The Farm Kids by Judith Kolva

To Mom and Dad with love and gratitude for providing a solid foundation in life.

Back row: Fabian, Dad, Mom, Arlyn, Front row: Dennis, Marvin, Dick, and Bill

The Farm Kids The Holewinski Family Farm…Home Forever

“There are two great things we can give our children: one is roots; the other is wings.” ~Hodding Carter

as told by Arlyn (Arlie) Holewinski: The Favorite Fabian (Fabe, Fibber) Holewinski: The Musician Richard (Dick) Holewinski: The Idea Man William (Bill) Holewinski: The Pleaser Dennis (Den) Holewinski: The Jock Marvin (Marv) Holewinski: The Last Worker

Foreword Memories . . . What you are about to read is a compilation of stories told by six Wisconsin farm kids窶馬ow men. I suspect our minds have embellished these stories a bit because, as we look back, we mostly remember the exciting and fun part of our experiences. Although growing up on a farm meant long days of hard labor, it was also a very special life. What made it so much fun was having five brothers and a sister to grow up with. So now, whenever we get together, we retell our childhood stories. We have told these stories so many times and laughed so hard at ourselves that we decided it was time to pass them on for our families to enjoy. What follows is what we remember of our family roots, our life on the farm, the simple fun we created, the lessons we learned, and the parents we loved and admired. Granted, the benefits of the discipline we endured and the lessons we learned did not become evident until much later in life. Thank you, brothers, for collecting the old pictures and the two days you spent in Florida telling these crazy stories. We were six brothers again back on the farm . . . we teased; we argued; we laughed; we cried. In the telling of these events, it became evident that our first home, the Holewinski Family Farm, was the foundation that guided us our entire lives. Thank you, Bill, for being a sounding board and your assistance editing the initial draft. Thank you, Tammy Surratt, for introducing us to this wonderful lady, Judith Kolva, who together with Enid Grigg brought our farm experiences to life. This book was prepared for our children, our grandchildren, and the generations to come. We want you to know our family history and the life we had on the farm: a life filled with the Christian values of prayer, hard work, discipline, commitment, and simple fun. Hopefully, these values are now part of you. Enjoy the read, and may God bless . . .

Dennis Holewinski November 2012

Left to right: Arlyn, Dick, Marvin, Fabian, Bill, and Dennis

Note: As you read, you will probably wonder why the stories begin with “Dick, here” . . . “Bill, here” . . . ,etc. Well, imagine six brothers all talking at the same time . . . all sounding the same. Judith needed a way to know who said what when she listened to the recordings, so she asked us to please identify ourselves as we began each story. Easy. Well, maybe not . . . Dick was the only one who managed to remember. With each story, he dutifully started by saying, “Dick, here.” After a few hours of listening to “Dick, here,” we realized he would NEVER forget. What were we to do but have a good laugh, and for the rest of our two days together mimic him by identifying ourselves the same way? With that said, “Den, here.”

Editor: Judith Kolva, Ph.D. Legacies In Ink www.legaciesink.com judith@legaciesink.com 954-759-4531 Designer: Enid Grigg Heritage Biographies www.heritagebiographies.com ÂŠ 2013 by the Holewinski Family All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the Holewinski Family. Photographs courtesy of the Holewinski Family and the Pulaski Area Historical Society.

Melanie and Brandon dancing at Amanda and Brandon’s wedding

First Communion

In Memoriam Our Sister Melanie Holewinski Smith (June 15, 1955–April 7, 2007)

Our sister died from breast cancer when she was way too young. During her short fifty-two years on this earth, Melanie followed Mom’s footsteps—her family was her pride and joy. Melanie was an outstanding homemaker, loving wife to her husband Don, and devoted mother to her sons Brian, Brett, and Brandon. She supported her boys as they played sports and developed musical talents. She even accompanied her husband and sons on their hunting and fishing outings. Melanie is buried near Mom and Dad in St. Stanislaus Cemetery in Hofa Park, Wisconsin. Melanie Holewinski Smith, your brothers pray that you rest in peace.

Table of Contents

Prologue 1 In the Beginning 3 The Farm Kids’ Maternal Great-Grandparents 5 The Farm Kids’ Maternal Grandparents

9 20

The Farm Kids’ Paternal Great-grandparents The Farm Kids’ Paternal Grandparents

The Farm Kids’ Mother

The Farm Kids’ Dad A Wagon Wheel

The Holewinski Family Farm Family Food Seasons Christmas Work

69 97 117 131 137

Table of Contents

149

Fishing & Hunting

155

Thrashinâ€™ Day Stones Accidents Cows

159 165 181

Chickens, Eggs, and an Occasional Rooster Gophers

195

Crows

199

Money

205

Mischief

211 229

Cards & Casino Church & School Afterword

235

247

Between the Lines

255

189

Prologue “Home is where the heart is.” ~Joseph C. Neal

It’s a Tuesday, early in April. Actually, the day of the week or the month of the year aren’t important. By 8 a.m., every day, every season, Dick Holewinski has finished what, for most, is a full day’s work. You see, city men are bankers, barbers, business owners. They do one job and probably do it well. But a farmer, like Dick, would never survive—would never want to survive— as a one-job man. He feeds livestock, milks cows, births calves, cleans the barn, feeds the chickens, and gathers eggs. He repairs machinery, mends fences, and paints buildings. He plows fields, tills the soil, plants seeds, picks stones, controls pests, adapts to weather, and harvests crops. He cuts thistles, hoes weeds, and tends the vegetable garden. He never misses Mass or a church picnic, helps his neighbors, and is a master story-swapper. Dick even cans his own pickles and vegetables. Each year he puts up 100 quarts of the best dill pickles in Wisconsin— some claim they’re the best dill pickles on the planet. Anyway, chores finished, Dick cooks breakfast—a farmer’s breakfast: eggs fried in bacon lard, Polish sausage, fried potatoes, fresh tomatoes, pickles, homemade bread smeared with homemade strawberry jam and butter—lots of butter. And for dessert: a slab of apple pie—homemade, of course. Dick is a great cook. After the dishes are washed and the kitchen tidied, Dick pours a cup of coffee and steps onto the wooden deck under the mature Norway maple that overlooks what will soon be a lush vegetable garden. A fringe of new lettuce already braves spring’s contradictory promise. The sun is full up. The sky is bluer than blue. A fat robin hops by. He calls. CHEER-UP . . . CHEER-UP . . . CHEER-UP. He stops. He listens. He pulls a worm from the newly greening lawn. Buds swell. The day is warm. Gentle. Life is good.

Dick gazes over the 165 cleared, 15 wooded acres of the Holewinski family’s heritage and thinks back to 1936 when Dad and Mom started the family farm on 80 acres of stumpy land, overgrown with trees and brush. The old farmhouse was heated with a coal-burning furnace. Mom cooked on a woodstove. She pumped their water from a well. To “do their duty” they hiked to the outhouse. The livestock consisted of four cows and one horse. The farm equipment was a manure spreader and wooden walking plow. Today, in 2013, the house, barn, three silos, and six outbuildings look new. They are painted. Clean. The lawn is cut. Everything is neat. The Norway maple—the tree that was but a twig when the farm kids were boys—grows bigger, stronger, more beautiful every year. The fields are fertile. Oats, corn, alfalfa, and soy beans burst from the rich soil. The machinery, including five Case/International tractors, is modern. Top-notch. At peak, the 115 head of Holsteins surrender 3,000 pounds of milk to the pulsating Surge milking machines every day. Even to the uninitiated city dweller, the farm is beautiful. Successful. A showpiece. Still, some things never change. To a farm kid, farm and soul are one in the same. In case you doubt, just ask the six Holewinski boys, now men. They were, and always will be, farm kids. They will tell you that once you grow up on a farm and partner with its circle of seasons—once you trust the land and look to it for answers—no matter how far you wander, you can never leave. After all, the farm is as much a part of their DNA as their white hair. The farm is HOME.

In the Beginning “Legacies are that place where those who have gone before us still make a difference. Where values are passed on from one generation to the next. Where roots grow deep.” ~Bob Welch

Gospodarz could be one of the most important words in the Polish language. It means landowner. For time immemorial, the land has called out to the Polish people: I am here. You are part of me. I am part of you. We are linked forever. Oral tradition implies the first Polish immigrants arrived in the New World along with the Vikings and Christopher Columbus. That, though, is hearsay. The 1608 official immigration records are the first to document Poles in the United States. Then, during the early 1800s, a relatively small group of Polish farmers, robbed of their land, fled to the New World. By the end of World War II, close to five million Polish immigrants left family, friends, and the lives they loved to seek better opportunities and new land in America. To a Pole, land means stability—without land, you are ruined—you are nobody.

The Farm Kids’ Maternal Great-Grandparents Paul Brusky (1847–1929) & Elizabeth Dursch Brusky (1855–1936) No one knows for certain. All stories and most written records are lost. But from what we do know, the lives of the farm kids’ maternal great-grandparents, Paul Brusky and Elizabeth Dursch Brusky, confirm the social history of the times: Paul and Elizabeth were married in Poland in 1873. John, their first child, was born in 1874. Anton was next, but the date of his birth was not recorded. Then, in 1879, Paul and Elizabeth accompanied by Paul’s brothers, John and Joseph, Elizabeth’s brother, and their two young sons, left the rest of the Brusky family in Poznań, Poland, to seek a new life and new land in America. They settled in West Kewaunee, Wisconsin. Over the next seventeen years, Paul and Elizabeth parented ten more children. Birthdates for some were recorded; others were not.

The last chapter of Paul and Elizabeth’s very short story ends at St. Hedwig’s Catholic Cemetery in East Krok, Kewaunee, Wisconsin, where they and other family members are buried. Cemetery records show:

BRUSKY Frank/1874-1954, ossw; Antonia/1876-1924 Anton/1871-1948, ossw; Monica/1878-1964, ossw; Peter/June 29, 1904/July 4, 1925 Apolinary/July 23, 1896/June 23, 1911, ossw; Lucy/July 3, 1895/Mar. 22, 1921, next to; John/1840-1918, ossw; His wife/Florentine/1837-1911 John/1908-1966, ossw; Anna/1918W. Edwin/1906, ossw; Mary/1909-1974 Leon/Ur. Siednia/12 Stycznia Roku 1919/Um. 27 Marca Roku 1920 Paul/June 29, 1847/Aug. 17, 1929, ossw; Elizabeth/Nov. 19, 1855/June 24, 1936, next to; Leona/1896-1956, ossw; Joseph/1895-1957, ossw; Norbert/1923-

The Farm Kids’ Maternal Grandparents John Brusky (1872–1951) & Josephine Dembskilb Brusky (1878–1957) Again, no one knows the particulars—the whole story. But again, the social history of the times confirms the early life of Josephine Dembskilb, the farm kids’ maternal grandmother: in 1897, after Josephine’s mother died, Josephine and her father left family members behind and emigrated from Poland to the United States. They settled in West Kewaunee, Wisconsin, where Josephine met John Brusky. Josephine and John were married on April 18, 1898. Over the next twenty-three years they parented fourteen children.

In 1912, gospodarz apparently called: John and Josephine moved their young, rapidly expanding family about 60 miles west to Welhaven, Wisconsinâ€”a crossroads with a cheese factory and one-room grade school, located 20 miles northwest of Green Bay, Wisconsin. There, they bought land and established a family farm. Eventually, their son, Harry, purchased land next door and started his own farm. During the early 1900s, Polish farm families settled near one another and continued Old World traditions in close-knit communities. Most accounts of John and Josephineâ€™s daily life on the farm were buried with them. There are, though, a few stories that were passed on to the farm kids by their parents . . .

Moonshine Dick, here: When Mom told us about Grandpa and Grandma Brusky making moonshine in the woods between their farm and Uncle Harry’s farm, I finally figured out why they treasured the woods so much. You see, this was during the 1920s, when the eighteenth amendment to the constitution— Prohibition—prevented people from making, selling, or transporting liquor. But, illegal or not, Mom said they hiked to their “still” in the woods, mixed a hundred pounds of sugar with two cakes of yeast and two pails of rye, and let it ferment in big barrels for about two weeks. Then, they browned more sugar to a nice caramel color, stirred it in, and poured their bootleg moonshine into quart fruit jars.

Jack Brusky on crank; Clem Brusky on hood

They sold their “hooch” for twenty-five cents a quart. People traveled from all over to buy their illegal booze. Men always showed up right before a dance. I guess they wanted to kick up their legs a little higher—AND get the girls drunk! Anyway, the problem was you could smell the “still’s” sour smell all over the county. It was a dead giveaway. Eventually, the Feds showed up, snooped around, and warned Grandpa he’d better shut down. He didn’t. One day, Uncle Jack, who was their runner, heard the Feds were on their way back to snoop some more. Real quick like, they loaded their barrels and trappings in a wagon, hitched up the horses, drove to Uncle Harry’s farm, and buried the whole kit ‘n’ caboodle in the manure pile.

Moonshine

The Feds never found their moonshine. I guess that was darn lucky, because the money they made helped put Uncle Alvin and, in part, Uncle Zig through college. Now, I don’t want you to think their tuition was paid only with money from moonshine. The boys’ education was a family effort: all the brothers and sisters sold vegetables, eggs, and baked goods; they babysat; they did whatever they could to make money so the boys could go to school.

After Uncle Alvin graduated and started his medical practice, he helped Uncle Zig. After Uncle Zig graduated and started his dental practice, he and Uncle Alvin helped Uncle Eugene and Uncle Sam become doctors, too. From then on, no one in the family paid a doctor bill. Well, Uncle Zig gave us the “family rate,” but I’ll tell you that story later. Back to moonshine: I guess the moral of the story is that moonshine was good medicine—after all it created three doctors and a dentist. 11

Brute Strength Arlyn, here: Dad told us that when Grandpa Brusky worked his farm he had the brute strength of a bull. He could outlift and outwork any normal man. One day, Dad went with Grandpa to cut trees. After they worked a couple hours, Grandpa called out, “Hey, Curly.” (People called Dad Curly because of his curly hair.) “Curly! Look at me. This is how a REAL man chops trees.” Dad laid down his ax, wiped his brow, and took a look: there was Grandpa, standing between two trees, swinging his ax back and forth, chopping both trees at the same time. That was the one and only time Dad went with Grandpa to cut trees, because as Dad said, “He darn near killed me.” Dad was a strong worker and always claimed he could beat any man in his age class, but Grandpa worked like an animal. Nobody could even come close to his strength. Coming from Dad, that says a lot about Grandpa Brusky.

Candy Bars Arlyn, here: Mom liked to tell the story about Grandpa playing cards: supposedly, he never drank, but he had no problem walking two miles across the field to the tavern to play cards. Because Grandpa didn’t drink, he substituted candy bars for liquor. Game over, he filled his pockets with candy and walked back home. The kids loved the nights their dad played cards because every morning after a card game, they had a great time searching his pockets for candy. Irene, Grandpa, Gramdma, Theresa, and Clara

Brusky homestead in Poznan, Poland

A Letter Dick, here: After Mom and Dad were married, Grandma Brusky received a letter from her brother who was still in Poland. It must have been important to Mom because she translated it and kept it for the rest of her life. The copy that’s still in our family is in Mom’s handwriting.

Grandma’s brother in Poland

Czarnina Arlyn, here: Mom told us that when she was growing up everybody in the family always had a job. Still, with all those kids, Grandma worked from sunup to after sunset. She was a great cook—as soon as they finished breakfast, she started dinner, and as soon as they finished dinner, she started supper. One of Grandma’s Polish food traditions that my mother continued is Czarnina—duck blood soup. It gets its name from czarny—the Polish word for black, which refers to the soup’s dark color. As a bit of history, Czarnina started as a way to use every part of a freshly slaughtered duck or goose. In the Old Country, parents served duck blood soup to a young man who had asked for their maiden daughter’s hand in marriage after they rejected his proposal. It’s also part of the plot in the famous Polish epic poem Pan Tadeusz by Adam Mickiewicz. Anyway, rejected marriage proposals and poems aside, Czarnina is made with duck or goose blood mixed with dried fruits (prunes, pears, raisins, apples, cherries) and vinegar, which prevents the blood from clotting and gives it a sweetsour flavor. Grandma, and later Mom, served it with kluski—homemade noodles that are like dumplings.

Mom’s Memories of Grandma and Grandpa Marv, here: I don’t remember the year or the occasion, but I do know Marcia (my wife) gave Mom a memory book that asked her questions about when she was a child. Here’s what Mom said about Grandma and Grandpa Brusky: My mother was a short person. Rolly polly. Always wore a little white cap on her head. Had loads of friends. Everywhere she went, “Hello, Mrs. Brusky.” She was a good cook & baker & she usually sent some across the road. The first things she taught me to cook were French toast, ham or bacon and eggs or side pork with onions & potatoé pancakes. For a snack we made popcorn or caramel corn. My favorite candy was the candy ropes that were hung on a Christmas tree. At Thanksgiving my mom made a big feast. My dad raised turkeys so we always had one. Also roast duck & soup. My mom baked poppy seed rolls & Kolaches & Ponchkie. And of course we had ham. We smoked our own. Coffee cake and ham went well together. All my Thanksgiving memories are favorites because all the married sisters and brothers came home. We spent Saturdays cleaning house for my mom. She was sick a lot & had operations. There were no machines in her day. Everything was done by hand. I had to fill the wood box with wood. We had a woodstove in the kitchen. When I worked outside I milked 5 or 6 cows by hand when I was ten. I also picked stones, cut grass, washed windows, fed baby chickens & ducks & hung clothes on the line. The chore I disliked most was washing clothes on the scrubbing board. We didn’t get payed. It was expected of us to help on the farm. On Mother’s Day whoever could, came to see Mother. We didn’t give gifts in olden days. Just came to show her we loved her.

John and Josephine Brusky & a gathering of friends & family

Uncle Clem Brusky

If my mother gave me a gift she usually knit gloves or bought yard goods & sister Irene sewed the dress. I got a pretty coat with a fox collar when I was 14. On Sundays we went to church & went to the school grounds to play games with the other kids. There weren’t many parades in my younger days except at first communion time we marched from the school to the church and we marched around the church & scattered flower petals on Assumption Day or Eucharistic Day. My mother gave me the good advice to be kind to others & they will be kind to you. Little seeds of kindness will grow and grow & grow. My father was a farmer & Patrolman grading roads. He loved to buy farms. When one sounded like a bargain he bought it. He also raised bees. We got stung many times. When my dad took the honey away from them they followed him to the house & if we were near outside we got stung. My dad had a mask over his head & he had a thing that smoked so they didn’t like to get near him. He always made us a hot punch, as he called it with honey & whiskey. He also liked to make root beer at home. We had it mostly all the time. When we did something wrong, Dad punished us with a few on the rear. He gave me the good advice to don’t get your feet wet or you’ll be sick. I never got angry at my mom or dad. We always did what we were told to do. I never gave them any cause to be angry with me.

Sad, Yet Happy Day Marv, here: I remember Mom telling me that January 15, 1951, was a sad, yet happy day. Grandpa Brusky had a heart attack and died; it was Mom’s birthday; and I, her sixth son, was born. The family buried Grandpa in Assumption BVM Cemetery, in Pulaski, Wisconsin. When Grandma died six years later, she was buried next to him.

Around 1950, John and Josephine’s son, Ed, took over the family farm. John and Josephine moved to Pulaski and lived in the Brusky Building. This is when the farm kids’ first-hand memories of their grandparents begin . . . John & Josephine Brusky

Hugged

Dennis, here:

When Grandpa and Grandma left the farm and moved into the “big town” of Pulaski, there were only about 1,000 residents in the entire town. Uncle Sam, the doctor, and Uncle Sig, the dentist, had offices in the front of what everybody called the Brusky Building, and Grandma and Grandpa lived in a small section in the back. When Mom went to town to shop, my brothers and I liked to go with her. Of course, Mom stopped by the Brusky Building to visit her parents. The minute we walked through the door, Grandma grabbed us, gave us a huge hug, and said, “Come on in. Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?” Grandma was only about four-foot-nine and kind of round. After all, after having fourteen kids, she had the right to be round. Anyway, to me, a little kid, she seemed very small, and I never quite got over how when she hugged us, we knew we were hugged. But my brothers and I never complained about the hugs because Grandma always fed us. She kept big, homemade sugar cookies, Long Johns that she bought from Wielgus Bakery across the street, and bananas in a clear-topped glass cake server. Wielgus Bakery

We stared at those goodies and started to drool. Grandma was a softie, so she allowed us to pull the top off the cake server and choose whatever looked best. Then, while Grandma and Mom did their thing, we grabbed our treats, disappeared into another room, and played.

Arlyn, here:

Nurturing

Church was important to Grandma. No matter what the weather, she walked two blocks to Mass every day. Maybe that’s one reason she was so nurturing. Grandma would do anything for us. From the moment we walked into her house, she stopped what she was doing and gave us all the time in the world. Never once do I remember her hollering. She gave us big hugs and made us feel warm inside. Something about her made me and my brothers want to go to town with Mom and be with Grandma. But to tell you the truth, we’d go anywhere and do anything to get off the farm!

Grandma Brusky and Aunt Theresa

Grandma Candy Marv, here: Grandma Brusky hid small, soft, pink and white peppermint candy in the drawer of a chest between the kitchen and the living room. My brothers and I called it Grandma Candy. Grandma Candy wasn’t anything like Baby Ruth candy bars, and we didn’t really like it. But when we were kids we didn’t get much candy. We thought watermelon was candy, so any real candy was a treat. One day, when I was about six, her candy. Then, she went to the I couldn’t resist. I snuck back to grabbed another piece of candy,

Grandma gave me a piece of next room to talk with Mom. the chest, opened the drawer, and went about my business.

Well, wouldn’t you know it? Grandma needed something out of the drawer. The second she pulled it open, she noticed a piece of her candy was missing, and I got slammed. How Grandma knew exactly how many of those little candies she hid in that drawer was way beyond my six-year-old brain. Grandma spoke choppy English fairly well, but that day she called me out in Polish. Mom spanked me, and I cried and carried on. Lesson learned: don’t sneak Grandma Candy again—ever. Grandma Brusky dressed in her fur

Bill, here:

Severe Burn

One morning, when Grandma Brusky was about seventy years old, she was throwing newspapers into the coal furnace that heated their house. Flames shot out, caught her dress on fire, and burned her severely. After that scare, her arm was misshaped, and she had a hard time doing anything.

Arlyn, here:

The Favorite

I was a sophomore in high school when Grandma and Grandpa Brusky moved to the Brusky Building. The school was just a block away, so every day, for two years, I ate lunch with them, and Grandma gave me cookies. For whatever reason, none of the other cousins were ever invited, and to this day, my brothers accuse me of being the favorite.

Grandpa had arthritis, so he wore a copper bracelet. It turned his skin green, but he claimed it helped his pain. I remember him sitting in his big blue chair and smoking a pipe. Behind his chair was a huge picture of a sunburst. Every day, I said, “Hi, Grandpa.” And every day, all Grandpa said was, “HA!”

Gruff Old Bird

Bill, here: After Grandpa lit his pipe, he held out the match so we could blow it out. But he was a gruff old bird, who swore a lot, so that’s about as close as we got to him. Grandpa taught us discipline. We didn’t dare get out of hand because he corrected us right then and there. And if we didn’t listen, we got a swat across the head. Grandpa definitely ruled the roost.

Pearly Gates Dick, here: Before Grandma died, she had dizzy spells and fell on her head. One day, she knocked herself out cold. After Uncle Sam revived her, she claimed she wasn’t unconscious. She had passed away—Yep! Dead! When she looked down from heaven, she saw her funeral. I guess she found the Pearly Gates, but they weren’t open yet.

Dennis, here: Grandma lived a couple weeks after that episode. Then on November 17, 1957, she had a stroke and died for good. To this day, I remember what Mom said the day of Grandma’s funeral: we drove to Pulaski, pulled up in front of Grandma’s house, and sat in the car. It was pouring down rain. Pretty soon, Mom said, “Grandma is in heaven.” When I asked Mom how she knew, Mom said, “When it rains on a funeral, the person who died went to heaven.”

John Brusky with pipe

Arlyn, here: Grandma died when I was in the army stationed in Hawaii. As soon as I got the news, I put in for emergency leave, but the brass said, “No way!” Well, unbeknown to them, I babysat for the colonel. As soon as he heard that everybody was giving me a hard time, he called us all into his office and ordered his staff to get me on a plane in two hours. Then, he turned to me and said, “Son, get packed. You’re going home!” Even after our gentle Grandma Brusky finally made it through the Pearly Gates, she managed to bless me.

The Farm Kids’ Paternal Great-grandparents Andrew Cholewinski (1847-1938) & Victoria Cholewinski (1845-1922) (Pecla Cholewinski was Andrew’s first wife)

“We the people” streamed across the Atlantic to America from every point in the world. Greeks, Turks, Italians, Spaniards, Germans, Portuguese, Irishmen, Frenchmen, and Poles became part of the vast flow of humankind known as immigrants. They landed in the New World to claim the right to life and liberty—to pursue happiness— to become landowners. In the New World, change was the one constant—new language, new climate, new people, even a new name. Some immigrants had their name changed for them by public officials, schoolteachers, shopkeepers, or neighbors. Others chose to change their name because it was difficult to spell. It was impossible to pronounce. It was too long. It shouted, “Foreigner.” The Cholewinski family was no exception.

