
That threshing machine is exactly like the one that Herby Scherer used, powered by his Oliver 99, for our threshing ring just north of Monroe in bygone days. I think of my dad and our hardworking neighbors of that threshing ring - Ticky Kubly, Hank Leuzinger, Lawrence Pest, Walter Brunkow, Wilbur Wirth, Clark Bechtolt, Carl Schlittler, Earnie Messerli, Ray Hare, Erwin Storandt, John Pattinson and, of course, Herby himself. Fritzi Messmer owned the farm north of our east sixty.Albert Heimann rented the farm just north of our main 160.
These farmers have long since joined that great threshing ring in the sky, but their descendants are well known around here. Ticky's grandson, Randy Smith, can be seen stocking shelves at Monroe's Pic 'n Save. Walt Brunkow's son, and my classmate, Bobby, works at Family Dollar on 8th Street. Clark Bechtolt's son, Nathan, still resides on that farm north of town, the house in which I enjoyed many threshers meals. Carl Schlittler's daughter, Nancy Edmunds, resides in Monroe.
Hank Leuzinger's son, Richard, resides near the Monroe Country Club. Hank's son, Curtis, lives on 11th Avenue in Monroe and always puts out a nice display of Christmas lights. I occasionally see Hank's daughter, Barbara Whitehead, around town. Hank's granddaughter-in-law, Jill Leuzinger, is prominent in public school functions and in St. John's UCC.
Herby Scherer's wife, Martha, still lives in that house on Highway 69 that prominently displays the Swiss flag. Their son, Jake, runs Monroe Cleaners. Another son, Louie, with his perpetual grin and sense of humor, a carbon copy of Herby himself, can be seen muscling furniture in and out of his moving van - just like Herby used to muscle machinery around the farm. And of course, my own brother, Louie, is still on the home farm.
Albert Heimann's son, John, resides in Juda. One of life's stranger-than-fiction tragedies is that between my first draft of this piece and its publication, Albert's daughter, Sandra Paulson, and her husband died in that recent car accident. I had intended to visit Sandra to review some items for this very column, but I put it off a day. Tragically, that day is now forever. As a teenager, I had pitched oat bundles up to Sandra's father as he was loading the wagon.
We descendants of those hard working farmers share a common cultural heritage. The tradition of the threshing ring is gone forever, and with it a sense of rural neighborhood cohesion that may never be regained.
Amid the fog and early December darkness, the lights of Pratt, Kan., bring me out of my trance. I refuel my GMC and push on to Emporia, home of the Emporia Gazette and William Allen White, one of the most revered journalists in American history. I grab a bite to eat and push on to Kansas City, and north to Cameron, Mo., where I spend the night.
It's snowing heavily in Wisconsin, but I don't get home till the next night. The roads by then are clear - but not my driveway, packed with a mountain of snow.
My pal and classmate, Joe Donny, and I had reviewed this issue before and have similar philosophy. Since we grew up with shovels in our hands, we don't need snow blowers. Joe's wife, Marsha, had quipped, "You two guys are just alike - a couple of Swiss farm boys who would rather work than spend a little money." She's right, of course. Besides, we couldn't possibly have two winters in a row like last winter - or could we?
Sherry tells me that before I start shoveling, there is some stuff in the garage to unload.
OK, OK, then I'll start shoveling. I am neither in the mood to shovel nor unload stuff. I step into the garage and turn on the light. That "stuff" Sherry mentioned is a snow blower, her early Christmas gift. There is such a thing as good timing.
I get it assembled and started, and make short work of that mountain of snow. I feel a bit guilty having succumbed to this technology - I know, it sounds perverse. But if my ethnic heritage gets the best of me, I can always resort to more ancient technology. That is, if the snowfalls are lighter.
I'm sure there are more to come.
- John Waelti is a native of Monroe Township. He resides in Monroe and can be reached at jjwaelt@charter.net.