Cholewinski Becomes Holewinski Arlyn, here: In 1851, our great-grandparents Antone Holewinki and Agnes Szorto and five children traveled from Poland to New York City by boat, via the Netherlands. Andrew, our great-grandfather, was thirty-four years old and unmarried.

No one in the family talked about Andrew and Victoria. Their memory lives in a single very, very short story about a mild-mannered farmer who most likely gave his great-grandson a quarter.

Arlyn, here:

Big Money

I didnâ€™t know our great-grandmother at all. I knew our great-grandfather, but what I remember about him isnâ€™t much: he was a small and mild-mannered farmer who owned a farm about a mile from what eventually became our family farm. The morning after I made my first communion, my great-grandfather and I walked down the road by the apple trees, just talking. I think he gave me a quarter, which back then was big money.

The Farm Kids’ Paternal Grandparents Stanley Holewinski (1882-1951) & Rose Smith Holewinski (1887-1966) It’s been said that the circle of life rotates through despair and hope, faith and love, until we find our path—the path that leads us home. True to the Holewinski Polish heritage, Stanley and Rose Holewinski’s homebound path led them to the land—to the farm. Stanley grew up on his parents’ farm. After Andrew (Stanley’s father) died in 1938, it was only natural for Stanley to take over the farm. During the years Stanley and Rose owned and worked the farm, they had a house—the homestead—a small barn, a garage/machine shed, and a woodshed, where Stanley did woodworking and stored his tools. Today, in 2013, the farm has been home to four generations of Holewinski sons and their families: Andrew, Stanley (Andrew’s son), Ed (Stanley’s son), and Randy (Ed’s son). And, yes, changes were made: the farm now boasts of a wellkept homestead, a barn, two machine sheds, a garage, and five silos, including three Harvestore silos—the champion of all silos. Still, four generations of family tradition and love for the land remain constant: Randy and Dick (his farm kid cousin) still live about a mile from each other. They still help each other harvest their respective crops. The land still belongs to them. They still belong to the land. 23

The farm kids’ memories of Stanley and Rose begin when they were young boys . . .

Broken English Arlyn, here: Grandpa and Grandma Holewinski spoke very little English, and what they did was broken. One day, they were telling a story in Polish and laughing. I was laughing too. When Grandma looked at me kind of funny-like Mom said, “Rozumieć,” which in Polish means understand. From that day on, they always talked quietly, so I couldn’t hear.

Bill, here: Unlike Arlyn, the rest of us didn’t speak Polish. Mom and Grandma laughed and carried on. But the only way I knew they were talking about me was when I heard them say what sounded like Billigate. That was my name in Polish. Then Grandma turned to Marv and said, “Marvche, how are you? I never see you sitting there so small.” Grandma Holewinski NEVER said, “Marvin.” It was always, “Marvche.”

Marv, here: Yeah, and those bozos will never forget it. They’ll razz me for the rest of my life.

Dad’s sisters: Victoria, Julia, and Irene

Dick, here:

Mend Clothes

Grandma Holewinski walked two miles, round trip, from the homestead to visit our family. She stayed a couple days, caught up on the news, walked back, and told the relatives what we were up to. As kids, we didn’t quite get all that walking and talking. We thought Grandma came to see us just because she liked to mend our clothes.

Thrifty Arlyn, here: Grandpa and Grandma were thrifty. They never spent money unless it was necessary. Dad liked to tell the story about ripping his pants: when he was a kid, only rarely did he get brand new blue jeans; when he did, it was a very big deal. Wouldn’t you know it? On his way to school, wearing his brand new jeans, he spotted a bird’s nest high up in a tree. Dad couldn’t resist: he climbed the tree. The problem was after he grabbed his treasure he slipped off the branch, fell on a barbwire fence, and ripped his new overalls. My brothers and I always thought he could have ripped something far worse, and we wouldn’t be here to tell our story. But Grandma and Grandpa didn’t see it our way. They were wild because he ripped his new blue jeans.

Chutka Bubka Dennis, here: After Dad’s brother, Ed, took over the farm, Grandma stayed and lived in an attached, small apartment. Grandpa’s sister, Celia, who was born deaf and dumb, lived with Grandma. Now, I say, “dumb,” but she was far from dumb, dumb. Celia was a smart little cookie who couldn’t speak, but there wasn’t a thing wrong with her sign language. The instant Celia saw us do something wrong, she’d POINT . . . POINT . . . POINT. Then, she’d holler, “Yink! Yink! Yink!” If she didn’t like something, she waved her arms wildly. In today’s terms, she was a whistle-blower—a tattle-tale. Quite frankly, a snitch. Well, Celia wore her hair in a bun, so we called her, “Chutka Bubka.” Bubka isn’t a very nice word. We didn’t care. Chutka Bubka lived to the ripe old age of eighty and tattled until her dying day.

Stanley Holewinski and brother, Albert

Cranky Geese Arlyn, here: The worst thing about visiting Grandpa and Grandma was the geese and ducks that ran loose in the farmyard. The ducks weren’t nice, but the geese were terrible. The mother geese laid eggs in all the bushes, but there was one big lilac bush between the house and the yard that always had a nest. If we got even close to the lilac bush, the geese attacked. They FLAP . . . FLAP . . . FLAPPED their wings. Then: CHARGE! We did our best to get away, but nine times out of ten they caught us. Then, we were really scared because we knew those cranky, hissing geese would beat us with their wings and peck our ankles.

Arlyn, here:

Każdy z! Każdy z! Każdy z!

Grandpa had a shiny black car, with a front door that opened to the rear. It was always parked in the yard, but we don’t have any particular memories of that car because he never allowed us to get even close. Actually, Grandpa was stern about everything. He was always right; never wrong. When we went to his farm to visit, the adults sat around talking, and the kids ran around in the yard. Well, Grandpa’s woodshed was his pride and joy. He kept it locked, but as soon as we got anywhere near he sat on the porch and hollered at us in Polish. “Każdy z! Każdy z! Każdy z!” Even my brothers and cousins who didn’t speak Polish knew what Grandpa meant. “Each out! Each out! Each out!” Nobody touched Grandpa’s tools.

Fabe, here:

Short. Pudgy. Tall.

Grandma Holewinski was a short, pudgy grandmother type. She had gray hair and always rolled it up in a bun. When she came to our house she talked . . . and talked . . . and talked (always in Polish), so we were never sure what was going on. But somehow we knew she liked us because, on occasion, she complimented us. Grandpa was a tall man. When we went to visit him at the homestead before he died, I remember him lying in bed, suffering from cancer.

Dennis, here:

Mother’s Day

I have a VERY strong memory of Grandma Holewinski: one afternoon, Dad handed me a corsage and said, “Here. Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. I want you to take these flowers to my mom.” That, in itself, was strange because Dad rarely bought gifts.

Front row: Grandpa Stanley Holewinski, Dorothy, Grandma Rose Smith Back row: Sally, Julia, Antone (our dad), Victoria, Edward, Mary, Irene

Anyway, when I got to Grandma’s, she gave me a cookie, and we sat and visited before I left. Grandma had a heart attack and died that very night. I was the last person to see her alive.

Marv, here: On the morning of Mother’s Day 1966, Dad and I were working in the barn. Mom came to the door and called, “Tony.” That seemed strange, because Mom didn’t spend much time in the barn. Dad dropped what he was doing and went to see what Mom wanted. I was down at the other end of the barn, so I couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but I did see Dad put his head down. After Mom went back to the house, I asked Dad what was wrong. All he said was, “My mom died.” That was the first time in my life I saw Dad cry. Grandma and Grandpa are buried next to each other in Hofa Park Cemetery.

Mom, Aunt Teresa, Aunt Clara, and Aunt Irene

The Farm Kids’ Mother Anna Marie Brusky Holewinski (1918–2004) When you’re a kid, you’re a kid. You don’t pay much attention to someone’s life in the “olden days,” even when that life was your very own mother’s.

Welhaven School

Mom’s Childhood Dick, here: My brothers and I can tell you that our mother was born January 15, 1918, at home, on her family’s farm in Welhaven, Wisconsin. Even as a child, she worked hard. When Mom started school, she walked to Welhaven School—a small, white, one-room country schoolhouse that was only about 300 yards from the farm. Mom finished eighth grade when she was fourteen, and even though she was valedictorian of her class, she never went to school again. But back then, most girls didn’t go on to school—even to high school. They got married and had babies. That’s just the way it was. So for the next four years, until Mom was eighteen and married Dad, she lived with her parents and worked on their farm. Mom’s brother, Eddie, played the guitar, and the two of them enjoyed singing together. They sang together at school programs, such as graduation. (When we were older, we heard them sing, and they could harmonize like nobody’s business.) The bad news is the only other thing my brothers and I can tell you about our mom’s childhood is she had a pet lamb named Buck. Buck was an orphan lamb that Mom fed with a bottle, and he followed her everywhere. She loved Buck. He was her most prized possession The good news is we still have Mom’s memory book. And that’s awesome because we can “hear” Mom describe her childhood in her own words . . .

Mom, Skylar, and Kelsey Holewinski

My Name I was born Jan. 15—1918 on a farm in Welhaven, Wisconsin. My mother’s friend who was a Midwife her name was Mrs. Jarek delivered me. My Dad liked plain names & he said if I’m a girl it will be Anna Maria. That’s how I got my name.

Our House We lived in a large 3-story house, 5 bedrooms upstairs and the attic could have been a bedroom. Porch & railings on the East & West side, 3 bedrooms downstairs, dining room & parlor, kitchen, pantry. One time a mouse got in the pantry and ate a hole in the sugar bag. We had a large wood furnace in the basement. We hauled piles & piles of wood in the basement. Bathroom outside. We were always pretty well to do and had most everything we needed—that is more than the other kids. We were the only ones in the neighborhood with a Pulaski phone line. Others had Bonduel phone & we didn’t dare call long distance, waste of money the folks said. One time my sister was playing throwing stones at stuff & she hit a baby duckling & it fell. She thought it was dead & she would get a spanking. So she threw it in the hole in the outhouse. My brother came in the house next day & saw the duck running around in there & told me. She said how did it ever get in there? My sister told her years later. To be alone I liked to go upstairs in my room. It was on the south side of the house upstairs. Just bed & a chair & a little table. The upstairs had a walk in closet so all the clothes were hung in there.

Brusky homestead today

Our Family We were a family of 13 children, so the married ones came mostly every Sunday & we had feather stripping bees. Neighbors got together to strip feathers for pillows and feather quilts. Lunch was always served after. To pull our baby teeth we tied a string to the tooth & to the door knob & pushed the door shut & the tooth popped out. When we were sick we had whiskey & honey for a cough & rubbing the chest with Vicks VapoRub. We lived among a Lutheran neighborhood. The Lutheran church was a quarter mile from us & our school was a few steps from there. The church cemetery was next to our land. The people were all friendly & we got along well with them. My favorite uncle was Uncle Pete from Philly. He always gave us money when he came to visit. I have a cousin in Manitowoc. He was my age & we got along well. I always thought he would be a priest. But no luck He was a quiet guy & he married a gal who never quit talking. But I liked her.

Brusky Family Front row, left to right: Grandpa, Irene, Clara, Theresa, Mom, Grandma Back row, left to right: Edward, Sigmund, Harry, Eugene, Alvin, Sam, Henry, Clemence, and Jack

Mom and Uncle Ed around 1922

When I was home I only had one brother left—Eddie. The others were in college or working away from home or were married. 4 of my brothers became doctors. Eddie and I got along real well. He played a guitar & we practiced singing in our spare time. I also learned to sew, stitch, and do needlework. A proud moment was when Dr. Alvin became a Dr. & Zig a dentist. Dr. Al was a part time barber to earn money for school & he gave me my first boyish bob. All us girls had the short cut with bangs. But Dr. Alvin was a barber when he went to college & he came home one time & gave me a boyish bob. I liked it. It was popular then. My brother Dr. Sam had a big influence over my life. We were real close—his family and ours & he got killed in a car accident on the way to a sick person at 38 years of age. I cried for many wks. I couldn’t get him off my mind. I pray every day for him.

Our Land We had a woods on our farm & we went to pick flowers & mushrooms & play in the creek that ran from the hill down to the woods. Cow slips grew along the banks. My favorite time of year was spring. Everything was getting green and April showers bring May flowers. We had a woods on our land and loved to pick them. We made lots of mud pies and sand castles too. One spring I tried to walk on the ice which was getting weak & I fell through. My feet sure were cold. Uncle Sam and Uncle Eugene

In the summer we went barefoot most of the time. We stepped on nails & glass many times and once a black snake under the apple tree.

Storms We had a lot of thunderstorms with a lot of wind and rain. Many broken branches. There was a lot of lightning and thunder in the summer when it got hot the lightning struck the tree by the house and split it in two. We had to run and get the baby chicks & turkeys inside. The turkeys died when they got wet when they were little. But we had no power outage when I was a child. My dad had an engine in the basement that generated our own electricity. It was called Delco light. When the light got dim he started the engine. No one else had electricity—only lanterns in the barn & lamps in the house. One time there was a storm coming up & my friend Elna Jankowski & her sister stayed by us because they had 4 miles to walk & the storm would have come before they got home. We had a tin roof on our house & Elna was so scared when the hail & rain hit the roof. I was scared of wild animals, especially skunks. I was always scared of storms & my brother & sister took me along to a ball game in Navarino & we got in an accident. My sister Theresa was unconscious 3 wks. I was in the backseat so I fell down & only got a cut on my eye brow & by my eye. During one windstorm we had to get the cows at night. They were always on the last field & big black clouds were coming at us, so we lay in the ditch until it passed.

For Fun As a kid everything was fun—skiing & toboggan rides, ice skating. We only had a radio flyer wagon. That’s the only toy I remember. The boys had footballs and baseballs. We went on hayrides with a bunch of kids on a big horse drawn sleigh. We had a pond by the lawn. We made lots of mud pies & sand castles too. We made a couple swings—one with an old tire & one with ropes tied to a tree limb. Pulaski used to have carnivals. We rode the merry-go-around, Ferris wheel, and small cars that went on a track for 10¢. One time Theresa took me on a ride & I got sick. Seymour & Shawano had a fair every year. They had games that you throw a ball at something. If you hit it, it was yours.

Mom, Uncle Alvin, and Clara Brusky

We had school picnics & church picnics. I ran the fish pond at the church picnic. We played ball one school against another & ate ice cream cones. Mother brought food. We had box socials at school. When we had programs we made up boxes of goodies & boys & men bid on them & if they bought your box you ate together. We liked to play pin the tail on the donkey blind folded. We played Bingo for candy. We went on hayrides with a bunch of kids on a big horse drawn sleigh. In the fall we had husking bees. The corn that was to be put into the corn crib was snapped on the ground & then was picked up & hauled up in the barn & then people would come over & we’d tare the husks off of them. It was a nice visit with neighbors & friends. Lunch was served later. We always raked and burned leaves at home every wk. end. We raked in the fall of the year at school & made a big pile & hid in it.

The first movie I saw was Gene Autry & Champion. That silver haired Daddy of mine. One time I met Roy Rogers and Dale and Gene Autry. My favorite radio program was WLS Cowboy Singers Barn Dance. My favorite movie was Gone with the Wind. I liked Rhett Butler & Melanie. My favorite books were Huckleberry Finn & Black Beauty. My favorite movie star was Humphrey Bogart. He was a real down to earth guy. None of that mushy stuff. I liked him & Lauren Bachall in a movie. We played cards, mostly 500 Rummy, Smear & Shafskop, Seven Up, Poker. Other games we played were “Farmer in the Dell.” “Leap frog.” “Tag.” I liked singing and playing the organ. Mom was a good singer. We sang “Turkey in the Straw,” Old Black Joe,” “Way down Upon the Swanee River.” A lot of songs from the golden song book at school. I also liked to bake things. I don’t think I’d change anything about my childhood. As a teenager I would have liked to go out more. There wasn’t much to do and cars weren’t too easily gotten. Kids worked at home until they married. Only the family car was around. Only men drove it. When I started to date Tony he taught me how [to drive.] He had a Dodge Coupe. It wasn’t hard to handle.

School My school friends called me Annie Bananie because the two words rhymed. I always thought I was too tall for my age at 14. My best friends were Anna Blom, Gertrude Weisnicht, Marie Gigstad, Joyce Buckley, & Pearl Rudie. I went to Hofa Park St. Stanislaus for a couple years until it got too cold. Victoria Karey was my best friend there. Marie Gigstad was a good friend at Welhaven school. She was a minister’s daughter & lived by the school. When I grew up I wanted to be a nurse. I liked school. I was an A. B. student. I went to Welhaven & Hofa Park Parochial. I lived a quarter mile from school in Welhaven so I went home for dinner. I lived 4 miles from catholic school in Hofa Park. Every day I walked 4 miles up, 4 back. Our school colors were white carnations & red ribbons. My best teacher was Adelaride Habigharst. She was strict & pleasant. She made us write 500 times I must not whisper or some spelling words we missed. We cleaned the school before we went home. New ones were chosen every wk. to sweep & clean the blackboards. My favorite subjects were spelling & language. I didn’t like arithmetic. I didn’t have any difficult school essays. The girls used to come to me to write one for them. They didn’t know how to make up a story, especially in the Parochial school.

Mom around 1930

In school we all brought valentines & wrote them out to each other. They put them in a big box & someone passed them out. At recess we had snowball fights in winter. I remember playing ball, tag or we had a wood shed where they kept wood to heat the school. We had a ball & threw it over the roof & the kids on the other side caught it & threw it back. We called it Anty Anty Over. We had teams. Who caught it most times was winner. We had a teeter totter & merry go round. We played football, basketball & baseball.

Joyce Buckley was the smartest kid in school. She was a witty little thing & Arthur Olson of the boys. He did nothing but study. Never played at recess. Rudolph Olson only looked confused & was shy so he never spoke out much. The naughtiest kid was Alfred Oin. He came from Lac Du Flanibeau & he liked to take fountain pens apart—the ones with the ink wells on the desk. He sure made a inky mess, desk, hands, face & clothes. I was in church and school holiday pageants many times in all eight grades of school. We had a Christmas program and I was in the plays. I only had one doll that my sister bought me. It was my best Christmas present ever. I had to have it for a school play. I had to sing to my doll. My doll was left out in the rain that eventually washed her paint all off. One time in school one girl had a very flared skirt. I picked up one end & threw it up in the air. The teacher said, “Anna. I’m surprised.” I felt foolish & wished I hadn’t done it. When we graduated we marched on the stage to the tune of Stars and Stripes Forever. I was valedictorian and in between Eddie & I sang, when he played the guitar, cowboy songs while they were getting ready for the next play. We only had plain old black shoes with strings. To school we wore any dress that was neat. Girls never wore pants then. Irene or Mom bought our clothes. Irene lived in G.B. so her & Mom shopped if I needed something. There were no stores close. We didn’t go along shopping unless we needed shoes to try on. I didn’t wear make up until I stood up for my cousin’s wedding. I didn’t own any cosmetics as a kid . . . didn’t have money to spend as a kid. Got a few nickels when we had our school picnic.

Holidays

Aunt Irene and Uncle Bill Jacques

At Halloween we made pumpkin lanterns & went trick or treating. We had enough candy for wks. Smeared peoples’ cars with soap. A couple boys put a goat on a guy’s shed roof or turned the wagons upside down. We put up our Christmas tree the day before Christmas. Dad cut it out of the woods. We decorated it with tinsel, balls, candy canes & candy things & lights & strung popcorn on strings & Christmas cutout cookies with colored sugar. We didn’t hang stockings. Each child got a package with candy, nuts, peanuts, a popcorn ball, apple & orange. We didn’t have money to buy Mom anything. She got a hug & kiss. I love you Mom. Dad was same as mom. We had no money. I used to wash his feet many times. It was hard for him to bend. He had an open sore on his back until Dr. Al took him to Milwaukee hospital & they burned around the edge & it healed.

We opened presents on Christmas morning. I wasn’t choosy. As a kid any present was appreciated. You take what you get & be satisfied. Santa Claus just handed out presents at school. We chose names & got what was given to us. Christmas church services were special. Choir singing. In my days it was Polish. The songs were beautiful & still are. All Christmas are best. Christ is born & we all rejoiced. New Year’s Eve we always went to Mass. I made resolutions. But never kept them. Easter was always a feast. We got no presents for Christmas only a package with candy, nuts, popcorn ball or orange. When I was a kid it was your birthday& that was all. We had no parties or cakes with candles. I never went anywhere as a kid. We had no family vacation trips. As a child we only had vacation from school. We did go to Dr. Sam’s cottage a couple times a year, play in the water & ate lunch on the beach. We made May baskets & put flowers in them & hung it on people’s doors when it got dark. We made them out of flowers & candy & we braided them out of strips of paper that we cut to form the basket. We roasted hot dogs and marshmallows a lot. Most of them got black when we held it too close to the fire.

My Advice The best piece of advice I have is be kind to everyone & smile & you’ll have a lot of friends. Also helping when help is needed.

My Boyfriends My first boyfriend was John Bluma. For my first date a friend of mine had a boyfriend with a car, so she took her brother along so I’d have a partner. The first dance I went to was when I stood up for my cousin’s wedding. I was only 14 then. I wasn’t too good at it. Popular dances were polkas, waltzes, schottish, jitterbug, and circular two-step. All our church picnics were fun. We had an outdoor dance hall with a fence around it. That is where I met Tony.

And after that church dance at St. Stanislaus Catholic Church in Hofa Park, Wisconsin, where Anna Marie Brusky met Antone Dennis Holewinski, lives changed forever.

The Farm Kids’ Dad Antone Dennis Holewinski (1910–1989) Antone “Tony” Holewinski was born January 9, 1910, in Maple Grove Township, Wisconsin. He grew up on his father’s farm. Even as a young boy, Tony helped his dad work the farm. Then, after Tony finished seventh grade, his dad fell ill and could no longer work. So thirteenyear-old Tony quit school and assumed full responsibility for running his dad’s farm. In 1935, twenty-five-year-old Tony Holewinski paid Joe Lepak $2,300 for 80 acres of land. It was a mile east of the family homestead and two miles east of Hofa Park. The land was divided into 20-acre parcels. During the 1930s, land in the area was very, very wooded. Farmers cut down trees and dug out stumps before planting. Tony had more than his fair share of woods. When he bought the farm, the 40-acre field behind his barn was the only workable land. The remainder was gnarly tree stumps.

Grandma Rose on right, Dad on left with sisters Dorothy, Julia, Sally, and Victoria

As was tradition, neighbor helped neighbor. Shortly after Tony purchased his land, his farmer neighbors banded together and worked with Tony to drill huge holes in the stumps. They packed the holes with dynamite and yelled, “RUN!” Then, BOOM! . . . BOOM! . . . BOOM! But stumps weren’t Tony’s only problem: he discovered beer bottles, wine bottles, and booze bottles behind the silo, under the trees. Everywhere. Tony hauled truckload after truckload of broken bottles to the dump. Still, clearing stumps and hauling bottles didn’t demand every hour of Tony’s time. The farm kids remember . . . Dad and Aunt Irene

Don Juan of Hofa Park Dick, here: One of our mother’s girlfriends had a car. So every weekend they drove to dances in little towns close to Hofa Park. That’s all there was to do, so the whole family went. Anyway, one weekend our mother and dad both ended up at a dance at St. Stanislaus Catholic Church in Hofa Park. Mother was sixteen. Dad was twenty-four. Believe it or not, Dad was a good dancer. As the story goes, when he showed up at dances all the girls wanted to dance with Tony Holewinski.

Bill, here: Dad had beautiful curly hair and was the Don Juan of Hofa Park. Mom was a gorgeous young lady—a rare find. I guess they liked each other right away because after the dance they started dating.

Sleigh Ride Dick, here: Vernon Lubinski told me this story at least twenty times: I can still see your mother and dad as they drove by the cheese factory. They sat in the rumble seat, right on top of each other, all the way through Hofa Park.

Bill, here: There’s another story about Mom and Dad riding in a one-horse drawn sleigh: they were all covered up and sitting real close together. I don’t know much more than that, but Dad verified that he often took Mom riding in a sleigh before they were married because he didn’t have a car.

Dick, here: Well, the story about the car in the wintertime is this: back then, they didn’t drive cars in the winter. They put them up on blocks. The roads weren’t plowed, so they had to use sleighs to get over the snowbanks.

Fatten the Chickens Bill, here: It seems strange that my brothers and I never heard the story about how Dad popped the question. But, then, we never asked. We do know that back then people raised everything they ate—chicken, beef, garden vegetables—just everything. That’s how they survived. We’re not positive, but we suppose that after Mom’s parents heard about her engagement, they started to fatten the steer and the chickens so they could feed the wedding guests. We do know Mom and Dad were married June 24, 1936, at Saint Stanislaus Catholic Church, in Hofa Park, Wisconsin.

Left to right: Ed Holewinski, Mary Holewinski, Dad, Mom, Irene Holewinski, Ed Brusky, Sally Holewinski, Bernadine Kujawa, flower girl

Family farm in winter

Marv, here:

Home

We’re not sure what Mom and Dad did for their honeymoon. But when Mom was asked to tell about her biggest or best fish catch, this is what she wrote in her memory book: When I got married we went perch fishing. Most of them were average. So she didn’t say it exactly. Still, she implied that she and Dad went fishing on their honeymoon. We do know that after their honeymoon Dad brought Mom to his farm— the Holewinski family farm. And this is where they began their life together. The Holewinski family farm is also where my brothers, sister, and I began our lives. The family farm is where we grew up—where we learned the value of hard work—where we learned respect, responsibility, resourcefulness—where we learned Holewinski pride—where we learned the true meaning of gospodarz. It is where we learned what it means to be a farm kid. The Holewinski family farm was, is, and always will be the place we call HOME.

Walleye

A Wagon Wheel “The wheel comes full circle.” ~William Shakespeare

A farm is not like a highway’s double parallel lines that flow side-by-side for hundreds, even thousands, of miles, never touching, always separating. A farm is like a wagon wheel—a circle. It is a process where everything is linked, where one thing depends on everything else, where life and land come full circle. And because a farm is like a circle, without a logical place to begin and end, there is not a tidy, orderly way to tell its story. Still, ironically, even mysteriously, its whole can be appreciated by examining its parts and reliving its stories, one at a time—especially when those stories are told by six engaging farm kids.

The Holewinski Family Farm

“I would rather be on my family farm than emperor of the world.” ~George Washington

Interrupt a farmer. Now, ask him, “Will you please say something wise?” Most likely he will furrow his weathered brow and shoot you a puzzled look. Farmers, you see, don’t waste time spouting wisdom for wisdom’s sake. Instead, their wisdom is practical. Profound. It is wisdom rooted in stories farm kids remember about their lives, the people they love, and the land they respect . . .

Arlyn, here: I’m the oldest farm kid—the one who remembers most about our farm when Dad bought it. So my brothers asked me to tell the story about how the Holewinski family farm began.

Our House Our house was like the other farmhouses in Maple Grove: stone, slanted roof, porch on the back. We walked into the kitchen. Then, there was a dining room . . . hallway . . . bedroom . . . bedroom. We slept on six-inch-thick, straw-filled mattresses. Dad tried to insulate by piling manure around the foundation, but the stones were cracked, so it was always cold inside. During the winter, we never used the upstairs because it was too cold. We heated with coal that came in a package that we threw into the wood burning stove. By morning, we had no heat. When Dick was a baby and Mom changed his diaper at night, sometimes she threw it on the floor. By morning, it was frozen solid. We didn’t have running water. Our well was an outside hole in the ground, covered by wooden planks. The pump was metal. It had a long handle that we pumped up and down until water poured out the spout and filled the bucket. We hauled the bucket inside and poured the water into a container in our kitchen-corner pantry. Our “soft water” was rainwater that we dipped from a cistern in the basement. At first, Mom scrubbed our dirty clothes on a washboard. Then, she got a wringer washing machine, and her life was “easier.” She soaped the clothes, rubbed them up and down on the machine’s wooden grate, soaped them again, and rubbed some more. She sloshed the clean clothes in a rinse tub before she wrung them out.

Mom, Arlie, and Fibber around 1940 at old house

No matter what the season, Mom hung the wash outside on the clothesline to dry. I can still close my eyes and see sheets, pillowcases, diapers, underwear, blue jeans, and shirts hung in order, flapping on the clothesline.

During the wintertime, everything froze stiff as a board. Shirts’ arms and pants’ legs stuck out every which way. Long underwear stood straight-up on its own. After Mom lugged the clean clothes inside, she hung them on a clothes line she strung across the kitchen close to the woodstove, where they finished drying. Then, she sprinkled them with a water bottle and ironed EVERYTHING, including sheets and underwear. The mud hole between the house and the barn was so big that before Dad filled it in, we could hardly get in the yard. Mom stored our silverware in a hutch in the dining room. We had a greenish sofa and two chairs in the living room. Mom cooked and baked on a woodstove. A wood box sat next to the stove. One of the many daily chores was to chop wood and keep the wood box full so Mom didn’t have to run outside every time she needed to light the stove. One morning, when I was very young, I decided to build a fire all by myself. It didn’t take off, so I threw the wood back in the wood box. Big mistake. The wood box caught fire. We panicked and ran to the barn yelling, “The house is burning! . . . The house is burning!” Dad managed to put out the flames before anything was damaged, but the entire house smoked up.

Our Equipment

Dad owned one old manure spreader and plowed with a one-horse, rough wooden plow. He planted grain, oats, corn, and a little hay. The farmer before Dad never picked stones, so the fields were full of stones of all sizes. Dad hitched up the horse to the plow, threw the reins over his shoulder, and took off digging a single furrow. The minute he hit a stone (always sooner rather than later), the plow tipped over and damn near broke Dad’s ribs.

Our Livestock Dad started our family farm with Daisy and Dolly (his two dairy cows), Luke and Barney (his team of horses), and a few chickens and hogs. He didn’t own a bull, so he borrowed his dad’s bull to build his herd. Dad milked by hand, and before Mom had babies she helped. After Fibber and I came along, she stuck us in the cow’s manger to keep us out of the way. Most cows are calm but dumb. They didn’t care. They were great babysitters. This was way before pasteurization, so Dad squirted raw milk into a bucket, and then strained it into a 10-gallon can. Flour came in a huge white cotton sack. He tied the empty sack over the can’s top, and it filtered out bits of straw, dirt, and cow poop.

Dad kept the milk cool in the water tank until he took it to the cheese factory for processing. His first milk check was eight dollars and some odd cents. The milk was called B milk and was used for cheese. But the truth is we drank it. When we were babies, Mom boiled it. But as soon as we were off the bottle, we drank it right from the cow.

First barn with track on ceiling to carry manure buckets

Our Barn Dad had a typical Midwest red barn. It was about 40’x 60’, built out of mortar and huge fieldstones. The walls were four-feet thick. Massive, open cedar log beams supported the second-story floor. The A-frame roof was built out of wood planks and held together by wooden stakes driven through hewed-out holes and bound with rope. Dad didn’t get electricity until 1938, so in the early days, he lit the barn with kerosene lanterns. The barn’s two sides were separated by a concrete alley. On one side were stalls where the cows were locked into stanchions. Calves were loose in square pens on the other side. As Dad’s herd grew, he had six or eight calves at a time. A track ran down the middle of the alley. The cows pooped and peed in the gutter next to the track. Dad hung a 100-gallon manure bucket over the track. So, every day, to clean the barn, we pulled a chain, lowered the manure bucket, and shoveled it full of juicy, runny cow poop. Then, we shoved it down the track and dumped it into the manure pile in the yard. After the bucket was empty, we shoved it back up the track and filled it again. We fed the cows about 5:30 every morning and afternoon. When they were hungry, they bellowed constantly: MOOOO . . . MOOOO . . . MOOOO. But when they were full, except the ones ready to breed, they didn’t make a peep. Then, there were the fresh calves: MAAAAW . . . MAAAAW . . . MAAAAW. They never shut up.

Our Out Buildings Dad started with one shed that was basically for storing junk. The toilet was an outhouse. The toilet paper was the Sears & Roebuck catalog. And, yes, even during Wisconsin’s winters, we hiked to the outhouse.

Our Silo Dad had one silo. It was a cylinder, thirty-eight feet tall, built with hollow, one-foot-square, glazed ceramic blocks, set in mortar. The reinforcement rod strung around its parameter increased its strength. Actually, it was a very good looking structure. We stored silage in our silo. Silage is fermented corn. Back when Dad started farming, corn was cut row-by-row, by hand. It was, then rolled into bundles, bound with string, thrown into a horse-drawn wagon, and transported to the silo. The bundles were hoisted onto a long conveyer belt that was fitted with a chopper and blower and motorized by a pulley attached to the tractor. After the corn was chopped, it was blown through a long pipe into the silo, where a month or so later the green corn fermented into silage. We fed silage to our cows. In the early days, Dad didn’t own a tractor. His brother, Ed, did. So as was typical: neighbor helped neighbor; family helped family. They drove Ed’s tractor from farm to farm, filling one silo, then the next, until the job was finished. Anyway, anyone who has ever lived on a farm will never forget silage: I can’t tell you how many times my brothers and I climbed up inside the silo and nearly passed out from gas created by the fermentation process. When corn silage is stored in the silo, the liquid leaks out the bottom. When it ran out the drain at the bottom of the silo, it formed a dark ditch in the soil. The cows loved it. They poked their heads under the fence, lapped up the corn juice, got drunk, and went crazy—tails flying, feet kicking, 1,200pound bodies sliding into each other.

Ceramic silo like the one Dad had

The hogs were just as bad. They drank the corn liquor, rolled over on their backs, and squealed at the top of their lungs: EEEEEEEE . . . EEEEEEEE . . . EEEEEEEE. We heard them all over the farm. Dick always said, “Their wheels are turnin’, but they ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

More Land In 1951, Dad bought another 100 acres from John Bluma for $5,000. The land had never been farmed. It was basically swampy, lowland covered with willow brush, backed by a huge hill, and infested with copperhead snakes. This is when my brothers’ memories begin . . .

Dick, here: According to Mom, her boys were growing up “lazy.” She couldn’t take it. Mom thought we needed more work, so she told Dad to buy more land!

Arlyn, here:

Pride and Joy

The land was very primitive. We pulled out roots with a big plow and hauled them away. It took forever, but eventually we cleared the fields and planted oats and hay. It wasn’t unusual to see a copperhead snake wiggle out from a bale of hay. But shortly after Dad bought the land, the snakes were gone—Dad nailed every last one.

Bill, here: It all goes back to Mom: she kept the farm clean. Dad did the farm work, but Mom made sure our family farm looked good. She even made us go down the fence row and pull out thistles. If the lawn wasn’t mowed, she mowed it. Everything had to be neat—just so. After all, the farm was Mom and Dad’s pride and joy.

New House Arlyn, here: In 1948, Dad and Mom tore down the old house and built a new brick house in its footprint. Building took a year, so during that spring and summer we lived in the brooder house. (A brooder house is a shed with lights and a heater used for raising baby chicks.) We had two brooder houses. One had a sloped roof. The other one was a Quonset hut—a small building built from corrugated galvanized steel. The Quonset hut had a door at each end and maybe one window. Dad cleaned the chicken poop off the Quonset hut’s floor, disinfected it with lye, and moved in our beds, furniture, and Mom’s stove. And that’s where Mom cooked and all seven of us lived until the house was finished. I was eleven; Fabe was eight; Dick was four; Bill was two; and Dennis had just turned one. And to top it off, we didn’t have indoor plumbing or running water until over a year later when our new house was finished.

New house

Bill, here: By fall our new house still wasn’t finished, so we moved our furniture and Mom’s stove into the basement of the new house and lived there all winter. I’ll never forget the day Mom opened a dresser drawer and a rat ran out. She wasn’t a happy camper!

Dick, here: Dad bought lumber for our new house from Peels’ Lumber in Seymour, Wisconsin, located nine miles south of the farm. Then he, his cousins, and Ernie Brewster, the contractor, started building. The house had two bedrooms upstairs and two downstairs. Mom and Dad slept in one downstairs bedroom. The second one was empty until Melanie came along. Fabian and I slept in a double bed in the small upstairs bedroom. Arlyn and Marv slept in one double bed, and Bill and Dennis slept in another double bed in the huge upstairs bedroom. On hot summer nights, we all slept on the roof between the garage and house where it was cooler.

Maxine Brusky and Arlyn

The upstairs bathroom had a toilet and sink but no shower. So what? The farm kids weren’t interested in bathrooms. 51

Honor System Dennis, here: When Dad built the new barn in 1958, he didn’t borrow a single penny from a bank. Instead, Mom’s brother, Dr. Alvin, agreed to lend Dad and Mom the money. When Alvin asked how much they needed, Dad told him $20,000. Alvin said, “No problem.” A week later, he handed Dad a stack of hundred dollar bills, and said, “I think this is $20,000 cash.” Dad thanked Alvin and promised that Mom would stop by every month and make a payment. Well, when Dad got home and counted the money he was $2,000 short. So he went back to Alvin and said, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you only gave me $18,000.” Alvin said, “Sorry. I must have miscounted.” Then, he reached into his wallet, handed Dad the additional two grand, and said, “There’s no record of this. If I die the money is yours.” Alvin never charged a penny of interest. Every Christmas and every Easter Mom made him a big batch of duck blood soup. That’s all he wanted. Back then, that’s the way farm life was: business deals were conducted with the honor system; a man’s word was better than any formal contract.

Dad and Mom

Arlyn, here:

Dad & Mom

No doubt as farm kids we loved our land, our house, our animals, and each other. But they were nothing without Dad and Mom.

Dad’s Shit-kickers Dennis, here: Dad had curly white hair—hair we six farm kids inherited. He wasn’t a big guy, probably about 5'8", but he had huge hands. Except when Dad went to church, he always wore a straw hat and striped bib overalls. The overalls were denim, with lots of riveted pockets. He kept a pencil in one pocket, his wallet in another, and whatever stuff he needed in the others. During the summertime, Dad wore a strap T-shirt underneath his overalls and opened a button, so he was basically naked to his waist. During the wintertime, he wore a union suit—Long Johns—underneath. And for those who might wonder: Long Johns are long underwear with buttons down the front and a trapdoor in the back. And for those who might wonder even more: a trapdoor unbuttons so you can go to the bathroom . . . or during the early years, the outhouse.

Arlyn, here: Dad smoked cigars until he was forty-five or fifty. He quit after Uncle Bill Jakes was diagnosed with lung cancer. He also smoked a pipe until the day he knocked out the ashes and started a fire. And for thirty-five years, he chewed tobacco. Dad kept his tobacco in a pocket in his bib overalls. Sometimes when we were riding the tractor, with me sitting next to him, he would reach for the tobacco, the wind would catch it, and it would blow in our eyes. There’s nothing like flying tobacco to make your eyes tear up. Still, according to Dad, “Tobacco grows hair on your chest.”

Dad (far right) in his bib overalls with Bill & John Rudzynski after fishing Walleye

Bill, here: Dad wore big work boots that were always covered with manure. Appropriately, we called them his shit-kickers.

Respected in Community Marv, here: Dad was highly respected in the community. He was one of the first farmers to try new technology such as grain choppers. He was also one of the first farmers to use fertilizers and pesticides.

Dick, here: Dad bought hybrid seed corn. The old-time farmers saved a couple ears from the previous year’s crop, shelled off the kernels, and planted them for the next year’s crop. But hybrid corn is a different kind of corn. Let’s just say that its pollination is controlled so you get a much better crop, with more uniform ears and a higher yield. Plus, Dad wasn’t afraid to put a little extra fertilizer on his corn, so he almost always got a better crop than his neighbors. Dad also had good cattle. Area farmers bought heifer and bull calves from him to better their herds. It all added up, and Dad was very, very respected in the community.

Dennis, here: Dad took pride in the farm. Our family farm was his life. He loved it. Dad did whatever was best for good crops and high yield as opposed to showing off with big tractors and fancy cars. So, all considered, Dad built the farm from nothing to a very successful operation, and that alone gave him stature in the community. Curly (Dad) and dog

Dick, here:

Frugal

Dad was frugal. He fixed everything that broke. You know, the old saying: baling wire can fix anything? Dad probably wrote it. NOTHING was ever “broken.” If machinery wouldn’t run, Dad took it apart with a wrench and a hammer and put it back together with baling wire. Dad never threw anything away. NEVER. He kept his 1937 grain binder until 1977. Every year Dad mended that binder’s canvas until there were so many patches you couldn’t see where one started and the next one ended.

Dennis, here: AND Dad has a son just like him, AND that son is still on the farm. Actually, truth be told, Dad has several sons just like him! Dad and Dick fixing something

Gas-o-Matic Bill, here: Mom always wanted to travel. Not Dad. But in 1962, Dad agreed to take a car trip to Hoover Dam. They asked our neighbors to go along, so there were six people traveling together in one car. The next year when Mom said, “Tony, we’re going on another car trip with our neighbors,” Dad blew up. “The hell we are,” he said. “I ain’t going. Good God, if you gotta fart you can’t do it in the car with all those people. If one slips out everybody’s lookin’ at ya.”

Dennis, here: Dad was a Gas-o-Matic. He could fart any time he wanted to. And there’s nothing quite like a fart let off by raw bacon and raw onions.

Bill, here: Dad was the best farter ever. He’d say, “I can fart any time I want.” We’d say, “Well, fart then.” He’d say, “I don’t want to!”

Dad and our neighbor, Bill Schneider, on vacation in Black Hills, South Dakota, 1962

Dick, here: Dad had a saying: A farting man is the man to hire; a farting man will never tire. The truth is his sons held races to see who could rip off the most farts in a row. Then, we made up our own sayings: It’s better to fart and feel the shame than not to fart and feel the pain!

Dennis, here:

Who ARE these guys?

Normally, Dad didn’t hug or kiss us. It wasn’t until after he’d had a few drinks at weddings that we learned how proud he was of us—how much he loved us. We overheard him brag to his friends. “My son did this. My other son did that.” We’d look at each other and be like: Who ARE these guys? I remember Dad introducing me to his friends. “This is my son, Dennis. He’s a good football player.” Now, Dad

hated that I played sports. But I just smiled politely and thought to myself: Dad MUST be drinking. This sure isn’t the Dad I know.

Dad’s Life Lessons Farm kids, here: The farm kids agree: Dad didn’t go to college. He didn’t even go to high school, but he was smart— wise—way beyond a formal education. The lessons we learned from Dad on the Holewinski family farm guided us throughout our lives: Never lie—if you’re honest and tell the truth now you won’t have to pay later. Dad always said, “I’ll forgive you if you make a mistake, but don’t ever lie to me.” Disciplined hard work—if somebody said, “It can’t be done,” we did it. Integrity—Dad told us time and time again, “No matter what, be nice guys.” Frugality—never just throw things away. Fix them. Appreciate life—work hard, play hard, celebrate hard. When it was time to work, Dad worked; when it was time fish, Dad fished; when it was time to party, Dad partied.

Dad and friend with their catch

Respect—Dad always said, “I don’t want to hear about you guys doing something—anything—that’s not respectful.” Face the music—life doesn’t come with ifs, ands, or buts. If you do something wrong, admit it.

Marv, here: The words on Dad’s gravestone are telling: Faith, Hope, Love. Sure, Dad was OUR dad. But we couldn’t keep him to ourselves. It just wouldn’t be fair. The eulogy I wrote aired on WeatherTime Radio Network to some 100 radio stations in Wisconsin, Minnesota, Northern Illinois, and the Eastern Dakotas. I sure miss him. We all do.

Eulogy to a Special Wisconsin Farmer From sunup to sundown, he labored tirelessly in the field, yet whenever a friend, neighbor, or family member stopped by he would drop whatever he was doing to socialize. His belief in God was as firm and hard as the stones he picked from the fields each spring. He was a simple man, limited in formal schooling, but he was wise and intelligent beyond what years of education could have provided. With his children and family, he was a strong patriarch, whose rod could never be said to have spoiled the child, but when the child had a problem or needed a hand, his understanding and compassion were beyond measure. His views and beliefs were always strong, but his words to express them were often soft. His word was better than any contract on paper because his word would not fade, get lost, get erased, or burn. His passion to hunt and fish were outdone only by his enjoyment of being part of the woods he hunted in or part of the lake he fished on. He loved to match wits with Wiley Walleye, and more often than not, he won. When he handled a deck of cards, you would have thought he invented the games of sheepshead and poker. In his late years, when an unconscionable farm accident took the better part of both legs, he did not despair; he showed all who knew him the meaning of courage, fortitude, and bravery, and he did walk again. And in the end, when he encountered the unconquerable enemy, like his father before him, he looked the enemy in the eye and put up a fight beyond mortal man. As a farmer, he didn’t just work the land, he was part of it; it was his life; it was his soul. And now he has become part of the soil he so dearly loved, and has gone to live with the One he so firmly believed in and prayed to. This, my friends, is my eulogy to a very special Wisconsin farmer—to my dad who passed away last Thursday. But, you know, many of these words could be used to eulogize many farmers in Wisconsin, or Minnesota, or Iowa, or Illinois, or for a farmer from any part of the world. For many of the qualities I’ve described about my dad are the fabric of farm life. My family and I would like to thank you for all your prayers and kind thoughts you may have expressed over the past several years, and a special thank you to all in our community—neighbors and friends for all your help, condolences, gifts, flowers, food, and thoughts over the past several days. You know, after all these years, I’ve finally realized that farming isn’t only about fertilizer, seeds, cows, corn, and alfalfa. Farming is about people.

Marv, here:

One Hot Mama

Mom was about 5'5"tall—just a little shorter than Dad. She had hazel eyes and dark auburn hair that seemed to change color. But thanks to Miss Clairol, number 34, it was never gray.

Dennis, here: When I met Sue (who is now my wife), her dad owned the grocery store in Pulaski. Sue told me, “Everybody in town thinks your mother is one hot mama! She always comes to town dressed to kill. She’s a real lady of the world.” Well, to us, Mom was just Mom. But Sue was right— when Mom went to town, she wore her best clothes and good shoes. And maybe that’s how Melanie learned to like clothes. Melanie loved to shop for her clothes, usually with Mom in tow, and always dressed well and looked sharp. Sisters: Irene, Clara, Theresa, and Mom

Bill, here:

During the ’40s and ’50s when Mom dressed up for church, she was a good-looking young mother—gorgeous, actually. As Mom got older, she became “bigger boned,” but, then again, she had seven kids, and even when she was young she wasn’t slight. Mom wasn’t fancy, but she did like bright colors and lots of flowers—big blue flowers. As she got older, the colors got louder. Our living room was painted orange; the kitchen was beet red; another room was chartreuse. To Mom, things weren’t, “beautiful.” They were, “beee-a-u-ti-ful!”

Marv, here: After Mom died, Syrl Smith looked down at her, lying in her casket, and said, “That lady always dressed well. She never went anywhere without being nicely dressed.” And, what’s more, Mom made sure her boys never got out of the house without looking presentable. She always said, “Change your underwear before you go out because you never know when you might get into an accident.”

Dick, here: Still, Mom didn’t spend much money on clothes, and she didn’t have many. Most of Mom’s good clothes were handme-downs from Uncle Alvin’s wife, and they were damn nice because that lady dressed very well.

Arlyn, here: That’s all true, but Mom sure looked different when she was working on the farm. When my younger brothers were in school, they did their homework at the table, and every night Mom ironed next to the table, wearing pink rollers in her hair. Her work clothes were slacks, and she rolled her nylons down around her ankles. She wore big old shirts and sweatshirts that were threadbare. She wore shoes she should have thrown away years ago. Asplundh, my company, supplied orange shirts, and Mom had a bunch. That’s why the grandkids called her Orange Grandma. Dick doing homework

Dennis, here:

During the wintertime, Mom always felt a draft coming from somewhere, so she wore her big orange sweatshirts around the house.

Bill, here: Mom believed that every illness in life came from a draft. We always said, “Mom’s catching a draft. Run!”

Loved Music Dennis, here: Mom loved music, so from the time we were young we learned about music. All her boys—well ALMOST all—played a musical instrument. Fabe played the tuba; Bill played the saxophone; Marv played the guitar; I played the cornet.

Arlyn, here: I played baseball.

Dick, here: And I played the farm!

Fabe, playing his beloved tuba

Mom

Absolutely Amazing Dennis, here: Inside, Mom had grit, but outside, she was easy—a softie. She didn’t stand up to Dad too often, but when she did, Dad usually backed down. She did, though, stick up for us. Mom showed us openly how much she appreciated us. I can honestly say that at different times, for different reasons, we were each Mom’s favorite. But she never compared one of us against another. NEVER. She said, “All my boys are successful.” When I got older and thought about it, I realized that is absolutely amazing.

Bill, here:

Good Gravy

Mom was very religious and taught us the importance of prayer and of church. She went to church every day, prayed the rosary frequently, and rarely uttered a curse word. When she was upset, she said, “Good Gravy!” When she was really upset, she said, “psha maascsh”. And when she was really, really upset, she came out with her ultimate, “Matka-Bose,” which in Polish means Mother of Jesus.

Go Around the Back End Marv, here: Mom taught us how to love without question. AND, sometimes, when you want to get something done, go around the back end.

Follow Our Instincts Dennis, here: Mom taught us to follow our instincts—our dreams—our aspirations. She didn’t want us to stay home; she wanted us to go for it—to make something out of our lives that she never did. All her life Mom wanted to be somebody else. She had a couple sisters who went to Milwaukee. That appealed to Mom, because they wore ritzy clothes and did city things. She read constantly about faraway places. She always wanted to travel—to go to the big city, too.

Marv, here:

Next to Papa

Mom died from a heart condition. She is buried in Hofa Park cemetery next to Dad. The gravedigger said, “Boys, your mom is where she belongs . . . right next to your papa. I couldn’t get her any closer to him than I did.” Mom and Dad are buried under the same gravestone. So, appropriately, Mom’s gravestone also reads, Faith, Hope, Love. I was honored to give the eulogy at Mom’s funeral, but I didn’t write it. She did.

The Eulogy of Anna Marie Holewinski Written by: Herself Presented by: Marvin

We are here today, gathered as family, friends, and likely even some heavenly souls from above, who have joined us here at St. Stanislaus, to celebrate the life of our mother, Anna Marie Holewinski. Rejoice! Don’t be sad! For Mother’s life was a celebration of JOY and LOVE . . . for God, her family, and for everyone she knew. The number of smiles and moments of joy she brought to each of our lives is an indication of how well we knew her and how often we spent time with her. Of course, we now share feelings of sadness, pain, and loneliness, but without these feelings, how would we recognize and experience the wonderful human feelings of joy, comfort, friendship, and fellowship that we so often share? For the record, good ’oleWebster says to eulogize someone is to “speak or write in high praise of them.” When my daughter, Skylar, called me from San Diego a couple of days ago and asked me what I was doing, I said I was writing my mother’s eulogy. But I didn’t really write her eulogy . . . SHE did, just as each of us writes our own eulogy, each day we live. All I have done is written some facts about our mother and those facts, which I am about to share with you, they form her eulogy. I believe our mother’s eulogy can be summarized in three parts: • Her love of, and devotion to, God and the Blessed Mother • Her love, devotion, and dedication to her family • Her cooking Many of you here at St. Stan’s know of her devotion to God. She was a lifelong member of the St. Stanislaus choir. For some 25 years, she was also the organist and choir leader. When no one else in our parish offered or was able to be the organist, she taught herself how to play the organ. She practiced endlessly, as we children can well remember hearing that organ every day before the crack of dawn. I remember her saying that it was particularly hard for her to play and sing at the same time, but she was determined that God WAS GOING TO HEAR MUSIC FROM HER BELOVED ST. STANISLAUS PARISH! In order to have more to give to her children, she was a regular participant in farm activities and chores. From the early days of helping make hay with horses, to shucking bundles of oats, to hauling

loads of hay, corn, or oats from the fields, to growing and harvesting several acres of pickles, beans, strawberries, or raspberries during the summers for extra cash, she did it all. And all with a lengthening parade of snotty-nosed, often squabbling, little rascals, trying her patience beyond saintly limits. I’m told that she used to put the two little tigers—Arl and Fabe, in the cow’s feed manager, so she could keep an eye on them while she helped Dad milk her share of the cows by hand. H-m-m . . . now I understand how a hungry cow taking a nip at the little one’s heads might explain why my oldest brothers are the way they are . . . When we wanted to play sports in high school, she leveraged her help on the farm with Dad to get him to allow us to participate. Dennis played sports all year round . . . aside from the fact that he was a good athlete, the rest of us figured he did it just to get out of farm chores. I remember personally when I wanted to play freshman football, and Mom was in her ’50s, Mom talked Dad into it, saying she would help him milk the cows. Well, my football career was a very brief one . . . during one of the first games, a fidgety, tall white Holstein sent Mother to the hospital with her jaw broken in five places, along with other injuries and contusions. When I got to the hospital, with her jaw wired shut, she wrote on a piece of paper that she was very sorry. She didn’t think I would be able to play football anymore, but she would try to talk Dad into it . . . or should I say write him into it? That’s the kind of mother she was. Oh, by the way, the litany of words my dad chanted about this incident is not the kind of litany we can say together in this building. And there were everyday things, like making three full meals a day for a herd of nine head . . . us kids and Mom and Dad. That translated into baking approximately 25-30 loaves of bread a week, canning hundreds of quarts of veggies and fruit each summer, washing and ironing about 30-40 complete sets of clothes each week, (and, dear Mother, forgive me . . . I still don’t get the reason for ironing the underwear), raising over a hundred chickens, and ducks, and geese a year, giving us hundreds of haircuts, and on and on. But she did it all, and took it all in stride, seldom even getting upset. Oh sure, there was an occasional “Maria-Matka-Bose,” which for you youngsters and “non-Polish” in the audience means Mary, Mother of Jesus. And there might have been a single, “cza-cdreff,” which is a Polish word used in anger that means cat’s blood . . . I know, I don’t get it either.

When we were kids and less than the angels she taught us to be, she would simply give us a good talking to, to straighten us out. And if we were really being “oodvishes,” meaning mischievous little brats, she sent us to “Dad the Enforcer.” And, THAT, my friends is a whole other story. I cannot imagine how hard it must have been for her NOT to read us the riot act and let us have it with some of the things we got into . . . Like the time Mom and Dad went to help Uncle Julius Dombrowski shock oats and put Arl and Fabe into the rumble seat of Uncle Julius’ 1940 Roadster. To keep them out of mischief , they were told to stay in the car and not get out. Being bored, soon the boys discovered there was a grease gun back there with them. They were CERTAIN it was there for a reason, and well, to make a long story short, that entire backseat got a thorough lube job. See . . . there’s that “Holstein nipping on their heads” thing again. Or the time Mom put a half dozen pies she baked on the window sill to cool . . . a treat for some friends and neighbors who were lending a helping hand in building our house in 1947 . . . you can almost see it happening, can’t you? Pies cooling on the windowsill . . . like in the Heckle and Jeckle cartoons, but . . . Surprise! It wasn’t those Holstein nippets again. This time it was the dog. Or the time little princess Melanie with yet another fresh, clean dress on went “a-swimmin”and a-splashin;” for the third time that day, with the ducks in the duck pond. By the way, the older brother who was supposed to keep an eye on her shall remain nameless. Or little inquisitive and mischievous Billy, who upon Mother’s awakening at the crack of dawn, was half way up the outside reinforcing rungs of the new 50-foot silo, scaling and challenging the tallest mountain he could find. And finally, one of our family’s all-time favorites . . . The time when Mom and Dad went to town and the five oldest boys (I was #6, so as our cousin, Chuck Dombrowski, would say, “It wasn’t me, sister.”) Those five, right there, wanted to do something special for Mom. So they decided to make and bake the usual “three times weekly” seven loaves of bread. Nothing to it . . . some flour, water, lard, butter, salt, and a lot of yeast. I mean a LOT of yeast. Soon the rising monster could no longer be kneaded down enough to stay in the pan. Then it

grew onto the counter of the cupboard and finally as it stretched to the floor . . . I’m guessing it was little Dickie who said, “WE’VE GOT TO HIDE IT.” They did . . . they thought . . . only they didn’t. Parents returned home to find some 50 bewildered chickens, fighting to save the leghorn race from annihilation, in attack and retreat mode, with parts of “the ooze creature” dangling from their beaks. That mysterious creature was rising right through the crust of the earth, right there in the center of the garden! A game of Twenty Questions followed with Mom and Dad trying to determine what in heaven’s name was going on. And Mother will always be remembered by some of us with thoughts like: • Orange Grandma • Putting sugar on pizza • Her purse and scarf waiting on the dining table upon our arrival home • “You’ll catch a draft” you silly kid • The grey . . . er, black, squirrel that fell down the chimney into the living room only to be chased with a broom out of the house • Change your underwear in case you get in an accident and have to go to the hospital • “Shamach! (gosh darn it) and “Spotch” (wash up and go to bed . . . NOW) • Go clean the chicken coop Loving, understanding, dedicated, forgiving . . . all these terms describe our mother, as I’m sure they describe most all of your mothers with us today. But there was one quality that was very, very special in Mother. When you were with her, she made you feel special, like you were the only one who mattered. She never compared one child to another, never said, “Marvin, I wish you were more like Billy or Dickie.” We never had quarrels about Mother always liked you best . . . like the Smothers’ brothers (of course all my siblings know I was her favorite!) Just kidding.

She would defend each of us, even if our situation was tenuous or questionable. She made it clear that she believed in each of us, and made it clear that she was confident we would succeed. Throughout her life, our mother was our guiding light, our pillar of strength, our source of refuge, our protector, our educator, our lighthouse on the shore of the troubled waters of life, to steer us away from danger and toward a safe harbor. Be joyful! How blessed we were to have been her children, her brothers and sisters, her nieces and nephews, her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, her friends, and her neighbors. Our Mother is STILL our family’s guiding light, and will be for all of eternity. Her light no longer JUST shines and guides us across the hills and valleys of our family farm, or the farmland surrounding our magnificent home of Hofa Park, or across the miles that separate our current homes, from Park View Dairy Road to Pine Street in Pulaski, to our homes in Pennsylvania and Madison. Now her light shines from above. No longer powered by the lifetime guarantee of the man-made “Die Hard” from Sears, but powered by the “eternal” battery guarantee of HEAVEN. And how can we be sad knowing that helping her guide that beacon of light to illuminate our way is her cherished, loving, lifetime partner, Tony? There is a Jamaican-style song that my son, Aaron, and daughter, Kelsey believe is done by Bob Marley, containing the lyrics that say: … don’t worry … be happy …” Let’s ALL be happy for Mother, because her journey is over. God has called her Home! God Bless you, Mother, and thank you for everything ….from all of us ….. We look forward to your smile and your embrace, when it’s our time to be with you once again, in your HEAVENLY kitchen.

Family

Our Family Sitting: Dick, Melanie, Dad, Mom, Arlyn Standing: Bill, Dennis, Marvin, Fabe

“Having a place to go is a home. Having people to love is a family. Having both is a blessing.” ~Donna Hedges

Family is like layers of wood cross-stacked on a woodpile: each independent, yet each depending on the other for its survival. It is lessons learned, tears dried, joys savored, and laughter that rings across generations. To farm kids, family is not an important thing. It is everything . . .

Top row: Dick, Marvin, Dennis Bottom row: Bill, Melanie (middle), Aryln, and Fabian

Another Baby Arlyn, here: We were all born at home, except for Marv and Melanie. We knew another baby was on the way when Mom started throwing up. Each time she got pregnant she threw up, every day, from the moment she conceived until the day we were born. Back then, midwives came to the house and helped with the birth. We don’t know anything about our births because when it was time Mom sent us to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. When we were allowed to come home, we were like: We’ll be darn. There’s another baby! Even as a young man, Dad had a bad back. So every day he hung on a barn beam to stretch it out, and every time another kid was born he chinned himself: Yeah! I’ve still got it! The day Melanie was born us boys were picking strawberries in the yard when Dad came home and said, “You got a sister, boys.” Then, he turned around and walked into the barn. We trailed after him just in time to hear him say, “It’s a girl. No baseball team for me.” Mom nursed every one of us. So for a number of years she never stopped nursing. She threw our dirty diapers in a pail until it was time to wash them. No automatic washing machine for Mom: she scrubbed diapers on a washboard and hung them on the line to dry. And think about this: for about seven years Mom had at least two babies in diapers at the same time. Most of us were chubby—chunky—babies. That might have been the reason Dad nicknamed us: Arlyn was Chub; Fabian was Fibber; Dick was Sprick; Bill was Butch; Dennis was Gruby, which means fatty in Polish; Marvin was Mudge.

Dennis, here:

Best Friends

We had a damn good time growing up. We weren’t just brothers, we were best friends. But when you’re kids, you’re just kids and don’t think about it. After we left home, we drifted to different parts of the country and did different things. But we never lost the feeling of what it means to be family—a feeling that started with the strict discipline, strong Christian values, and good times we had way back when we were farm kids. Some stories will stay with us forever . . .

Back row: Fabe, Arlie Front row: Dick, Bill; around 1949

Nobody Squealed Bill, here: The reins were tight, but we always had somebody to get in trouble with. We never, ever tattled, and everybody covered for everybody else. Nobody squealed because somebody was going to get it. So, of course, instead of one guy getting it, everybody got it. Like all brothers, we rough-housed and Indian leg-wrestled, but we never argued over girlfriends.

Dennis, here:

Didn’t Even Hurt!

Mudgie was our little brother. Sure he was four years younger and didn’t know as much as we did, so we pestered him and picked on him. But we always thought he was a good guy.

Marv, here: Well, “good guy” or not, I had to figure out how to take care of myself. When my brothers hit me, I cried and pretended I was really hurt. Then, Mom interfered, and they got in trouble. The minute Mom turned around, I taunted them. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Didn’t even hurt! . . . Didn’t even hurt!”

What a Mess Dennis, here: We all took turns taking care of Melanie when she was a baby. One of my least fond memories is the day Mom wasn’t home, and for whatever reason eight-year-old Dennis was elected to change Melanie’s diaper. That was the first time I changed a diaper. What a mess. No fun at all. I never wanted to do that again.

Melanie Around 1956

School Day Mornings Dick, here: School day mornings we got up really early, scrambled to do our chores, and rushed to get out of the house. If we had twenty minutes to clean up, get dressed for school, and eat breakfast on the run we were lucky.

Dennis, here: The truth is cleaning up wasn’t important. After Dad built the new house, we had three bathrooms, each with a sink, mirror, and toilet. Still, we didn’t spend much time in the bathroom. Boys can “do their duty” outside. And we did. We always kept toilet paper in the barn. Sometimes we brushed our teeth! But bathing, well, not so much. More times than not Mom grabbed our ears and said, “You didn’t wash behind your ears. Get back in there!” Our hygiene didn’t improve until we got older and realized we smelled “just a little.” We only had so many clothes, and because we were all the same size, everybody wore everything. Every morning, we ran every which way in a mad rush to get to the shirts, because whoever got there first grabbed best pick.

Dennis and Bill Around 1952

Mom kept our underwear in drawers in the bathroom. Nobody had their own. If there wasn’t any clean, we simply turned yesterday’s inside-out and went about the day without a second thought. Socks were in the same drawer until the drawer got too small. Then, Mom filled a box and put it in the empty baby crib. We reached in and grabbed. Some of our socks were full of straw pickers from the oats, but at least we didn’t have to match them. They were all white. Back then, everybody wore white socks for everything—chores, school, church, weddings.

Bill, here:

Bath Day

Saturday was bath day. No matter how dirty and stinky we were—and we were VERY dirty and stinky—we only got one bath a week. Mom filled the tub with hot water, and we took turns. But we NEVER changed the water. It’s hard to imagine that now. To be clear: this is how we took a bath when we lived in the old house AND the new house. When we started high school and rode the bus, the girls told us we didn’t smell so great. But who were they to talk? They smelled just as bad as we did.

Dick, here: We washed our faces and hands between bath days. We still smelled like the barn. But, then, everybody else smelled bad too—especially our neighbors, who raised all those damn pigs. Boy, they were real stinkers!

Arlyn, here: Grandma made lye soap in square blocks from pig tallow, and that’s what Mom used to wash clothes. But for our baths, Pure” Ivory soap. After all, “it floats.” she used “ It also leaves a nasty scum on top of the water. But we didn’t know any different—we just dipped through and went on with our bath.

Bill, here: Mom also washed our hair with Ivory. I guess that’s why we all have such fine white hair—it’s Ivory white!

Dick, here:

Haircuts

Mom was fussy about cutting our hair and gave damn good haircuts—better than the barbershop. Still, she left us skinned up clear to our temples. She always claimed that Arlie had a nice round head, so his hair stood up straight in a crew cut. The rest of us had pointy heads. So, except for my rooster tail, our hair laid flat. No crew cuts for us.

Bill, here:

TV Westerns

Hermie Moss was our neighbor. Every Saturday, before we got our own TV, we walked to Hermie’s house, where from nine ’til noon we were allowed to watch TV westerns. But Mom wouldn’t let us stay for dinner. On the dot of noon, we walked back home. Hermie had two girls. We weren’t interested in girls. We were glued to the TV and the adventures of Hopalong Cassidy, Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Cisco Kid, Big Top Circus, and Sky King. You’d better believe we were always on our best behavior. After all, we had to make sure Hermie invited us back to watch the next week’s episodes. Lucky for us, he did.

Black Devils Bill, here: During the summertime, Wisconsin farms are infested with flies. Dad hated flies. He always kept a fly swatter next to him at the kitchen table, and before he sat down to eat he chased the “black devils” around the kitchen, swatting away, until every single one was dead. The only day Dad rested was Sunday. After church and chores, he laid down on the plastic sofa in the breezeway and napped. Well, wouldn’t you know it? The minute his boys opened the front door, flies flew in. Inevitably, they landed on Dad. He twitched. He flicked his nose with his finger. His efforts were useless. The hated “black devils” tormented Dad all afternoon.

Popcorn & Butter Dick, here: Dad loved popcorn. So did we. Every night, around nine o’clock, after chores and homework, Dad and his boys sat in the breezeway eating popcorn and watching TV. I was the corn popper. We had an aluminum pan, about six-inches high and twelve-inches across. I got her down so every kernel popped. I must have popped two gallons every day. Even that wasn’t enough. Our popcorn was soaked with at least a half-pound of butter. We ate every kernel and even licked the butter off the bottom of the bowl. But, then, we ate three or four pounds of butter a day. Dad didn’t spread his butter. He liked it cold. He sliced a quarterinch thick slab off the butter block and laid it on his bread almost like a piece of cheese.

The Breezeway Marv, here: Our breezeway was about 8'X14'. We had to walk through it to get into the house. We weren’t allowed in the parlor—the living room—because our clothes were too dirty, so our life revolved around the kitchen and the breezeway. During the evening, Dad laid on the couch in the breezeway; one kid laid next to his feet; one kid laid on top of the cushions; the other kids laid butt-to-butt on the floor. The rolling rocking chair was the prime chair. If you were lucky enough to grab it, you had to protect your claim. If you dared get up but forgot to say, “Nobody take my place,” somebody always jumped in. Too bad. You lost it. But as the young guy, I can tell you this: even if I did say, “Nobody take my place,” I still lost it. Anyway, there we were—Dad and six boys—all squeezed into the breezeway, eating popcorn and watching the little black and white TV Uncle Sam gave us. The TV sat in the corner of the breezeway next to the phone. It had rabbit ears, so we could only get three stations, but that’s all we knew. About eleven o’clock Mom came in and said, “Spotch!” We didn’t speak Polish, but we knew what she meant: wash up and go to bed . . . NOW.

Nosy Neighbors Arlyn, here: We had a crank telephone. It was a party line twenty-six people shared. Every time the phone rang, we were like: SHHHH! Listen! Count the rings! Our ring was four short and two long. It seemed that whenever we wanted to use the phone the line was busy. Dad was Mr. Impatient—he’d try a time or two and then butt in: “Can I use the phone? It will only take me half a minute,” Then, CLICK . . . CLICK . . . CLICK. Everybody hung up. Whenever we made a phone call, it was CLICK . . . CLICK . . . CLICK in reverse as our nosy neighbors picked up and listened in. Dad started with, “Dottie, please get off the phone.” After he talked a bit more he said, “Gertrude, get off the phone.” Finally, he lost his patience and hollered, “Ada, GET OFF THE DAMN PHONE!” Our nosy neighbors got to know Dad’s voice real well.

Sleeping Brothers Dick, here: Fibber and I slept together in the same bed. One night, I heard somebody talking loud enough to wake me out of a sound sleep. “Get those damn geese out of here—get them out—out geese!” I laid there a minute. Then, it dawned on me. “Fibber! You’re sleeping! Wake up! Wake up!” I said. Fibber never lived that one down. We still tease him about his “damn geese.” There’s another story about sleeping: Bill was a sleepwalker. One night he got out of bed, and I followed him. The house was pitch-dark, but he walked down the stairs, through the living room, through the kitchen, down the steps to the basement, and sat in a chair. When I asked him what he was doing, he said, “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m reading the paper.” And, yes, we still tease him about “reading the paper.”

Dodge Truck Arlyn, here: When I was young, we never went to town in a car. We always went in Dad’s ’38 Dodge truck. Because only three people could fit in the cab, I got to go with Mom and Dad. Dad’s dog, Gyp, always sat on the roof, and when Dad shifted gears Gyp slid from side to side, but he never fell off.

Hudson Terraplane Bill, here: Dad’s first car was a ’38 Hudson Terraplane. In those days, any time you had a car—especially one that ran—it was a huge deal.

Dick, here:

Arrest Jack?

Uncle Jack was Pulaski’s chief of police and in charge of issuing drivers’ licenses. Back then, we didn’t go to formal driver’s training. We learned to drive on the farm when we were about eight. Still, when we were sixteen, if we wanted our license (and we did!), we had to go to town and write out a question and answer test. Uncle Jack looked at our answers and said, “This one is wrong. That one is wrong. Change them.” After we changed our answers, Uncle Jack handed us our license and said, “Here. You pass. Go on home now.” What were they going to do, arrest Jack?

Pontiac Bonneville 1964

Dennis, here:

A Driving Lesson

By the time we were twelve years old we’d been driving vehicles around the farm for a few years. Even then, I LOVED to drive fast. Well . . . When we combined (thrashed) oats, someone had to drive the truck to the field, collect the oats from the combine storage bin, drive them to the granary, and unload. This was a dirty, dusty, itchy job that nobody wanted. Except me! I was so excited to drive I volunteered. About my second day on the job, I collected the oats as I was supposed to. Then: let the fun begin! I drove as fast as I could over the highest hill. I was invincible. There was no chance I might lose control. I was in heaven, loving life.

I crested the hill. The truck went airborne. My head hit the cab’s roof. Oats flew out of the truck’s bed. What? This couldn’t be happening to ME—the world’s most talented speed-demon. Quickly, I gained control. Then: Oh, my God! Did Dad see me? The question barely formed before I glanced in the rearview mirror. There was Dad, waving his fist and yelling, “Judas Priest! Are you trying to kill yourself? I’ll never let you get your license. NEVER.” Dad took me off the job immediately, and I spent the rest of the day on my hands and knees scraping up spilled oats with my bare hands. I learned a valuable lesson that day: never drive fast in the presence of your parents. By the way: when I turned sixteen, after considerable begging, Dad did let me get my license. Still, he never forgot that incident. He brought it up every time I got a driving ticket, but that’s another story!

Great Negotiator Marv, here: Dad rarely bought anything. But when he did, he had to have enough money to pay in cash. AND as the local car dealers would tell you, Tony Holewinski was a great negotiator. Dad’s car deals were infamous and happened as regular as clockwork. We had two Pontiac dealers in the area: one in Seymour; one in Shawano. First, Dad decided on the make and model car he wanted. Then, he went to the dealer in Seymour and asked, “Melke, what’s your best price?” Melke gave him a price. Then, he went to the dealer in Shawano and asked, “What’s your best price?” The dealer gave him a price. “Thanks,” Dad said, “but I can get the same car $200 cheaper in Seymour.”

Dick’s 1967 Catalina Ventura “restored”

Dad wasn’t finished. He went back and forth, two or three times. So, let’s say he was looking at a ’64 Pontiac, which in those days started out at about $3,600. He got a couple hundred bucks off in Shawano and another couple hundred off in Seymour until he was sure he had the lowest bid.

Then, he went back one more time (usually to the dealer in Seymour) and said, “Okay. Melke, I’m ready to buy.” Melke grinned and said. “So, Tony, I won the low bid of $3,200, huh?” Dad looked him straight in the eye and said, “Gosh darn it, Melke! I was sure I had $3,200 cash, but all I have is $2,800. What do you think?” “Get the heck out of here. I never make any money on you,” Melke answered. Dad shrugged and said, “Okay, but remember this is the thirteenth car I bought from you. I’ll give you $2,800. Take it or leave it.” Melke just scowled. “No way, Tony. No way! OUT!” Dad stuffed the money back in his pocket and said, “No problem, Melke. When you’re ready to sell for $2,800 bucks you know where to find me. So long.” With that, Dad walked out and went on about his business. Two or three days later, Melke pulled into our yard, driving Dad’s new car. “Got me again, Tony. It’s yours,” he said. Dad just grinned. “I knew you’d show up,” he said.

Bitter End Marv, here: We had several outside dogs and lots and lots of cats that lived in the fields, but our only inside pets were a squirrel and parakeets. Arlie named his squirrel Chipper. When Chipper was just a babe, Arlie fed him with a baby bottle filled with water and Karo Corn Syrup. Chipper sat on our shoulders and was the cutest thing ever. After Arlie left for the service, Chipper became Melanie’s pet. Melanie also had parakeets. I don’t remember their names, but I do remember the day one met his bitter end by flying into the boiling oil Mom was using to fry donuts. Melanie and Chipper

Good, Clean Farm Fun Dennis, here: We usually kept about twenty cats and a couple dogs on the farm. Some were pets. Most were not. They existed to catch sparrows, rats, mice, and other rodents. Each fall, we cleaned the corncrib, and for our cats and dogs that was like Christmas Day. Just imagine a corncrib filled with the farmer’s enemy—rodents that ate our field corn. As soon as we grabbed our shovels and backed up the truck to the crib, our “mousers” appeared out of nowhere to partake in the battle and the feast. As we shoveled, the rodents’ space got smaller and smaller, until finally there was no place to hide. That’s when the real excitement began: rats and mice took off running in hopes of finding a new shelter. The cats and dogs were in hot pursuit—zigzagging from all directions until, finally, they caught their prey.

Corncrib that housed all the mice

To a city person, all the scurrying, meowing, barking, and final death might seem cruel. But to a farmer, it was good, clean farm fun. After all, life on a farm was about food, pest control, and survival of the fittest.

Busy, Happy Cat Dick, here: Cats were everywhere. They ate the mice. The problem was, even though there was only one Tom in the entire bunch, the females kept showing up with four or five kittens. Our Tom was one busy, happy cat! Anyway, it wasn’t until we were older that we figured out why we only had one male cat: Dad always got to the litters first and disposed of the male kittens. He didn’t want Tom cats on the farm because when the females were in heat, they yowled the entire night: YEOOOO . . . YEOOOO . . . YEOOOO. Plus, females were the best mousers. The males were lazy. They just loafed around. But the mothers had to feed their babies.

Three-legged Cats Bill, here: Speaking of mousing: cats ran through the hay, trying to catch mice. Well, when we cut the hay with a sickle mower, we couldn’t see the cats. SO, we had several three-legged cats limping around the farm.

Uncle Zig Dennis, here: We had an apple orchard with about 20 trees. Some apples we sold but most we stored in our apple cellar. During the winter, our cellar held about 50 bushels of apples. Every morning, Dad went to the cellar and picked up two or three apples. Then, we sat around the table, and while my brothers and I drank milk, Dad ate apples. During the day Dad ate more apples. He loved apples—really, really loved them. Dad opened his pocketknife, and peeled . . . and peeled . . . and peeled all around the apple. Then, he sliced off one piece; ate it; sliced off another piece; ate it; until, finally, he finished the entire apple. Dad rarely held the apple in his hand and ate it bite by bite. He couldn’t. Dad had false teeth.

Marv, here: Dad’s teeth were bad because for many, many years he chewed tobacco. He chewed Standard tobacco—two 8 oz. packages cost him 20 cents. First thing every morning, as soon as Dad got out of bed, he filled his lip with tobacco. He chewed all day long, so a package only lasted him one day, two at the most. It depended on what he was doing. The harder he worked, the more he chewed. When Dad was outside, he spit in everything and anything, including on the ground. Mom NEVER let him spit in the house, and whenever they went out she said, “Get that stuff out of your mouth!” But the truth is Dad didn’t spit much. He swallowed it. Anyway, eventually, Dad developed gum disease and needed to have all his teeth pulled. Well, Uncle Zig, Mom’s brother, was a dentist. Even though he was a rough old kook, Mom insisted that our family’s dentist was none other than Uncle Zig. So, hands-down, Uncle Zig became Dad’s “dentist of choice.”

Uncle Zig pulled Dad’s teeth until he only had 13 left. During Dad’s next appointment, Uncle Zig said, “So, Tony, which ones should I take out today?” Dad said, “All of them.” “But, Tony, I can’t pull 13 teeth the same day.” “The hell you can’t. I ain’t got time to keep coming back to see you. I got work to do. Take ’em all out!” “Okay, Tony. If that’s what you want,” Uncle Zig said. And without giving Dad a drop of novocaine, he pulled every last one, stuffed Dad’s mouth full of gauze, and sent him on his way. Dad jumped in the truck and drove two blocks to the center of Pulaski. Then, he decided to make a U-turn and head back the other way. The problem was U-turns were illegal in Pulaski’s main intersection. The instant Dad cranked the steering wheel the cop sitting on the corner turned on his lights and pulled Dad over. “Tony, what the hell are you doing?” he asked. Dad opened the truck’s door, spit blood, and mumbled, “Just got my teeth pulled—all 13.” The cop said, “Tony, need some help getting home?” Dad loved that story. He was so proud that he told it over and over. Dad always ended his story by saying, “I did it on purpose. I knew he wouldn’t give me a ticket.” But, my, my, what he went through getting his false teeth.

Dick, here: Dad scraped for three years to buy his false teeth. Uncle Zig may have been Mom’s brother, but he was a butcher. I, for one, couldn’t stand him. He was the meanest devil ever. It all started when I was six years old and still had baby teeth. The old-time drills were cable driven and not much better than the electric drills we used to drill holes in wood. ZZZZZZZ . . . ZZZZZZZ . . . ZZZZZZZ. I’ll never forget that sound. Anyway, one day, Uncle Zig was drilling away, and I bit his finger—just chomped on it and wouldn’t let her go. He was wild!

Bill, here: Uncle Zig flew into the waiting room where we were sitting with Mom waiting our turn and yelled, “That little shit bit me!”

Dick, here: Any time I had to go to the dentist, I was just a sweatin’. I think Uncle Zig was sweatin’ too. He always said, “You’re not going to bite me . . . are you?” And I’ll tell you this: he sure didn’t stick around after he finished drilling.

Bill, here: Novocaine had been invented when we were kids, but it never worked because dentists let it sit on their shelves too long. Plus, cheapskate Uncle Zig only used half of what he needed to numb our mouths. No matter. He charged us for a full dose.

Dennis, here: Uncle Zig gave us a “family discount”—twenty percent MORE than he charged anybody else!

Dick, here: Back to dad’s story . . . after he saved enough money to get his false teeth, Uncle Zig made an impression, and a couple weeks later Dad went back to have his new teeth fitted. Those teeth looked like an egg: they were too big and pushed out his lips. Dad was mad. “That devil didn’t make these teeth for me,” he said. “He either made them for somebody else or pulled them out of a drawer.” Dad scraped and scraped the high spot with his pocketknife, but that didn’t work. Then, he went back . . . and back . . . and back again. But Uncle Zig never could get those teeth to fit. Dad suffered so much we all felt sorry for him. Eventually, Dad saw a different dentist in Seymour who said, “Who in the hell made these teeth?” And, finally, he made Dad teeth that fit. Dad sure got robbed on that first set.

Marv and Bazooka Joe—still chewing

Marv, here: Speaking of Uncle Zig, the dentist, let me back up a bit . . . The summer after I finished third grade, I pedaled to Hofa Park every day to serve 7:30 a.m. Mass. Surprise! Surprise! Mom and Dad bought me my very own bike—a red Tuffy. Prior to my brand new bike, we all shared one jalopy bike and another clunker that was rideable only sometimes. My brothers were less than thrilled with my good fortune. I think Father Alex Lukasik, the new priest at our church, had something to do with my windfall because he, along with Mom, targeted me as a future priest. After all, I was the last of Mom’s boys who could follow the path. I always suspected that one of the St. Stanislaus Sunday collection baskets might have been pilfered to influence me. Plus, during the following years Father Lukasik took me roller skating, bowling, and to the movies. Anyway, because I was the proud owner of my very own bike I could peddle to Mastey’s or Swiecichowski’s Bar at will. Even better, Bazooka Joe bubble gum cost one penny. Trip after trip, I satisfied my sweet tooth and collected gum wrapper comics. That’s the good news. The bad news is by December, when we went to see Uncle Zig for our semi-annual check-up, I had 22 cavities. I couldn’t believe it. Because I was very familiar with the pain and agony associated with the grinder wheel-band drills Uncle Zig used mercilessly and the fact that he never gave us enough novocaine, I sat white-knuckled in the dentist’s chair. Finally, in desperation, tears running down my cheeks, I asked so innocently, “Do you have to drill ‘em ALL to fill ’em?” Silence. Then, a roar of laughter from the waiting room. My funny-ha-ha brothers, as usual, were mocking me. And will they EVER let go of it? Nope! Anyway, I was forced to cut back on my close friendship with Bazooka Joe. But my story doesn’t end when I was in third grade . . . According to Uncle Zig, the damage to my tooth enamel was already done. Dad claimed Zig needed extra money to go to Florida that winter. As it turned out, Uncle Zig must have made several trips to Florida on Mom and Dad’s money because my following six-month check-ups revealed 18, and 16 cavities respectively. By the time I was in seventh grade, my smile was like Jaws in the 007 movies. And even today, with a steady need for root canals and crowns, impacted teeth, and umpteen re-do’s of Uncle Zig’s old fillings, I STILL support dentists who winter in Florida. The moral of the story? Next time you decide to give a boy a bike with the hopes of him becoming a priest, think again!

Bill, here:

BIG Bread

Dick always came up with bright ideas. Then, he dragged us in on them. “Come on, guys. Come on!” he’d goad. So, of course, whatever we did was never our fault!

Dick, here: One morning, Mom and Dad drove into Pulaski. They were hardly out of the driveway before we looked in the bread drawer. Panic. The last loaf of bread was half-eaten. So I got the bright idea that we should be good kids, surprise Mom, and bake our own bread.

Bill, here: The problem was Mom never used a written recipe. All we knew about baking bread was what we had learned from watching her. So we poured, mixed, and gave each other directions. “NO! That’s too much. . . . OOPS! Need a little more.” We nailed it, except we used a whole cake of yeast instead of a quarter-cake.

Dick, here: When we had her all mixed, we knew we had to knead the dough, put it in a bowl, and let it rise. When we started kneading, the dough stuck to our hands like glue. Just as we started to throw in more flour, Mom and Dad drove in the driveway. “Quick! Quick! We gotta hide our bread,” one of us (probably me) yelled. We had a closet under the steps near the kitchen, so we covered our bread with a towel and shoved it in the closet. There! Safe! Then, we waited. When Mom wasn’t looking, we opened the closet door to check on our bread. It was starting to rise, but something wasn’t right: we could actually see it rising. It kept getting bigger . . . and bigger . . . and bigger. No doubt: it was out of control. Now what? I got another bright idea. “Let’s bury our bread in the raspberry patch next to the house,” I said. So, we dug a hole and, once again, when Mom wasn’t looking we grabbed our bread, threw it in the hole, and covered it with soil. An hour later we looked out the window. What did we see but a big mushroom springing up in the garden. Good grief! We snuck out four or five times and jumped on her to let the air out, but the mushroom kept getting bigger . . . and bigger . . . and bigger.

Bill, here: Mom never caught on that we had a giant, pulsating mushroom in our garden. What tipped her off was the towel we put over our dough. We weren’t smart enough to take it out of the closet, so pretty soon it started to smell. Mom opened the closet door. “What the heck is this towel doing in the closet?” she asked.

Dennis, here: We didn’t have time to come clean before Dad noticed chickens pecking in the garden. “What the hell did you boys do?” he asked.

Bill, here: We were had. The only thing we could do was ’fess up and tell the whole story.

Arlyn, here:

Sparrows’ Wars

Our old machine shed was infested with sparrows, especially during the winter. They flew in through openings at the gable end, roosted in the rafters, and splattered the machinery with their droppings. The mess disgusted Dad. Being ingenious kids, we wanted to have fun AND solve problems. So we created the How Many Sparrows Can We Kill Today? game. The rules were easy: we positioned one brother at each end of the shed; one brother was designated middle-man; the fourth brother waved his arms and yelled. The terrified birds flew frantically. Now, the real fun began: ATTACK ! We swung slats, flailed our arms, and yelled like banshees. After all, if we didn’t nail those lightning-fast, pesky birds, our game was for naught. Before long our swing-timing was excellent. The shed was like a war zone full of dead sparrows and flying feathers. We laughed, cheered, and kept score. Whenever Dad heard the fun, he joined us. But, mysteriously, he always positioned himself in the same unusual place, off to one side. We didn’t realize until later he was there to protect the case of dynamite he stored in the shed. Unfortunately, the sparrows got smart and winged out of the shed the minute we opened the door. Then, Dad tore down the shed and really spoiled our fun.

Dad’s Presents Marv, here: Dad gave us money and said, “Get Mom a nice present from me,” and we did his shopping. But one time, and one time only, Dad actually bought Mom a present all by himself. He was at the Rudzinski’s, downing a few beers, when a salesman stopped by. He was selling dishes. Dad bought a set for Mom. They’d had the same set of plastic Melmac dishes since they’d been married. The dishes Dad bought were flowered Corelle Ware. They cost all of five bucks, but Mom was so happy Dad thought about her she cried.

Dick, here: Dad did buy Mom one other thing. When Marvin was born, Dad was so proud he had a sixth boy he bought Mother a clock. It was set in a ship that had silver sails. And all these years later, that clock is still in the house.

Bill, here:

Handiwork

When Marv was born, Grandma Holewinski stayed with us. With Mom away in the hospital, we had free time on our hands. So we decided to play in the basement next to the woodstove where Mom stored the dining room table from our first house. When we lived in the brooder house, the roof leaked, so the tabletop was warped. Basically, the entire table was in rough shape. We decided to fix it up. So we poked around, found a can of red paint, and proceeded to do a job on that table. When Grandma saw our handiwork, she was hot—fit to be tied. I guess she didn’t appreciate our artistic talents.

Dennis, here:

Dead Giveaway

During high school, when we stayed out late at night, we still had to get up early and do our chores. After breakfast, we sat around talking, and before long, Bill disappeared. We started looking . . . and looking . . . and looking. It was amazing how many places he could find to hide and catch another hour or two of sleep. Once we found him in the back seat of our old Mercury; once we found him in the hay mow; once we found him in the old shed underneath the boat’s canvas.

Marv, here: The boat was a dead giveaway—we heard him snoring.

Turn in Court Bill, here: One night, I had too much to drink and somehow ended up in the baby crib, sleeping alongside our socks.

Dennis, here: We never quite forgave him for that one. By the time we found him, he was upside down, feet hanging over the railing, passed out. The real problem was he threw up all over our socks.

Marv, here: After he woke up, he stumbled out to the barnyard and had the dry heaves so bad I thought he was a goner. I ran as fast as I could to tell Mom and Dad the bad news: “Bill’s dying!” Dad just shrugged and said, “Nah! He’s just drunk.”

Arlyn, here: The night before I started working at Asplundh I drove into Pulaski and drank Southern Comfort. I barely made it home and upstairs before Mom started breakfast. The very smell of bacon and eggs convinced me I was going to die. Actually, I wanted to die. But work called. I took one sip of coffee. Bad decision! On my way to the car, I threw up all over the screen door. Then, I had to drive thirty miles to work and another thirty miles to the first stop, where I threw up again. Basically, I didn’t do a thing until noon when I managed to keep down a bowl of soup. When I finally got home that night, the screen door was still covered with puke. But now, it was dry. Dad stared me down. “Clean the door,” he said. To this day I never, ever have touched another drop of Southern Comfort.

Dennis, here: We all had our turn in court!

Melanie (middle) leading First Communion in 1963

Melanie

Bill, here: Our family stories won’t be complete unless we tell you about Melanie. I’ll start . . . When Melanie was born, Mom and Dad were happy because they wanted a girl. Still, after six boys they didn’t know how to raise a girl. Dad pretty much left raising Melanie to Mom because he didn’t know how to deal with all the emotion. So Melanie was under Mom’s wing all the time. Mom protected her. We couldn’t touch her—couldn’t yell at her—couldn’t tease her, because Mom would come down on us. But then, again, Melanie was the baby.

Idolized Us Dick, here: Melanie never wanted to be in the house. She wanted to be outside with us, but Mom made her do all the household chores.

Dennis, here: We didn’t treat Melanie like we treated each other. She was almost like a servant to us. We sent her to do this and that: get the milk, polish our shoes, whatever. For years, she idolized us. Whatever she could do for us, she did. I think she wanted us to appreciate and respect her.

The Duck Pond Marv, here: Just ONE of my many jobs was to watch Melanie. Melanie loved to splash in the duck pond with the ducks. The instant I turned my back she was gone. The real problem was Mom always dressed Melanie in nice little dresses that, of course, got soaked. One day, Melanie escaped my watchful eyes four times. The first time I got yelled at. I pouted. “It’s not my fault!” It got worse. The last three times I got belted. VERY unfair. I did my best to quit my babysitting job, but Mom refused to let me off the hook.

Horse Collection Dennis, here: Melanie loved to play with the neighbor girls. Shelly Moss had horses, and before long Melanie fell in love with horses. She collected plastic horses—from eight inches to a foot-and-a-half high, everybody bought Melanie plastic horses.

Bill, here:

Head Cheese

I remember Melanie’s favorite foods were chicken and ham. She even enjoyed eating head cheese with Dad. Melanie especially loved desserts, but, then, she came by her sweet tooth naturally. (More about the Holewinski sweet tooth later.) Melanie also loved to dance the Polka and was very good at it. She met her husband, Don, at a Polka dance.

School

Marv, here:

What Melanie didn’t love was school. She hid under the bed, or in the closet, or snuck outside because she didn’t want to go to school. Melanie was afraid of the nuns. I’m not sure why, but she screamed when she saw a nun—maybe she had a bad experience her first day of school.

Dick, here:

Dead Ducks

I raised ducks during the summer. Usually, we butchered them in the fall, but one year I talked Dad into letting me keep a pair. When my ducks laid eggs, I tucked several under an old cluck (a chicken that didn’t lay anymore), and she sat on them ’til they hatched and out popped cute, little fuzzy ducklings. Melanie loved my ducklings. So when she found out there was a hen sitting on my duck eggs, she ran to check them out. The eggs weren’t ready to hatch, but Melanie couldn’t wait. Time and time again, Melanie would break an egg, hoping to find a fuzzy duckling. She didn’t. Instead, she found dead ducks. I was really, really mad, but Melanie wouldn’t quit ’til Dad gave her a little lickin’. Dad was always the enforcer.

Dennis, here:

Holewinski Trait

We didn’t know Melanie had breast cancer until it was too late—she didn’t even know until it was too late. By the time she received the diagnosis, the cancer had already spread. Then, she kept it a secret.

Marv, here: She would never admit anything was wrong.

Dennis, here: True. That’s a Holewinski trait.

Mom, Dennis, Melanie, Bill, and Fabian

Brett Smith, Don Smith, Amanda Smith (bride), Brandon Smith (groom), Melanie Smith, Brian Smith

The Smith Family Nicole, Brian, Don, Brandon, Cheyann (arms), Amanda, Deanna (arms) Front: Evan, Noah, Back: Brett, Nicole

But when Melanie finally did talk about it to Sue and me, we realized just how brave she really was. We could hardly stand to hear what she had to cope with—going through treatment, getting her wig, etc. But Melanie wasn’t crying. She didn’t break down. She was proud-like: I’m handling this; I can do this; I’m giving it my best shot. You know, when we were kids we thought that because Melanie was a girl she wasn’t like us. But she was just as proud as the rest of the Holewinski family.

Like Mom Bill, here: Melanie died way too young. But while she was here, her family was everything to her. She put her husband, Don, and her three boys, Brian, Brett, and Brandon, first. She even went deer hunting with them. Like Mom, Melanie’s family came first. That, in itself, says a lot about our sister.

Life of the Party Dick, here: If Mom and Dad ever had any real disagreements, they weren’t in our presence. About the only thing we remember is them fussing back and forth about going to a dance or a party. Mom started with, “We’re going to so and so’s party this weekend.” Dad came back with, “I ain’t goin’! I’m too damn tired.” Even though Dad didn’t want to go, he eventually gave in and had fun. Actually, he was the life of the party.

Dad hugging Doc Lepak

Dennis, here:

No Other Way

Our family worked. We worked hard, hard, hard. But we also played and had great times together. Mom and Dad expected a lot from their boys. And, most of the time, we didn’t question or complain. When I think back and remember our family stories, I realize that it was our family that shaped me. It shaped all of us. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Arlie, Fabe, Dick, Melanie, Bill, Dennis, Marv August 2000

Food “There is no sight on earth more appealing than the sight of a woman making dinner for someone she loves.” ~ Thomas Wolfe

A farm runs on food—lots of food. Farm families will probably never make lots of money. Still, they will always eat well. But there’s more—much more—to eating well than just eating. As time passes, memories of the hours spent with family around the table become even more meaningful. And to farm kids, food and Mom are inseparable . . .

Never Hungry Dennis, here: We worked hard, but we always ate well and were never hungry. Food and the hours we spent around the table as a family were an important part of our life on the farm. Some of our fondest memories of Mom are connected to food. Mom was a great cook—outstanding is a better word. She used recipes—sort of. Basically, Mom cooked “to taste.” Each day, she spent hours and hours cooking and baking, but no matter how much she cooked and baked she was neat and efficient in the kitchen. She washed dishes and cleaned up after herself as she went—never did we see dirty dishes on the cupboard. In today’s terms, Mom could multitask with the best of the best. When something spilled, she threw her “dishrag” on the floor and swished it around with the toe of her foot. “All clean,” she’d say. And by the way, our thrifty mother’s “dishrags” were recycled underwear.

Prayer

Bill, here: Before meals we said the same prayer together:

Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen

Pecking Order Dennis, here: Mom ate after everybody else was finished. She sat at the side of the table where she could get up easily to serve our food.

We had a pecking order for who sat in what chair:

Our Table

Dennis, here: Breakfast was a big meal. Every day we had eggs and homemade bread. Then, depending on the day, we had bacon, gravy over homemade bread, French toast, pancakes, biscuits, syrup, Polish sausage, and milk poured over homemade bread and topped with sugar. And weâ€™ll never forget Spam.We had dessert for every meal, including breakfast. Fruit pies were big at breakfast. We all loved Jajeczkaâ€”a mixture of eggs, flour, milk, bacon, onions, and bacon grease. It was like glorified scrambled eggs. Delicious. We all still make it today, but we make it differently. This is my recipe:

Jajeczka 1. One pound of bacon 2. 9 eggs 3. 3 cups of flour 4. 1 large onion (more if you like onion) 5. 3 cups of low-fat milk

Procedure 1. Cut bacon strips into 1" pieces (easiest to cut when frozen) 2. Fry bacon ’till crispy to mildly burnt 3. Pour off about half the grease 4. When bacon is 2/3 fried add 1 large diced onion 5. Fry ’till bacon is crispy/burnt & onions are brown/black 6. While bacon and onions are frying, mix eggs (break yoke & mix like a scrambled egg), flour, & milk. Mix until all lumps are gone & is about the consistency of a runny milk shake. (Add more flower to make thicker—add more milk to make thinner.) 7. When bacon & eggs are ready, pour mixture into hot frying pan with bacon & onions 8. Mix/stir until it is crispy on several sides, i.e., let bottom get crispy—turn over—do this several times to get texture you like. 9. Serve with a sprinkling of salt & pepper to taste

Go for the Milk Marv, here: Often, when we came in from the barn ready to eat breakfast, we were out of milk. Somebody had to go back to the barn and get it. We always argued: I got it last time. You get it. No, I got it last time. It’s his turn. On and on until Dad said, “Mudge! YOU go for the milk!” I got all angry but didn’t have a choice . . . back to the barn for Mudge.

Dennis, here:

Dad’s Breakfast

Dad’s breakfast drove me nuts: Mom fried eggs in bacon grease; Dad dipped homemade bread in the grease, sprinkled it with salt and pepper, and ate that along with two or three tomatoes. But he didn’t stop there—Mom sliced two-inch-wide pieces off the slab of homemade smoked bacon. Dad ate the whole thing.

Dinner and Supper Arlyn, here: We called lunch dinner and dinner supper. Dinner was also a big full meal—pork chops, roast beef, garden vegetables, green beans, mashed potatoes, and sometimes fish. Supper was the same thing—another big meal. As soon as we finished one meal, Mom started the next one. After we ate, the boys traded off to wash and dry the dishes.

Dad’s Midnight Snack Dick, here: For a midnight snack, Dad dipped homemade bread into a pan of raw milk, soaked up the cream, and sprinkled it with salt and pepper. You see, when we poured milk into a can and cooled it in the water tank, about two inches of cream rose to the top. It was so thick it was almost like butter.

Mom, relaxing after a meal

Sweet Bill, here: Mom had acid reflux. She couldn’t eat raw tomatoes, cucumbers, or apples. She said pizza was sour so she covered it with sugar. Actually, almost everything she made was sweet—spaghetti sauce, chili, just everything. And, basically, her boys still eat the same way. At least we got it honestly.

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Dick making Polish sausage

Dennis, here:

Meat Fat

There was always plenty to eat, but whoever ate the fastest got the most. Some things we liked better than others, but anything we put on our plates we had to eat. We were never allowed to waste food. We sat at the table until our plates were clean. We all hated the white fat on meat. But Dad ate it, and he forced us to eat it, too. Reluctantly, we did what we were told. Then, we got smart . . . Our table had a small shelf underneath that ran to corner pockets. So, say, a piece of ham, complete with fat, was on our plate. We talked . . . talked . . . talked . . . waiting until Mom and Dad turned around. Then, ACTION! We grabbed the fat, slapped it on the shelf, slid it down into the pocket, and stuffed it in. Great idea! No more fat. Then, it started to smell, and Mom found it. But, bless her, she never told Dad.

Bill, here:

Mom’s Pans

Mom scraped leftovers into a frying pan and set the pan outside so the dogs could eat the scraps. Then, she brought the pan inside, washed it, and cooked in it the next morning. So, yes, the dogs’ pan was our pan. Mom’s pans were beat up and black from use—old, old, old. Some had distinctive teeth marks along the sides where the dogs bit it. No matter. Mom refused to buy new pans. “New ones don’t cook like the old ones,” she would say.

Mom’s Gardens Dick, here: Mom planted a garden, just south of the house. She grew potatoes, cucumbers, carrots, beans, tomatoes, sweet corn, radishes, lettuce, beets, cabbage, horseradish, strawberries, rhubarb, blackberries, and raspberries. Mom was proud of her garden. She loved to sit on the porch and just look at it. But she also took good care of it. After all, she had to feed her boys. Mom had a rule: she didn’t want to see a single weed in her garden. And guess who had to pull weeds? Yep! Her boys. In the morning, Mom picked whatever was ripe, and that’s what she fed us that day. Oh, those waxed beans with cream sauce . . . creamed cucumbers . . . green beans . . . . mashed potatoes. They were to die for. Mom grew red potatoes the size of chicken eggs and fixed them with lots of butter and creamed sweet-and-sour waxed beans. To this day, I can taste them, but I can’t duplicate them. Sometime in May, as soon as the first leaf lettuce was ready, she topped it with cream and vinegar. Oh my! Mom planted an eight-foot row of lettuce and cut maybe a foot per meal, so by the time she finished the eighth cutting, the beginning of the row had regrown, and she started all over. We were happy that lettuce lasted well into July, when it got bitter. And there was nothing like Mom’s fresh tomatoes. Dad loved to go into the garden, grab a tomato off the vine, and eat it on the spot. He also loved tomatoes, pickles, and scrambled eggs for breakfast. Mom had a food cellar in the basement. It had four shelves, and come fall, every shelf was loaded with quarts and quarts of Mason jars filled with dill pickles, beets, carrots, tomatoes, tomato juice, tomato sauce, raspberries, beans, peaches, blackberries, pears, and crabapples.

Mom’s Gardens

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Coffeecake to Die For Dick, here: Mom’s coffeecake with raisins, lots of butter, and brown sugar topping was to die for. The recipe must have been partially in her mind because nobody can make it like Mom.

Mom Holewinski’s Coffee Cake Ingredients: 1. Milk—1 qt. 2. Raisins—1 cup 3. Lard—3 tbsp. 4. Butter—3 tbsp. 5. Sugar—1½ cup 6. Salt—1 tbsp. 7. Cinnamon—½ tsp. 8. Eggs—3 Flour—3 ½-4 pounds (sifted) Yeast— ½ Block or 2 dry packets Orange skin—grated Heat milk to boil Take 4 tablespoons of milk (heated) and cool down with cold water to luke warm temperature. Put in large cup and add yeast & 1 tablespoon sugar. Mix & let stand 10 minutes. Put heated milk into large mixing bowl. Add 5-6 ice cubes to cool down milk to lukewarm. Add ingredients #1 through #8. Beat til all dissolved Add orange peel (grated)

Add yeast from cup into bowl—mix in. Add sifted fluor ½ to 1 pound at a time. Mix with large wooden spoon or metal spoon. Keep adding flour & mixing until the mixture is stretchy & breaks apart when lifted with spoon. Sprinkle a little flour on the top and cover with a towel and let rise. When rises to twice the size knead down. Cover & let rise a second time. When rises to 3 times original size, knead down flat and cut into cake pan size (8"—10") with a thickness of approx. 1 inch. Apply a little vegetable oil to pan bottoms to prevent sticking. Sprinkle top of dough with streusel. Let rise to 2.5 inches. Heat oven to 325° F Bake for 30-40 minutes

Streusel Topping ½ cup flour 1 ½ cup sugar 1 tsp. salt 2 tbsp. butter (soft) 4 shakes cinnamon Add to small bowl. Knead with fingers until streusel is sticky and crumbly.

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Paczki Dennis, here: Mom’s paczki and poppy seed horns were a holiday tradition. She deep fried what was basically sweet dough and stuffed prunes and raisins in the middle. Then, she shaped the same dough into horns and topped them with poppy seeds.

Paczki (Polish Donut)

1 cake compressed yeast 2 cups scalded milk—cool to lukewarm 7 cups flour 4 egg yolks 1 egg (whole) ½ cup sugar ½ tsp. vanilla ½ lemon rind grated or ½ teaspoon peel 1 tsp. salt ½ cup butter melted Dissolve yeast in milk. Add 2 cups flour. Set in warm place ½ hour. Beat egg yolks, sugar, vanilla, lemon rind, & salt together until light. Then add cake yeast and butter & remaining flour & beat well. Cover to raise ’til double in bulk. Optional raisin. Spoon press down & tablespoon flour board. Raise ¾ size. Deep fry 365-375 degrees for 3-4 minutes until brown. Prune and raisin filling ½ inch thick.

Evan, Aaron, Kelsey, Skylar, Marcy, and Dick enjoying Mom’s desserts—especially the tall Vienna Torte in the middle

Vienna Torte Cake Marv, here: Mom’s Vienna Torte cake was the best ever, ever made. It must have had eight pounds of butter and a dozen eggs! Mom claimed she used a basic recipe and kept improving it. Mom baked the cake in layers and frosted it with chocolate cream frosting. It was sweet, moist, and one hell of a treat. When we were kids, it was THE cake. Even Mom’s grandchildren begged for Vienna Torte Cake on their birthdays. It takes forever to make, but over the years, right up to the end when she didn’t feel well, Mom must have made hundreds. We have the recipe, but no one can make it taste like Mom’s.

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Favorites Dennis, here: We had so many favorites. Let’s list what we loved about Mom’s food. I’ll start: How about her baked cheesecake with the cherries on it?

Farm kids, here: • Unbaked cheesecake made from cottage cheese, with a graham cracker crust • Breaded pork chops • Braised chicken on Sundays—it literally fell off the bone • Apple pie • White cake with peanut butter frosting • Raisin cream pie • How about Czarnina? Oh, my God! Duck Blood Soup!

Czarnina

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Duck Blood Soup (Czarnina)

• Remember Mom’s kishka—Polish sausage? After we butchered a hog, we cut off the head and scraped off the hair. Then Mom boiled the head ’til the meat fell off the bone and ground it up—ears and all. She added spices, stuffed it into a casing, and boiled it. To cook it, she sliced off inch-thick pieces and broiled it in the oven. • What about Blitz Torte? We loved it.

Blitz Torte

Ingredients 1 cup butter 1 cup sugar 4 egg yolks 3 tbsp. milk 1 cup flour 2 tsp. baking powder Pinch salt 1 tsp. vanilla ¼ cup nuts Cream together butter & sugar; add an egg at a time during beating. Add rest of ingredients; place in two greased and floured 8 or 9-inch layer pans. Beat the 4 egg whites ’til stiff add pinch of salt and 1 cup sugar; fold in and place on top of batter, sprinkle with nuts bake 350 degrees for 35min.

Filling ½ cup milk 1 egg 1 tsp. sugar 1 tsp. vanilla Pinch salt 1 tsp. cornstarch Beat with fork until forms custard and spread between baked layers.

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• Remember Mom’s fresh bread? She baked seven loaves every two days. She always waited for it to cool before she sliced it. But if Mom wasn’t in the kitchen, the loaves disappeared while they were still hot. We buttered it, and the butter ran off the slices all over our fingers. OOOOOHHHHH, my God! That was SOOOOO good. • What about Mom’s sweet raspberry torte that was like custard? She mixed eggs and milk with sugar, put it in a pan, threw in some raspberries or blueberries, and baked it. It was only about an inch thick, so we could peel it out of the pan. We loved it.

• Don’t forget Mom’s chocolate chip cookies. We loved them with cold milk.

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Momâ€™s 75th birthday kiss from Dennis and Arlyn

Happy Dennis, here: Mom was Mom. The best ever. We loved her and admired her for so many things. But back when we were farm kids, Momâ€™s food was right at the top of the list. After all, to Mom, food meant love. It meant her boys were happy. And when her boys were happy, Mom was happy.

Holiday Dinner Mom standing and serving as usual, tableful of ham, three pies, Vienna Torte, mashed potatoes, poppy seed horns Left to right: Mary, Fabe, Cindy, Marv, and Marcia Holewinski

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Seasons “Farm-time is sunset and sunrise, when the corn is planted and when the tomatoes are ready for canning. When the moon is full and when there is no moon at all.” ~Jerry Apps

Farm-time Farm-time isn’t measured by the turning of hands on a clock. Farm-time is tracked by the turning of seasons: spring’s brillant pansies, the song of a robin on a hot summer evening, fall’s orange pumpkins turned jack-o-lanterns, the snowy silence of winter. For farm kids, farm-time and the land are one: always changing, yet always changeless . . .

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Spring

Spring in the Midwest likes to fool you. Most winters, the ground freezes solid four or five feet deep and is covered with snow from as early as October to as late as March, even April. Still, the calendar page turns to March 20thâ€”the first day of springâ€”the vernal equinox. Early wildflowers stage a show. Day and night is each approximately twelve hours long. The sun crosses the celestial equator and travels northward to warm the air. The problem is the air warms before the land, giving the false impression that spring has really arrived. The land, though, knows the truth: it sits still and dormant, waiting . . .

Don’t Even Bring It Up Dennis, here: Mom had a way of keeping Dad on his toes. In the spring, it was the planting thing: Mom always wanted to be first out in the fields. Early in the spring—every spring—we felt tension at the breakfast table and knew what to expect . . . Mom gave Dad that look. Dad just looked back. Pretty soon, Mom said, “Geez. I see Adolph’s out in the field already.” Dad said, “Don’t even bring it up, Mom. Don’t even bring it up. We’re not going. It’s too wet. We’re not going.” Mom took a couple more bites. “I didn’t ask you,” she said. Dad said, “Yeah. But you were ready to tell me. We’re not going until the fields are ready. We’re just not going.”

Dick, here: Mom didn’t get excited because she wanted Dad to be first. She saw a neighbor in the fields and thought Dad should be there, too. Then, the neighbor got stuck and Dad said, “See! We ain’t goin’ yet. We’ll get stuck, too.”

Bill, here: Every spring, after Dick took over the farm, he heard the same sermon. And every spring, he spouted back. “It ain’t dry yet!”

Dick, here: It took Mom a long time to understand what we meant. But when it’s too wet, it’s too wet!

Marv, here: Dad was always one of the last ones to get crops in. But by the time he planted, the ground was warm, so the plants didn’t suffer as they germinated. They grew fast, and they grew vigorously. So Dad, generally, had the best crops in the neighborhood.

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Summer Summer in the Midwest comes in more surely than spring. The sun climbs higher in the sky and warms the chill in the air. The land wakes up and is generous: crops burst from the soil; oats, hay, and corn ripen; vegetable gardens explode.

But farmers ask a lot from the land and the weather: warm weather for growth, cool weather for maturation, dry weather for harvest; no windstorms, hailstorms, heavy rains, or droughts; if there has to be wind, it must come ahead of the rain, before the soil softens and roots give way. Basically, a miracle. And, most years, the land provides . . .

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Dusty, Nasty, Itchy Chopped Hay Dick, here: Summertime is when farmers make hay, and it always helps to have perfect weather. Back when we were kids, we made hay twice. About mid-June first crop hay—alfalfa—was ready to cut. Then, about mid-July second crop hay was ready.

Dennis, here: To make hay, we had a tractor that pulled a sickle mower with an eight-foot sickle bar. We drove our tractor around the entire field until all the hay was cut. Then, we let it lay in the field for two or three days so it could dry. After it was dry, we raked it into big rolls with a pull-rake. Then, we used a tractor to pull a chopper to chop it up. After it was chopped, we loaded it into a big wagon and drove it back to the barn where we put it on a conveyer with a blower. Two at a time, we lifted up the back of the wagon, grabbed the hay with hooks, and pulled it onto the conveyer belt where the blower blew it up into the mow. It was as dusty as all get out. It was hot. The hay was dry. The dust flew up in the air and got down our throats. But we kept chopping . . . and chopping . . . and chopping until every last straw was in the mow. It was a nasty job. By the end of the day, quarter-inch thick hay dust covered our faces and arms, so all you could see was the whites of our eyes.

Left to right: Dennis, Arlyn, Fabe, Marv, Bill, Don Smith, and Mom

The farm kids were home for some occasion and Dick needed help with the hay baling, so we found some old clothes and got the job done—now having a beer.

Arlyn, here: You guys made hay the easy way. In the old days, when I was cutting hay, we didn’t have a tractor—just a horse and a six-foot wide sickle. We rode the horse around the field five or six times, while it pulled the sickle that cut the hay. That was all we could haul to the barn in one day. We had a hay loader that picked up the hay and elevated it to the wagon. We picked it off the loader and stacked it on the wagon with a fork before we drove it back to the barn in our truck. Even though I was so little I could barely see over the steering wheel, I usually drove the truck. Once we got to the barn, we used two large, two-tined forks to pitch the heavy hay up into the mow, where we had to pull on a rope to get it across the mow to its destination. Then, we had to pull the pile apart and spread it over the back of the barn. After we finished one load, we went back out in the field and started all over again. It took forever. By night, we were dead tired. Just try doing that for three or four days in a row, and you’ll really know what it’s like to make hay!

Marv, here: Oh, yeah? Well we had to bale the hay with thin baling wire, so our hands were always all cut up and full of calluses.

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Fall

Fall in the Midwest never seems to settle in. It is a season of change: cold, leaden gray days followed by deep blue skies, all set off by showy red, gold, and umber leaves, crisp apples, purple asters, bright red sumac, orange pumpkins, birds V-ing south, and wood smoke. The land has worked hard all spring and summer. Now, itâ€™s time to celebrate its bounty . . .

Fell Asleep Dennis, here: I remember ONE time I fell asleep while cultivating young corn plants. By the time I woke up, I had uprooted several rows. Dad was 80 acres away working in another field, but it took him less than twenty minutes to realize what I had managed to do. He ran, top-speed, across the fields yelling, “DENNIS . . . DENNIS . . . DENNIS.” I didn’t have to guess what was next: Payday! (More about Payday later.)

Dick, here:

Harvesting Corn

Fall is when farmers harvest their crops. Around Labor Day, corn is ready to harvest for silage. In the early days, Dad drove out to the fields with a horse and a corn binder. He cut one row at a time, forked it with a three-tined, woodenhandled, slightly-curved pitchfork that he could buy for 45 cents out of the Sears, Roebuck & Company catalog, and threw it into a flatbed wagon.

Dennis, here: The difference in the process was in the early days we chopped the corn, loaded it in the wagon, took it to the silo, and chopped it with the silo filler. In the later days, we cut the corn and bundled it on the field and unloaded it already chopped. Anyway, however the process was completed, silage is fermented green corn. Here’s how we made it: while the corn was still green, we cut the stalks and hauled them to the silo filler. A conveyer belt, of sorts, carried the corn to the knives. Then, we blew it up an eight-inch pipe into the silo, where it fermented and became silage—a smelly winter feed for the cows. After the silo was full, we let the stalks dry in the field. Then, we waited. When the corn got really dry, we boys went down the rows, one at a time, and, by hand, snapped off the cobs. A crusher-chopper cut that row. Then, we did it all over again, row . . . after row . . . after row. Next, we picked up the ears, threw them on the wagon, and drove back to the shed where we husked them. At night, after we milked, we had husking bees: we stripped back the husks, snapped off the ears, tossed them into the wagon, and drove to the corncrib. Finally, we shoveled the load of corn into the corncrib. The corn cobs were eventually ground together with grain and protein to form a high protein cow feed that the cows considered a delicious dessert. 125

Winter

Some time, usually in November, winter blows in to the Midwest. Daylight is short. Snow pelts the frozen ground and adorns fence posts with white stocking caps. Four-foot-wide Oshkosh snowplows grunt. They ROAR . . . ROAR . . . ROAR through snowdrifts. Winter birdsâ€”blue jays, cardinals, and pileated woodpeckersâ€”brighten bare branches of maple and oak trees. The big dipper hangs in the northern sky, surrounded by millions, maybe billions, of stars. The land rests . . .

Not Long Enough Marv, here: Usually, winter started about the middle of November, and often snow stayed on the ground until April. We didn’t have field work, so life was a little easier in the winter. We always thought winter didn’t last long enough. In 1959, the winter after we built the new barn, Uncle Alvin’s family gave us a regulation basketball hoop, and we had great fun building a basketball court upstairs in the hay loft. We invited our neighbors over on weekends and played basketball games that could get pretty intense. The barn wasn’t heated. It was maybe 50 degrees downstairs where the cows were, but upstairs it was cold, cold, cold. We didn’t care. We closed the doors and had a great ole time.

It Was Cold! Dick, here: Even though life was easier in the winter, we had to do the same basic chores, including hauling manure out of the barn. We loaded it on the spreader and hauled it out to the fields. Some years we had so much snow we had to dump it in a pile and leave it until spring when we could get back out to the fields. The worst winter days were when the temperature was ten or twenty degrees below zero, and we had to go out to the open field with a tractor that didn’t have a cab. Let me tell you: it was cold! We didn’t waste any time out there.

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Dick, here:

Free Again

I remember one snowstorm when it snowed for three days. Snowdrifts were at least twelve-feet deep. The only way we managed to get out was our neighbor rescued us with his tractor and V-plow. We shoveled the snow bank about fifty-feet in from the road so he could run full gear as fast as he could. He hit the snow bank. POOOF. The snow flew. He hit another snow bank. POOOF . . . POOOF . . . POOOF . . . all the way to the barn. During that storm, we had to store 30 ten-gallon cans and a couple washtubs full of milk. We kept it in the barn, which was warm from the cows. We were almost ready to bring it in the house and put some in our bathtub when we got the bright idea to set it on a toboggan, sled it to the end of the snow bank at the road, and load it on our neighborâ€™s truck. The big Oshkosh plow came through the next day, and we were free again.

Marv, here:

Snow Plows

Sometimes it took two or three days for snow plows to plow out the road. Back then, nobody knew anything about grading roads so snow banks piled up. The plows were like snowblowers with a twenty-foot fan blade. When they finally came through, they threw snow 120 feet from the road out into the field.

Great Memories Dennis, here: There were years when snow drifted as high as thirteen-feet in some places. We all remember the year drifts reached the tops of the telephone poles, so when we climbed to the top of the drift we could step over the telephone wires. The only way we could get to the barn was to dig tunnels. When it snowed that much, there was no way we could make it to school. Did we care? NOPE! We were ready to have fun. We dug tunnels from the barn hill that sloped down about twenty-feet into the yard and hauled our sled or toboggan to the top. Defying gravity, snow flying up to pelt us, faces so white only our eyes showed, we raced through our tunnels. GO! . . . GO ! . . . GO! Within seconds, we flew out the other end about a hundred feet away. Part of the fun was digging the tunnel itself. We dug . . . threw out snow . . . dug again . . . threw out more snow. Then, we built forts at the corners of our tunnels. We all have great memories of snowstorms.

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Christmas “The perfect Christmas tree? All Christmas trees are perfect!” ~Charles N. Barnard

Christmas is a season unto itself. It is a time for warm memories of Christmas past. It is a time to make new memories of Christmas present. Sometimes, the memories are kaleidoscopic—one year blending into the next. But, always and forever, no matter what the particular events of a particular year, for farm kids, it is a special time of loving and being loved . . .

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Traditions Marv, here: Dad never said, “Merry Christmas.” He always said, “Merry Christ—Moose.” But that wasn’t the only thing different about our Christmases on the farm—our Christmas traditions were different from those of most families. About five o’clock Christmas Eve, before chores, we sat around the table and shared the Oplatek, which is a Polish Christmas wafer. Dad started. Then, he passed it to Mom. She broke it and passed it around the table by age.

Dennis, here: Our huge Christmas meal followed, but we boys were never hungry. We sat on the edge of our chairs, antsy as all get out, ready to dash into the parlor. A couple hours before Christmas, Mom closed the parlor doors, but we knew the big tree and PRESENTS awaited.

Mom and Dad

Well, Dad took . . . his . . . time . . . eating. FINALLY, he said, “Go!” and we flew out of the kitchen.

Dick, here: After we opened our gifts, we milked the cows and went to midnight Mass. After Mass, even though it was one or two in the morning, Mom fixed another big meal. She laid out a huge spread of warm ham with horseradish, boiled eggs, crescent rolls, poppy horns, her famous paczki donuts, and the traditional Blitz torte.

Marvin, Christmas 1952

Dad, Christmas 1976, wearing the coat we gave him

Gifts Arlyn, here: Our gifts were usually clothes—blue jeans and a shirt—and one toy-type gift we all shared. One year, it was a BB gun.

Dennis, here: Well, maybe that’s how it was in the early days, but by the time I came along we each received one special gift. One year, Bill and I both got Roy Rogers watches; one year, we got dart guns to shoot plastic crows that swiveled on a wire; one year, we got little plastic baseball gloves that barely covered our hands. Gifts from our parents weren’t our only gifts. When Arlie got older and had girlfriends, they gave him gifts. Little did they know his brothers enjoyed their gifts as much as Arlie. The year before he went away to the service, Judy, who is now his wife, gave him a beautiful baby blue V-neck sweater. Arlie left his sweater at home, and we all wore it constantly—especially me. I loved it. Eventually, we didn’t even remember it was Arlie’s sweater. But when he came home from the service he reclaimed it.

Arlyn, here: And I still have it.

Dennis, here: After Arlyn and Judy got married, they bought gifts for all of us. He was the kindest brother we knew! We loved him!

Arlyn, here: Arlyn’s wedding: Grandma Holewinski, Arlyn, Judy, and Judy’s grandfather

Except for cars and machinery, Dad didn’t shop. I never once saw him in a clothing store. But after us boys got married and had kids of our own, Dad started a new tradition: every year, after the grandkids opened their presents, Dad sat in his chair, called the grandkids to him, and gave each one five bucks. They knew what was coming and could hardly wait.

But, you know, whether we were kids being kids, or men enjoying our kids, Christmas was (and still is) a special time for loving and feeling loved.

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Mom’s Tree

Dennis, here:

Mom, Christmas 2002

During the Christmas season, Mom worked her tail off cooking, shopping, and wrapping. But the tree was another story. It probably all started when we were kids and made a real mess by flocking the tree and everything else white. Anyway, after we got older and came home from college for Christmas, Mom never had a tree. So we went out to our woods, cut one, and brought it inside. Mom fought it. “NO! It’s too much work to decorate,” she said. But we insisted and decorated it ourselves. After we left home for good, Mom bought a three-foot artificial tree, decorated it with a few balls and tinsel, sat it on the table, and said, “There! That’s my Christmas decoration.” When Christmas was over, she threw a garbage bag over her tree and stuck it in the closet until the next year when she dragged it out again. Over the years, the tinsel got mangled, and it looked shabbier and shabbier, but for twenty years Mom put up HER tree.

Christmas Memories

Dennis, Carrie, Jill, Grandpa Holewinski, and baby Dillon, Christmas 1974

Dick with the little Christmas tree he and mom used for years

Marv, shorts he asked for, Christmas 1978

Fabian always called us Peenyaak, which has no meaning (except a negative connotation), Christmas 1976

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Work “Work has always defined a farmer’s life: yesterday, today, tomorrow.” ~Jerry Apps

From before sunup until after sunset, one day to the next, farm families work. Chores are every day. Farm work follows the seasons: planting, growing, harvesting. After all, tending to the land is one way to tend the future. And, as farm kids will assure you, nothing is worse than wasting time . . .

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Small World Dennis, here: We lived in a very small world. Until I was a junior in high school, I never traveled farther from home than the seventeen miles to Green Bay. For us, life was basically about work, family, eating, church, school, and hunting and fishing for our food. Mom and Dad’s world was also very small. The majority of their life was lived within a seven-mile radius with Hofa Park (1) as the center, Pulaski to the northeast, and Seymour to the southwest. This distance included Mom’s homestead (2), Dad’s homestead (3), our farm (4), St. Stanislaus Catholic Church, our grade school and high school in Hofa Park (1).

Hofa Park

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“Hired Help” Arlyn, here: Dad had one hired man. His name was Henry Harder, but Henry didn’t stay long. Dad’s boys were his “hired help.” Well, we were his help, but we weren’t hired!

Dennis, here:

Get Up!

We boys slept upstairs. At 5 a.m., Dad got us up and our workday started. He called, “Boys! Time to get up!” We ignored him. Dad got dressed. He knew we still weren’t up, so using that tone he yelled up the stairs, “Alright, boys! Come on! Get up!” Then, we heard Dad close the kitchen door. He was on his way to the barn to start chores. Time for more shut-eye. A few minutes later, he leaned on the car horn: HAWNK . . . HAWNK . . . HAWNK. We knew he was serious, but maybe we could catch a few more winks—especially if, when we were teenagers, we’d had a rough night. Next, it was Mom’s turn. “Come on, boys! Get up! Get up! Get up!” Okay. If we pound on the floor, she’ll think we’re up: POUND . . . POUND . . . POUND. We drifted back to sleep. But, pretty soon, being good Catholic boys, guilt kicked in, and we rolled out.

Cows waiting to get milked

Daily Schedule Dennis, here: The youngest child always worked in the house with Mom. She taught us to cook, do dishes, wash clothes—all the household chores. When our younger brother was old enough to help, we graduated to the barn and outside work. That work never stopped. There was always something to do.

Marv, here: I spent FIVE YEARS working with Mom. I even had to iron my brothers’ underwear, for God’s sake!

Dennis, here: Yeah? Well, whatever. As I was saying, our work never stopped. The best way to explain the demands of daily farm life is to tell you our schedule: 5:00-5:30—Wake up 5:00-7:00—Morning chores • Feed cows silage, ground feed, and hay • Clean manure and haul to field • Put straw/bedding under cows • Milk 40-50 head of cows • Feed 30-40 calves/heifers • Clean calf pens • Feed chickens • Pick eggs 7:00—Clean up and eat breakfast 7:20—Catch school bus 8:00-4:00—School (During the summer months, we did field work during these hours.)

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4:00-6:00—Evening chores, same as morning chores, except manure 4:00-Dark—Complete field work, depending on season. Usually field work was done until sunset. 5:30-6:00—Supper 6:00-8:00—Milk cows 8:00-Dark—More field work 9:00-10:00—Homework 10:00-11:00—TV and popcorn with family 11:00—Bed Each day ran into the next, so the next morning we started all over again. Preparing ground for new shed

“Free” Time During our “free” time we did miscellaneous farm jobs: • Haul manure from manure pile • Paint buildings—barn, shed, granary, corncrib, chicken coop, house • Clean manure from chicken coop • Clean calf/heifer pens • Clean machine shed • Grind cobs from corncribs • Take oats and corn to mill to grind into feed (weekly) • Spray apples for worms

• Pick apples from orchard • Fix all types of machinery (most repairs were completed by one of us) • Clip hair from cows (annual, usually winter) • Paint deck • Wash windows • Clean granary • Help birth calves • Fix fences • Chop green hay for cows daily (summer) • Cut lawn (2 acres, two times a week) • Wash cars and truck • Cut wood for wood-burning stove • Plant garden • Hoe garden and pull weeds • Pick vegetables: cucumbers, beans, strawberries, raspberries, peas, sweet corn, carrots, beets, onions, potatoes, broccoli, cauliflower, pumpkins, horseradish, radishes, tomatoes, rhubarb • Can vegetables • Butcher cattle and package for freezing • Butcher chickens and ducks These jobs were in addition to planting and harvesting our crops of hay, corn, and oats.

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Hell of a Worker Marv, here: By the time I was in the eighth grade, everybody else was gone. So it was just me and Dad, and I had to do all of the above! Plus, by then, Fabian bought his farm. So, Dad and I finished our crop work; helped Fabe; came back to ours; went back to his. Our work really never stopped.

Bill, here: Yeah. But by then, everything was modernized.

Marv, here: No it wasn’t!

Dennis, here: Well, Dad realized Marv was one hell of a worker, so he didn’t really need the rest of us.

Dad loved to plow

That Person Dennis, here: From morning to night, we worked . . . and worked . . . and worked. And working together as a family made Dad happy. When we made hay, Dad chopped, one of us drove the tractor that pulled the wagon, a couple of us unloaded the wagon, and a couple of us were in the hay mow. After the entire field was in, Dad would say, “Good job, boys.” Then, Mom sent out beer, and Dad said, “Drink up. You earned it.” If we didn’t work together, Dad always wondered why that person wasn’t working with everyone else. And because I played sports I was that person. When I got home, I still had to do my assigned chores, but Dad wanted me to be there working alongside everyone else. Dad thought playing sports was a waste of time: we’d get hurt; we weren’t learning; no good would come from it; we’d break a leg; on, and on, and on. Arlyn played baseball, and he got hurt and never played again; Fabe didn’t play anything; Dick didn’t play anything; Bill ran track a few years; Marv ran hurdles in track. But Dennis was going to play everything. And I did. I played football, basketball, and ran track. Mom was in favor of me playing. She got Dad to agree, OR she let me sneak out without Dad knowing. It was so bad that when a season started Dad always said, “You’re NOT playing. You’re NOT playing. You’re NOT playing.” Then, I went to Mom and worked on her.

I remember, though, football season my senior year: no matter how hard I worked on Mom, Dad said, “You’re NOT playing. That’s it!” So, next day I said to my coach, “I can’t play because my dad won’t let me. If you think you can convince him, well, good luck.” So a couple days later, my two coaches pulled up in the farmyard. I ducked into the barn and hid. I don’t know exactly what they said, but their entire conversation with Dad lasted all of two minutes. They left and Dad said “Okay, Dennis. You can play!” What??? Was this MY dad talking? The next day, my coaches told me that my dad was a peach—he just wanted to be asked. That’s all. What I concluded after all those years of frustration was this: because Mom and I never actually asked Dad he always said, “NO. NO. NO.”

Proud Day Dennis, here: Mom came to my games. Not Dad. He only came to one football game. When I saw him in the stands, I thought: Oh, my God! I’ve got to do something really great. I can’t get hurt. Dad has a stubborn streak. He won’t give in. If I don’t play really, really well he won’t let me play anymore. But he sat in the stands, yucking it up, having a great old time. Still, somehow I knew that he’d never come again. And he never did. Nonetheless, that was a very proud day for me.

Satisfied? Dennis, here: I ran the 100-yard dash, the 440-yard run, and the high and low hurdles. I was fast and liked to run. Every so often, I challenged Dad. “Come on, Dad. I’ll race you.” He always said, “I’m too tired—too tired.” Then I begged. “Come ON, Dad. Race me.” Finally, Dad agreed. He always beat me by ten to twenty yards. “Satisfied?” he’d say and walk back to the barn.

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Marv, here:

Love That Stub?

Occasionally, as a short diversion from work, Dad played horseshoes with us in the yard. When we hit the post: CLANG! Mom, who was in the kitchen fixing breakfast, could hear what we were up to. She yelled, “What are you guys doing? You’ve got work to do.” Well, to avoid Mom’s wrath we learned to slide the horseshoe in the sand and miss the peg. Woe to the brother who actually hit the peg and alerted Mom. Dad was good. Sure, he had a stub for a thumb, but could he ever throw that horseshoe. Whenever he threw a ringer, which was quite often, he would just laugh and dance around saying, “Love that stub!”

Not Fair! Dennis, here: We weren’t competitive against each other, but I was competitive in sports. Some evenings, after chores, Dad played baseball with us in the yard. I remember one night everybody got to bat, but when it was my turn Dad said, “It’s getting dark. We’re done.” I was so mad I cried and hit the ground with the bat. Dad spanked me, and, of course, I got even madder. “It’s not fair, Dad! It’s just not fair.” I yelled. So, now, along with missing my turn at bat, I got punished for being unreasonable.

Bill, here:

Done. Done.

Mom always checked up on us to make sure we were making progress on our assigned jobs and not wasting time. To Mom, nothing was worse than wasting time. And Mom herself was always doing something. She was never idle. Never! She just couldn’t sit still. In her later years, when she couldn’t get around as well, it got to her. Anyway, one summer I was assigned to painting. I thought I’d do one building, and that would be it. But no. After I finished the barn, it was the shed, and then the granary, and then the chicken coop. I don’t know how many gallons of paint I went through—and I say I because I was the only one painting.

Dennis, here: Yeah. Don’t let him fool you. He painted to get out of all the other work!

Bill, here: Whatever. Actually, I enjoyed painting. I wasn’t afraid of heights, so it was no problem for me to climb tall ladders. Anyway, for this particular project I was painting the shed. As usual, every couple hours, between cooking and her other work, Mom checked up on me. One day, I decided to fix Mom, so over the course of a week, as soon as Mom returned to the house, I real quick ran around the back of the shed, painted a section, then resumed painting out front. Well, every time Mom checked on me, she scratched her head and wondered why I wasn’t making more progress. Finally, I finished the gable end and Mom said, “Okay. It’s time to start on the back.” “Nope,” I said. “What do you mean, nope?” “It’s done.” I said. “What do you mean it’s done?” I said, “Done. Done. Go take a look!”

Mudge (Marvin) and Spotty, unpainted shed in background, 1955

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Fishing & Hunting “Work: a dangerous disorder affecting those who want to go fishing.” ~Ambrose Bierce

To farm kids, a day without work is rare. Unexpected. Blissful. They’re free. The hours belong to them and them alone. Seemingly, they have all the time in the world. And to farm kids, “Goin’ Fishin’” is the best way, ever, to laze away an endless day . . .

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Bill, here:

Goin’ Fishin’

To tell you that Mom couldn’t stand it if we even thought about spending idle time would be the understatement of the century. She made sure we didn’t waste even a second. She always had another job, or two, or three lined up before we even finished the one we were working on. When it rained and we thought we might get a day off, she made us tidy up the shed or clean poop out of the chicken house. During the summertime, we really worked our butts off, so every so often Dad said, “I’m gonna take you boys fishin’ Saturday.” The problem was he didn’t tell Mom because he knew he was in for trouble—big trouble. Friday night, as Mom was lining up our Saturday jobs, Dad said, “Nope! We’re goin” fishin’.” “WHAT?” “We’re goin’ fishin’.” “But there’s WORK to be done.” “I promised the boys we’re goin’ fishin’.” And we did.

Dennis, here: During the early days, we went to Geono’s Beach. They had big boats like the ones Washington used to cross the Delaware. They towed us out and left us. After we fished out one spot, we waved a flag, they motored out, and moved us to a new spot.

Dick, here:

Dad with a trophy Walleye

When Shawano Lake froze, we went ice fishing. Times were tough, so instead of an ice chisel, Dad used an ax or tire iron to chop a hole in the ice. We couldn’t afford a fancy tip-up, so Dad tied a little red ribbon to our casting rods. When the ribbon disappeared under the ice, we knew we had a bite. Eventually, Dad got smart and froze a willow stick in the ice. Then, he tied a string on it. The instant a fish bit, the stick bent like crazy, and it hooked itself. All we had to do was pull until it flopped out of the hole onto the ice. Time after time, we filled a five-gallon pail full of perch. And how we loved eating those fresh fish fried up for breakfast the next morning.

Eagle Sighting Marv, here: I’ll never forget the time Dad and I were driving our little Mazda up to Otter Lake to meet my brothers for a fishing trip. We were driving through Keshena, north on Highway 55. The trees were in brilliant. As we rounded a curve, directly in front of us, a bald eagle took off, clutching a dead rabbit in its talon. The eagle was huge. His wingspan was wider than the car. Dad and I stopped talking in mid-sentence. Neither of us said another word for the next few miles. We knew we were blessed to see this majestic scene—a scene that few people in the world would ever see. Over the next ten years, when we were fishing at Otter Lake, we saw eagles sitting in dead elm trees regularly. But there was nothing in the world like sharing my first eagle sighting with Dad.

Bill, here:

Busted!

One year, Dad, Dick, Arlyn, and I went white bass fishing on the Wolf River in Freemont. We were excited, so as soon as we got there, we walked out on the open-ended floating dock. The dock was slippery, so when I bent down to look at the water, I fell in and sunk like a rock. I touched bottom. I came up. Nothing. Down again. I came up. Nothing. Well, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when Dad told us we were goin’ fishin’. Luckily, though, third time up, a hand reached out and grabbed me. It was Dick’s. He hauled me up on the dock. Okay. I didn’t drown. Still, they thought I might freeze to death. So Dad bought me new jeans, a shirt, and a jacket. We continued our fishing trip. The problem was, when we got home, Dad didn’t say a single word to Mom. Well, Mom wasn’t born yesterday. She was all over it. “Where’d Bill get those new jeans?” Busted! Dad had to confess. “He fell in the river.” John Rudzvnski and Dad fishing at Otter Lake

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Dick, here:

Dad Got One!

We loved hunting as much as we did fishing. Sometimes Dad would rather hunt than eat, so we all started deer hunting when we were young. I shot my first deer when I was only thirteen. I was a hunter—a man’s man! I could hardly wait for next year’s deer season to roll around. So there we were on opening day: my brothers and I walking through the woods in Leeman, carrying our shotguns. We looked across the open field and spotted Dad sitting on top of a little hill. Suddenly, BOOM! . . . BOOM! . . . BOOM! “Dad got one,” we yelled and ran to the deer. The deer was as dead as a doornail. The problem was when we gutted his innards, we couldn’t find a bullet hole. Still, Dad kept hollering, “I hit him! I hit him! I hit him!” We never could convince Dad that, evidently, he scared the deer, and the deer ran into a tree and killed himself.

Dick’s third buck and our easter egg blue and creme Mercury

Creamed Rabbit Dick, here: Our neighbor owned about 60 acres of woods full of rabbits, so every chance we got we went rabbit hunting. Dad had a cattle dog and a cocker. They were good dogs, but when we got serious about hunting rabbits, he picked up Jackie, our rabbit hound, and when we whistled-up Jackie we really hunted.

Dennis, here: Picture this: two feet of snow on the ground; temperature below zero. We didn’t care. As soon as we finished our chores, we grabbed our shotguns, dressed warm, and walked across a 20-acre field with the dogs. We walked around the woods for a couple hours until we shot two or three rabbits. Then, we took them home and skinned them. We loved rabbit hunting almost as much as the creamed rabbit Mom cooked up for supper. Mom could make rabbit taste just like chicken.

Dick, here:

The Archer

I was somewhat of an archer. One year, Dad couldn’t take it anymore. He said, “I want to go with you to see what this is all about.” So I grabbed my bow and arrow, and we took off. Deer were everywhere. Suddenly a big buck managed to squeak through six inches of barbwire in the fence directly next to us. I pulled back my bow. I shot. The deer took off running. Dad was excited. “Come on! Let’s go take a look,” he hollered. We ran to the other end of the field. Sure enough, I’d hit that buck in the jugular vein, and he tipped over dead as dead can be. I started thinking: If a deer is too far away I can’t shoot him with my bow and arrow. Then, I got a bright idea: I grabbed a break-open shotgun, removed the BBs, shoved a bullet in her chamber, and stuck an arrow in her barrel. I pulled her trigger. That arrow flew like crazy. I looked all over 20 acres. No arrow. A couple days later, I spotted my arrow stuck straight up in a field a full six-tenths of a mile away from where I shot it.

Marv, here: Dick was a master with the bow and arrow. From the time he was twelve, or even younger, I was in awe of how he could shoot. For fun, he shot a field arrow high, high up in the air; the wind blew it around; he couldn’t see where it would land. Sometimes it hit the house; sometimes it stuck in the ground less than two feet from where Dick stood. The rest of us ran like demons to escape. But, for Dick, this was great fun.

Dad and Dick’s deer, 1963

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Thrashin’ Day “Threshing is that time of year when you can check out all the neighbor wives’ cooking.” ~Jerry Apps

In Shawano County Wisconsin, threshing season rolled around about the 20th of July, when the oat crop was ripe—after the grain was cut with a binder, bundled into shocks, and sun-dried. And when it was time to thresh, it was time to thresh. Nothing was more important. “Thrashin’ day,” was hard work. But it was also a social event—a time to catch up on news, visit neighbors, tell stories, and eat lots of good food. And, for farm kids, it was a time to brag about Mom . . .

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The Threshing Machine Dick, here: Back when Dad started the farm, area farmers helped each other thresh (separate grain from straw). Grandpa Holewinski owned the area’s threshing machine. At first, the tractor that powered the threshing machine was an oil pull tractor with a steam engine. Then, in 1936, he bought a Rumely 6. Threshing was hard, hard work. Because Grandpa was sickly, he just couldn’t do it. Plus, he couldn’t stand dust. So he and Dad teamed up and pulled the threshing machine to ten or fifteen farms, where neighbor helped neighbor. They did that until 1951, when Dad bought more land and had more grain to thresh. Grandpa figured that was too much extra work. He and Dad got in an argument, and for many years they had a little friction between them. Finally, Dad got really mad and bought a combine. We had that “combine” for twenty some years until it fell apart, and we couldn’t fix it any more.

Arlyn, here: Before we got the combine, I was part of the threshing crew and went with Dad and Grandpa to all the neighbors. I drove the tractor and hauled in the load; Dad threw it in the machine. Because Grandpa was sick, he stood next to the tractor, and watched, and supervised.

Fabe, here: Grandpa didn’t like cows, but he loved threshing season. Dad always made the straw stack. That was the worst job there was because the stacker sunk into the straw up to his waist, straw blew on top of him, and someone was always yelling at him to stack a little more straw here, there, and everywhere.

BEST Cook Dick, here: There were twenty or thirty men in threshing crews, plus all their wives and kids. The threshing machine didn’t stop all day long, so people ate in shifts. Each farm wife had to feed the whole bunch twice a day. The year we still lived in the brooder house, along with all the other food Mom fixed for the threshing crew, she baked six apple pies. She sat them on the window sill to cool and went about her business. When she checked on them, they were gone. The dogs ate every last one.

We raised springer chickens. Every year around threshing time they were ready to eat. So when the threshing crew came around, Mom made gigantic chicken dinners. But that wasn’t all: she set out big, heavy bowls of sweet corn, potatoes, green beans, wilted lettuce, pickles, and fresh vegetables from her garden; she sliced loaf after loaf of homemade bread that she’d stayed up half the night baking. And her desserts—oh my, Mom’s pies, cakes, and cookies were to die for. Threshing crews moved from farm to farm, from huge meal to huge meal, with each cook doing her best to outdo the previous ones. We were proud, real proud—no doubt OUR mom was the BEST cook on the threshing circuit. And THAT was something to brag about.

Arlyn, here:

Mom’s cake—saver where she stored her famous Vienna Torte

Fun

Everybody worked hard, but we also had lots of fun: kids ran around eating everything in sight; my brothers and I did our fair share of flirting with the girls; threshers drank moonshine; the water tank was full of beer and soda pop. Even when I was only thirteen, Dad let me drink beer between loads. He said, “If you think you’re man enough, go ahead. But remember you still have to work the rest of the day.”

Tin Can Alley Dennis, here: At night, after threshing was finished and the adults sat around relaxing and drinking a beer or two, the kids played Spud and Tin Can Alley. To play Tin Can Alley, we sat a can in the middle of the yard and chose a guy to be “it.” When you were “it,” you counted to 25 with your eyes closed while the other kids hid. Then, you searched but you had to stay in the yard and protect the can. As soon as you saw another guy you yelled, “I see Bill or whoever.” Then, you ran as fast as you could to kick the can first. But if another guy beat you he was free and got to yell, “Tin Can Alley” before you. Anyway, the real point of the game was to be the last person to be seen and kick the can before the person who was “it” at the time.

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Stones â€œA farm is a pasture where boulders lie.â€? ~Robert Frost

Stones. They are formed in many sizes, shapes, and colors. Red, brown, gray, and black stones are used to build majestic cathedrals, quaint churches, and stately public buildings. You can buy precious and semi-precious gemstones, even healing stones. Through their fossil remains, stones also reveal stories of our ancient history. It seems, though, farm kids have an entirely different perspective on stones . . .

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Dad plowing in the fall

Spring Drag Dick, here: We plowed fields in the fall. Still, each spring, we had to level the land before seeding it with grain. We called this spring drag. After the crops were planted, we had to pick stones. If we didn’t, the stones could rip the chopper’s knives to hell and back, twist a cultivator’s shovel, or dull a mower’s sickle bar.

HATED Every Minute Dennis, here: The youngest child, who was usually about five and barely big enough to sit on the tractorâ€™s seat and reach the steering wheel, drove. Dad shoved the tractor into its lowest gear, and because we were in the middle of the field, all the kid had to do was to steer in a straight line. Still, he was only five years old! Anyway, the tractor pulled a flat wagon. Three of us walked about thirty feet out from each side of the wagon, picked up every stone we could find, and threw them in the wagon. The stones ranged from baseball size (about a pound) to basketball size (about thirty pounds). After our wagon was full, we dumped our load on top of the stone pile next to the fence row. Out of the 180 acres on our farm, 60 to 80 acres were tilled each year. Picking stones took an entire week. We HATED every minute.

Stone Forks Bill, here: Dad refused to give us many tools to do any job, and picking stones was no exception. We only had two stone forks. Each fork had a long handle, with a stone-scoop attached. Whoever grabbed a stone fork didnâ€™t have to bend down as far; nor did he have to lift the stones by hand. So, if you were one of the lucky ones to snag a stone fork, the job was at least slightly more tolerable. As you probably guessed, we always had a big fight over those darn stone forks.

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Accidents “Farming is a profession of hope.” ~Brian Brett

Farming is one of the most dangerous jobs in America. The Occupational Safety and Health Administration cites, “22.1 farm accident deaths for every 100, 000 workers.” Accident Facts published in 1990 by the National Safety Council documents, “farm accidents claim as many as 1,300 lives and cause 120,000 injuries a year.” Farm kids don’t need to read statistics. They know up close and personal accidents are a way of life . . .

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Never Babied Dennis, here: We got hurt so often Dad and Mom took it for granted. They were concerned, but we were tough, and they never babied us. “You’ll heal up before you get married,” they’d say and send us off to the next job. Even though Mom had three brothers who were M.D.s, rarely did we go to the doctor. On the farm, accidents were just a way of life.

One-eyed Barney Arlyn, here: When you let horses out of the barn, they usually stop next to the barn door, so you can harness them up. Well, one day, our horses acted like wild horses: they refused to cooperate. Dad got so mad he threw a stone and hit Barney square in the eye. Poor Barney. He lived one-eyed for the rest of his life.

Dick, here:

Lickety-split

After a horse works a half-day, his biggest concern is water. Well, the barn door in our old barn was only seven-feet tall, and the water tank was about six feet inside the barn. One noontime, Dad unhitched Duke and Barney from the plow, climbed on Barney, and headed home from the field for dinner; Duke and Barney headed lickety-split for that water tank. Sure, Dad had an easy ride home, but if he hadn’t slid off Barney’s back quick-like he would have lost his head as they flew through the barn door.

Life Wasnâ€™t Fair Bill, here: Summer Sundays Dennis and I loved to go to local Bar League baseball games held in Hofa Park. Kids received 10 cents for every retrieved foul ball. We would do almost anything to earn a dime. A barbwire fence separated the baseball field from the cemetery, but we were prepared: before the game, we spread the barbwire apart so we could climb through quickly and grab the treasured ball if it flew into the cemetery. One Sunday, a player smacked a ball into the cemetery, and during the excitement of the run, we missed our opening and hit the fence wire fullspeed. We hung from the fence cut up and bleeding. Somehow, we managed to free ourselves and peddle our bloody bodies home.

Baseball field

Mom bandaged us up, and Dad punished us because we were told not to go to the park that Sunday. I still have a scar over my eye. But the worst part was we didnâ€™t get our dime. The moral of the story: life for a farm kid just wasnâ€™t fair.

Picnic grounds

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Almost Died Marv, here: When Dad chopped hay, I stood on the wagon’s draw bar, and when one load was full I jumped off, unhooked the wagon, and ran to get the next wagon. One afternoon, I noticed a broken wire. When I balanced myself as I stepped across the wagon pole to grab the wire, I fell. The wagon’s wheel caught my pant leg and pulled me under the wagon. I couldn’t move. Lucky for me, Dad looked back and saw me. WHOSH! He hit the brakes. The tractor stopped seconds before the wagon wheels ran over my head. I almost died that day.

Dennis, here: And Dad almost lost his last and only worker!

Slow Motion Dennis, here: One morning, I was backing the tractor toward the chopper wagon, and Melanie was bent down lifting the pole that hooked the wagon to the tractor. As she lifted the handle, the wagon started rolling forward. Everything happened so quickly, yet seemed to be in slow motion: I grabbed Melanie and pulled her out of the way just before the wagon hit the tractor’s tire. Seconds later, she would have been crushed. That was another near-death accident.

Kicker Cow Bill, here: One Friday night, Marv was playing freshman football, and Dad was working in the fields, so Mom agreed to help me and Dennis milk. She didn’t milk often, so she wasn’t used to it, and the cows weren’t used to her. Mom’s first cow was an ornery cow—a kicker. A kicker cow would just as soon drive her hoof into you as chew her cud. The minute Mom touched her udder the cow started kicking like crazy. She kicked Mom so hard Mom fell and was trapped underneath this 1,200-pound cow. The cow was going nuts, so we couldn’t drag Mom out.

Finally, the two of us leaned against the cow and grabbed her legs. It was too late. That cow almost killed Mom. Her jaw was broken so badly she had to get it wired in several places. For a long time Mom couldn’t eat, so she had to drink malts. Her bite was never the same. That was in 1966. Mom never went in the barn again.

Marv, here: And that was the last time I played football!

The Almost Hero Dick, here: We watched lots of Roy Rogers TV shows. So I got the bright idea I wanted to be a hero just like Roy. I grabbed my BB gun, ready to save the world. Next thing I knew Dennis hollered, “You can’t get me, Dick . . . You can’t get me,” and ran behind the big tree next to the house. The tree was at least two-feet wide, and I was shooting fifty yards out, so I didn’t think I could “get him.” I shot at the tree. The problem was just as I shot, Dennis peeked out his head and BAM! A BB bounced off the tree’s bark and zinged him smack in the eye. I thought his eye was gone, so I started prayin’ and prayin’ . . . “Please, God . . . Please, God.” Dennis was rushed to the doctor, but even though his eye was as red as fire the doctor said that it would be alright. Still, Dennis wore a patch for several months. That was a close one. And, yes, I got a good lickin’.

Dennis, here: To this day, I have only half a cornea in one eye, and every time I get an eye exam I have to tell the story about my brother Roy Rogers—the almost hero.

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The Belt Marv, here: I spent lots of time with Mom in the kitchen. One morning, as we finished cleaning up Mom said, “Marv, take these broken canning jars to the garbage.” To get to the shed where we kept the garbage, I had to cut across the grass. The grass was wet because my brothers were having a great time spraying each other with the hose. I wanted to join their fun, so instead of doing what Mom told me to do, I dropped the bag of broken glass in the ditch by the chicken coop. Wouldn’t you know it? Five minutes later Dennis ran, slipped, and slid into the ditch.

Dennis, here: I cut my foot so badly I could see the bone. They hobbled me off to the doctor, and he sewed me up, gave me a pair of crutches, and sent me home. The worst part was the next day Mom and Dad wouldn’t let me go to the parish picnic.

Marv, here: No! The worst part was I got the belt.

Bill, here:

I’ll Drive Myself!

One summer, Dad borrowed Hermie’s tractor—the Minneapolis Moline—to chop our corn. The Moline operated differently than our tractor, so Dad didn’t know exactly how the power take-off worked. As he was connecting the power take-off, it turned immediately and grabbed his glove. Dad felt a twinge, so he yanked off his big chopper glove, looked at his hand, and said, “Oh, damn! I lost my thumb.” Dad grabbed his handkerchief, wrapped his thumb, picked up his glove, unhooked the chopper one-handed, drove home, and said, “Anna, you gotta take me to the hospital.” “Why?” Mom asked. Dad said, “Because I lost a thumb.” Well, Dad ended up calling Hermie to drive him to the hospital. Hermie hurried over, turned white as a sheet, and almost passed out. Dad said, “Damn it. I’ll drive myself. Anna, jump in the car. Let’s go!” With that, Dad drove himself to the hospital with one hand.

Get Up! Dennis, here: The winter I was twelve I had decided to climb up the metal rungs on the silo chute to throw down silage. The chute had metal rings across the front to climb on and while climbing the person could lean back and brace against the back circular wall. The chute was only large enough for one person to climb up. Anyway, it was freezing cold, so I was wearing heavy clothes and gloves. I made it up about twenty-five feet when my gloves got in the way. My hands slipped, and I fell. The good news is I fell straight down and didn’t hit a single rung. The bad news is I landed on concrete and shattered both heels. It was a miracle that I did not die that day. Dad and my brothers were in the barn. When they heard me screaming, they ran to see what in the world was wrong. I was laying on the ground in agony, but Dad said, “You’re alright. Get up!” I was screaming, “NOOO! . . . NOOO! . . . NOOO! I can’t walk.” “Get up!” Dad said. There didn’t seem to be another option, so I did my best to “get up.” I made it to my knees but couldn’t stand, so Fabe dumped me into the wheelbarrow and hauled me to the house. Even though we had three doctors in the family, Mom said, “Go on upstairs. We’re going to wait until morning to see if you are really hurt.” I was in horrible pain all night. So, for the only night in my entire life, Mom slept with me in my bed. The next day, Mom and Dad gave in and took me to the doctor. He fixed me up with plaster casts that went clear above my knees. When I got home I was so excited that I could walk, I walked and walked until I broke both casts and had to be hauled back to the doctor. But here’s the best part of the story: about a week before the casts were supposed to come off I was itching so badly and complaining so loudly that Dad didn’t want to listen to me any longer. He said, “Get! Down to the basement you.” I’m thinking: What in the world? Well, pretty soon, I heard Dick clump down the steps. He grabbed a hacksaw, cut here and there, and ripped off the casts himself. Then, he said, “Done! Get up! Walk!”

Dennis dancing with Mom

No way! I crawled.

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Holewinski brothersâ€™ golf challenge Arlyn, Fabian, Bill, Marv, Dick, and Dennis

Arlyn, here:

The Excuse

I loved to play baseball with my cousins. During one game, I slid into base and hit my elbow. It hurt, but I didnâ€™t go to see Uncle Alvin until the next day. He told me that I knocked my crazy bone out of joint and needed surgery. So, off I went to the operating room, where they drilled a hole and pinned me back together . . . kind of. Even today, my elbow is still crooked.

Dennis, here: And, even today, he still uses his crooked elbow as an excuse on the golf course.

Bill, here:

The Errand

One afternoon, Fabe asked me to jump on the back of the bike and go with him to pick sweet corn for dinner. He pedaled like mad, and I stood up and hung on to the seat. Next thing I knew my foot got caught in the chain sprocket, and it almost cut off my heel. Dr. Al drove out to the house and fixed me up. The good news was I got out of work for the next several weeks.

I Lost Bill Dennis, here: The straw mow is where farmers store straw left after removing the grain. Straw is slippery and fluffy, and when it’s blown into the barn, you have to push it aside and pack it down. The summer I was about ten, Bill and I were up in the mow directing straw while a big pipe blew it in. We packed one side of the mow, and when that was full we packed the other side. I was holding the pipe when I heard Bill hollering. I couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying but caught enough to realize he’d hit his head, slid along the edge of the barn’s roof, and was lost somewhere in the straw. I had no idea where, so I started yelling, “I lost Bill! . . . I lost Bill! . . . I lost Bill!” My brothers dropped everything and came up to look for Bill. We searched around for at least ten minutes before somebody hit him with the back end of a pitchfork and dug him out. He must have been knocked out cold because to this day Bill doesn’t remember the story or how scared I was.

Honey Bees Marv, here: Before Mom and Dad left to take a rare vacation, Dad told us to clear the patch of willow brush next to the road that ran by our second hundred acres. So we hooked a chain to the tractor’s draw bar and went to work. Suddenly, Melanie went crazy. She screamed, and ran, and slapped. We didn’t know what the heck was going on until we saw an entire hive of honey bees swarming around Melanie. We smacked away hundreds of bees and somehow managed to drag Melanie to the truck. By then, the bees had bitten her dozens of times. She was so swollen we hardly recognized her. That was a very sad day. Melanie was never the same again. But, of course, we didn’t take her to the doctor. After all, it was “only” a few dozen bee stings. Melanie loved to swing

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Nothing Really Dennis, here: Occasionally, Mom drove us to school. One morning, I was sitting in the back seat. Evidently, the door wasn’t closed tight because when Mom took the corner toward Hofa Park, I fell out of the car, bounced on the blacktop, and rolled into the ditch. I was all bloody and whimpering, but Mom just grabbed her handkerchief, wiped me off, and said, “It’s not so bad. You’ll be fine.” I jumped back in the car and went on to school. When Sister asked, “What in the world happened to you?” Mom said, “Ah, nothing really. He just fell out of the car.”

One Squashed Dog Marv, here: One afternoon, my brothers and I, and Dick’s dog, Trixie, hopped in the back of our truck box. Dick was driving. We were almost to our neighbor’s field gate when Trixie jumped out. “Hey!” we yelled. “The dog jumped.” Dick stopped and backed up. The tires rolled over Trixie. ARFFFF. . . ARFFFF . . . ARFFFF. There she was . . . gone! That was one squashed dog.

Another Squashed Dog Dennis, here: I’ll never forget the day I backed up the car away from the house and heard a loud SQUEAK! I jumped out. Much to my dismay, there was Skippy, squashed under the tire. I drove forward; Skippy shook it off, got up, looked at me, and ran off to the barn. To my surprise, she looked fine. Several weeks later, Mom found Skippy in her pen, deader than a doornail. Trixie

Demise of the Green Oliver Arlyn, here: Dad owned a handy, versatile, green tractor manufactured by Oliver. Fabe liked it. Dad didn’t. One afternoon, Fabian was on the Oliver, moving fast, pulling a load of corn silage. He turned into the gravel driveway and—CRACK—the left wheel axle fractured. The wheel and tire rolled freely along the driveway, past the house, into the orchard. The tractor, with Fabe hanging on for dear life, screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust. Luckily, no one was hurt. Fast forward a few months . . . The small green Oliver might have been handy, but it always needed repair. One morning, it wouldn’t start. The battery was dead. Most likely one of my brothers forgot to turn off the key. Anyway, Dad and Fabian took turns turning Oliver’s manual crank. Fabe tried. Dad tried. Fabe tried again. Now it was Dad’s turn. He gave a mighty crank. Success! The bad news is the Oliver was in gear. It lunged forward. Dad jumped out of the way in the nick of time, but the tractor ran over a two-row corn planter and proceeded up the side wall of the shed. It stopped suspended almost vertical against the shed wall. By some miracle, it didn’t fall backwards. Its fate, though, was sealed: Dad sold the green Oliver.

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Jill, Sara, Dane Holewinski—city kids eyeing a cow

Bill, here:

Poor Truck

Almost every year-end, Dick bought a new tractor. The one he bought in 1991 was a real beauty. It had a new set of duals—two big wide tires—and Dick was really, really proud of his new tractor. One day, Dick said, “Go ahead, Bill, drive it.” “Nah, I don’t want to drive it, Dick.” “Come on. Just take her for a spin,” Dick insisted and started it up. I sat young Evan on the inside of the cab on the left fender. Then, I drove up the hill not paying any attention to Dick’s truck sitting on the grass on my left side. I heard the tractor’s engine growl a little, but thought, Oh Well. Whatever, and kept going until I made it to the field. The minute I turned around, I saw Dick standing next to his truck, shaking his fist, and hopping up and down. I thought, Hummm, something must be wrong. Well, as I got closer I took one look at Dick’s truck and said, “Holy shit!”

Dick, here: For sure, something was wrong! He smashed my truck’s entire front fender—just turned her right around.

Bill, here: Dick kept yelling, “You hurt my poor truck! . . . You hurt my poor truck!” He was so worked up I couldn’t stop laughing.

Dick, here: He was laughing, and I was crying. We tried to straighten the bumper, but it was no use. It was mangled beyond repair.

Horrific Accident Marv, here: As kids, we didn’t know much about cancer. Still, we did know every one of Dad’s siblings died from cancer. His side of our family is full of cancer, and Dad was no exception: first he had one cancerous lump removed; then he got breast cancer. We first learned about Dad’s breast cancer when he bumped his chest while making hay. His breast swelled up and formed a lump, and the swelling wouldn’t go away and wouldn’t go away. It took Dad forever, but he finally went to see the doctor about what he thought was a lump caused by the bump. The doctor wanted to take a biopsy. Dad said to the doctor, “I ain’t got time to come back. Take it out now! I don’t need any damn numbing.” So the doctor cut out the lump in his office. After the lab did the biopsy, we learned the lump was cancerous. Eventually, Dad died from cancer.

Dennis, here: The first time we experienced death close in the family was when Dad died from cancer. But we need to back up because the emotions started when Dad had a horrific accident. Dick was there in person, so he’s the best one to tell the story.

Dick, here: This isn’t a story we want to remember. Our lives changed forever. But here goes . . . We were picking corn. On the day of Dad’s accident, it was muddy, so the six-row picker would slide and knock some stalks and cobs over. Dad walked ahead of the picker to straighten them up. When the picker was about to pass, Dad walked into the corn, miscounted, and stood in the fifth row. His legs got caught in the machine’s rollers. They grabbed his legs and pulled him into the machine. The rescue squad gave him morphine to kill the pain and knock him out, but Dad wouldn’t pass out. The medics cut the metal with a welding torch, but it was almost three hours before they could pull Dad’s legs free. One leg was severed. The other was all smashed up. Dad was in and out of the hospital for weeks. Dad’s doctors and the family weren’t sure he was going to make it. His doctors tried all kinds of procedures, but nothing helped because his leg was so infected. Finally, his doctors managed to stop the infection, and Dad ended up with one leg amputated below the knee and the other leg shortened. After Dad stabilized, he went home full of stainless steel pins, and Mom had to take care of him. The worst part was he couldn’t work. That was torture.

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Back row: Sarah, Jill, Brian Smith, and Dane Front row: Brett Smith, Dad, Brandon Smith

Dennis, here: Dad was a tough bird, but he was hurting and we knew it. When we went to visit, we’d say, “You’re hurting aren’t you?” Dad just smiled and went Shhh! . . . Shhh! He was just glad to see us. We had always respected Dad, but this was way beyond anything we’d ever seen.

Marv, here: Eventually, Dad was fitted with a prosthesis. But it was a year from the date of the accident before he could use his two hand canes and walk to the mail box. By then the cancer had spread, and he soon died from cancer.

Dennis, here: We did get him out in a boat perch fishing a couple times, and he traveled to see me and my family in Pennsylvania. But he was in constant pain. So for several years, we lived with knowing our dad was dying. And one of the saddest parts was he found out his cancer returned right after he started to walk again.

Dick, here: Dad is buried in the cemetery next to St. Stanislaus church where he met Mother. And they’re still dancin’!

Holewinski Summer Family Gathering 1978

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Cows “Cows expect the same fair treatment, day after day, no matter how you feel, or what has happened to you before you enter the barn.” ~Jerry Apps

Cows are, well, cows. Their cuds are the only perpetual motion machine in the universe. They eat . . . and eat . . . and eat. They make selfish demands on a farmer. Basically, his life isn’t his own. Farm kids might be bold enough to suggest their formative years were devoted to cows’ comfort—either shoveling something in, or shoveling something out . . .

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Dick, here:

Different

Sure. We tended crops, and pigs, and chickens, but somehow the cows were different. We could never get away from them. They were (and still are!) demanding. Like religion, you have to tend to cows every day. Actually, you have to tend to cows twice a day. And like religion, you have to love them. At five o’clock in the morning, we rolled out of bed and hit the barn. During the spring, first thing, we opened the barn door and checked to see if any calves had been born the night before. Then, we checked things over to make sure water wasn’t leaking anywhere. Next, we scraped the manure off the cows’ platforms. You see, cows stand on a platform with a gutter behind them. They’re supposed to poop in the gutter. They don’t. We had to clean the poop off the gutter so we didn’t step in it and have it end up in the milk pail.

Dick milking with his border collie, Odee

Then, we attached the pumps to the milkers. (I don’t remember milking by hand.) The pump is a vacuum pump that runs the milking machine and draws milk out of the cow. We plugged it into the pipeline that was about head height, and the milk was pumped into the milk tank, where it was cooled down.

Then, we cleaned out the barn. In the old days, we shoveled the manure into a bucket. After the new barn was built in 1959, Dad installed an automatic barn cleaner. We flipped the switch, and a conveyer chain in the gutter moved the manure to the holding area. After the barn was clean, we fed the cows silage and grain and put straw under their feet so they had a nice clean bed. About five o’clock in the afternoon, we tended the cows all over again.

Paws Dick, here: Calves were born every spring. Most births were feet-first, normal births. They happened when we weren’t even around. But when a calf came out backwards, it wasn’t natural, so the cow was very nervous. If the calf doesn’t come out quick enough, the cord breaks, and it drowns in its own amniotic fluid. And if the calves are twins, a leg from both might poke out at the same time. In either case, we had to get the vet out real quick. Older cows usually didn’t need help with a normal birth. But a heifer (a young cow birthing her first calf ) might need assistance. She was usually lying down, and as soon as we saw the calf ’s feet we tied a rope to its legs and gave the cow some support.

Dennis, here: You see, we had to tie a rope around the calf ’s two hands—paws— and . . .

Dick, here: Paws???!!! You’re a REAL farmer! You never birthed a calf, did you?

Dennis, here: Yes I did! Sometimes, even all by myself! I braced myself and when the cow pushed, I pulled until the calf ’s head popped out. Then, I cleaned out the mucus, and in about five minutes the calf stood up. So there!

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Pets Bill, here: Our cows had name plaques—Enid, Jane, Dolly, Maude, Blanche, Pearl, Dolly, Ada, Pacer, Wayne, Beatrice—above their stalls. When we milked, the radio in the barn was always on and tuned to Polka music or rock'n'roll. We all learned to dance in the barn. When we were young, we were attached to our cows, but Dad warned us, “Don’t get too friendly.” Still, when our cows were babies, we had pets. They followed us, bumped us, and kicked like crazy. We learned, though, that Dad knew what he was talking about. We might play with our pet one day, and the next day it was gone . . . Dad sent it to the slaughterhouse for bologna. To this day, Fabe and Dick love cows. Fabe always loved to milk. He still pets his cows and talks to them. He even raises prize-winning cows.

Fabe & prize-winning cow at the County Fair

Dennis, here:

Not Laughing

Cows meant manure. We filled the manure bucket. Then, using a chain and pulley, we hoisted it up to a rail that ran above the alley and rolled it outside. During the summer, we dumped it into the manure spreader; during the winter, we dumped it on a pile outside the barn and cleaned it up in the spring after the snow melted. Anyway, the rail was always a source of competition. We raced hand-over-hand, each determined HE would be the victor—HE would be the one to make it farthest without dropping to the concrete floor. One day, my brothers challenged me: Dennis! Bet you can’t start where the rail leaves the barn and make it over the manure pile without falling. Now, this was NOT an easy task. But I was a competitive kid—certainly not one to back down on a dare.

“No problem,” I said and jumped on the rail. Hand over hand, I proceeded valiantly toward my destination. About half-way, my arms ached, and my muscles burned. Drat! I wasn’t going to make it. Oh well, I thought. It’s cold outside. The manure pile is frozen. At least I’ll drop on a hard pile. Within moments, without an ounce of strength left, I dropped. Well, the top of the manure pile was, indeed, hard. But, much to my dismay, the crust gave way. I sunk waist-deep into the sloppy, fermented pile of manure. As I climbed my way out (not an easy feat), my brothers laughed with glee. Dad poked his head out the barn door to see why they were having so much fun and joined their merriment. At Dennis’s expense, they all laughed so hard tears rolled down their cheeks. Dennis was not laughing!

Arlyn, here:

Bologna

Bulls go wild trying to get at cows. And the older they get the wilder and meaner they are. One morning, Dad was walking our bull toward the cows. He held the rope attached to the ring in the bull’s nose in one hand and a hammer in the other. Dad pulled the rope. The bull was stubborn. He refused to move. Dad hit him with a hammer. The bull went down on all fours. Dad said, “Arlyn! Run! Get the knife!” By the time I got back to the barn, the bull had regained consciousness and was standing up. For a long time after, that bull didn’t give Dad a single problem—he walked alongside just as nice as nice could be. Later, though, the bull got real ornery. We kept him in a pen by himself in the back of the barn. Every time we tried to feed him he rammed the fork in our faces. Finally, Dad had enough. “Time to go,” he said and shipped the bull to the slaughter house where he ended up as bologna.

Dick, here:

Itchy Job

If cows aren’t clipped, manure sticks to their long hair and ends up in the milk, so haircuts are mandatory for Grade A cows. We owned a hand clipper that weighed about three pounds. During the wintertime, we used it to clip each and every one of our 100 cows—rear flanks, udders, and all. We went to school with hair all over us and itched so much we couldn’t sit still. If we happened to wear wool clothes when we were cutting, Mom threw them away because the hair stuck in them forever.

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Poop Flew Dennis, here: One evening, when I was a junior in high school, I was dressed to kill, ready to go out on a date. Before I left I had to get something out of the barn, where Dad and my brothers were still milking. As a little background, cows have four compartments in their stomachs. When they eat, they burp: URRRP! Then, they regurgitate. When food comes up, they re-chew it, and it goes down into another stomach. Cows also cough. And sometimes they cough from BOTH ends. Anyway, I walked down the aisle. A cow coughed. Poop flew. I was drenched with manure from head to toe. I had manure in my mouth, my ears, my hair. It splattered my letterman’s jacket. I was so angry I yelled and yelled. And, of course, my brothers laughed and laughed. Even though it wasn’t Saturday, you better believe I took a shower that night. Dennis (42), The Jock, running the football

Marv, here:

Stab the Cow

After it rains and cows eat young, fresh hay, they tend to gas up and get bigger and bigger until they are so bloated they are in danger of dying from a heart attack. Well, Dad and I had third crop hay ready, but it rained and rained, so the hay was wet. One morning, Dad said, “Look at this cow. She’s really bloated. If we call the vet he won’t get here for an hour. She’ll never make it. I’ll grab a knife, and we’ll poke her.”

Then, Dad handed me the knife. “Here,” Dad said. “Here?! What do you mean here?” I said. Dad said, “Just stab her.” “Stab her? Where do I stab?” “Anywhere. She’s so bloated it won’t matter.” “DAD! You want me to stab a cow? What if I kill her?” “She’s gonna die anyway. Just stab her.” “Dad, PLEASE. You stab her.” “Nope!” I gathered my fourteen-year-old courage, grabbed the knife, and stabbed the cow. The hide was so tough I couldn’t poke through, and the damn knife popped out. The cow died. End of story.

Bill, here: Dad did the same thing to me. There’s a tool called a trochar. It has a handle and a tube with a point, and when you jam in into the cow’s stomach the cow goes WHOOSH and releases the gas. Dad decided to replicate the trochar with a knife. Dad handed me the knife. “Where should I stab her?” I asked. Dad said, “It doesn’t matter. Just stab her.” He backed away. So, I grabbed the knife and stabbed the cow. She keeled over dead on the spot. So much for Dad’s jerry-rigged trochar.

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Chickens, Eggs, & an Occasional Rooster “A hen is only an egg’s way of making another egg.” ~Samuel Butler

Eggs. They’ve been part of our diet for millennia. We take eggs for granted: they’re either brown or white; we buy them in Styrofoam cartons at our local supermarket. Safely home, we store them in our refrigerator’s egg compartment until they end up fried, poached, scrambled, or soft-boiled on our breakfast table. For the more “gourmet” among us, we might break our eggs into an omelet or even a quiche. To tell the truth, we don’t give much thought to eggs or, frankly, to where they really originate. Unless, that is, we’re a farm kid . . .

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Hen House Dick, here: In ’42, Dad and Mom built the hen house. It housed 400 chickens. In the early days, we ordered chicks through the mail. Later on, we bought them from the hatchery in town.

Dennis, here:

Go Wash Eggs!

The big event in the spring was the day we picked up boxes of baby chicks from Beano’s Hatchery. The boxes were made in squares. Each square contained six or eight fuzzy chicks. We put our chicks under the heat lamps in the brooder house and kept their watering jugs full. PEEP . . . PEEP . . . PEEP. They were the cutest things ever. Eventually, our cute baby chicks grew up, and it was time to move them into the hen house. We raised chickens for eggs, not breeding. Every day, we gathered and hand-washed about 300 eggs. We hated washing eggs! The instant we stepped through the door to the hen house (directly into ammonia-laden chicken poop), we were overcome by a smell unlike anything I have ever smelled again. And, by the way, I don’t want to! Once inside, our job was to gather eggs. Gathering eggs had its hazards: the hens’ nests were boxes with a round hole in the center where the hens laid; one chicken laid; she jumped out; the next one jumped in; she laid; she jumped out. Pretty soon, there were four or five eggs in each box.

Picture this: a hen sitting quietly on her nest; a farm kid ever so gently slipping his hand underneath her. ZING! She pecked so fast we didn’t see it coming. More often than not, her powerful beak drew blood. It always hurt. It always scared us. The good news is the chickens didn’t poop on us. The nest itself was straw. The roosting bar was on the opposite wall. The roosting bar assimilated a tree limb, and that’s where housed chickens slept, shoulder to shoulder. They pooped on the floor underneath. We had to pick eggs twice a day. If we didn’t, the chickens stepped on them and they broke, or they pecked them and ate the insides. If the nests were filled with fresh straw, the eggs were clean. But if the coop was dirty, the eggs were dirty, because chickens transferred the crap on their feet to the eggs. So, we filled five-gallon pails with warm water and, EVERY DAY, we washed 300 eggs—one . . . at . . . a . . . time. Whenever Mom thought we weren’t busy enough, she was on us: “Boys! Go wash eggs!” After the eggs were washed, we packed them into 30 one-dozen containers, loaded them in the car, and Mom drove them to town, where she sold them at the grocery store to make money to buy our groceries.

GOOD-BYE! Dick, here: Saturday was the day we knocked off chickens. Might as well. After all, Saturday was bath night. Plus, Mom always fixed chicken for Sunday dinner. So every Saturday Dad said, “Hey, Dickie, time to butcher a couple chickens.” First, I found the right victim—the chicken I didn’t like. Then, I hooked her, held her legs and wings tight in my left hand, the ax in my right hand, and flopped her on the chopping block. Then, it was GOOD-BYE!

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Gut Chickens Dennis, here: Sometimes we butchered fifteen or so chickens at the same time. We boys caught them, and Dad chopped off their heads. Even headless, they still hopped up and down, flapped their wings, and flung blood all over the grass. We LOVED the sight of those headless chickens hopping up and down on the grass with their wings still flapping! Then, we dipped them in scalding hot water. After we yanked them out, we slid off their feathers. Next, we dunked them in tubs of cold water. After they cooled down, we pulled out the innards. Yep. As farm kids, we all learned to gut chickens.

Dick, here: You never gutted a chicken OR chopped off a head in your entire life! You couldn’t stomach it, so we never forced you.

Dennis, here: I always got the crap jobs. You guys got the good ones.

Bill, here: Excuse me! I’d say gutting chickens was a pretty crap job.

Dennis, here: Yeah? Well, you guys liked it.

Disgusting Dennis, here: We cleaned the hen house twice a year. It was the most disgusting job on the entire farm. Because the house was too small for all of us to get inside at the same time, Mom assigned the job to the biggest troublemakers. Picture this: the chicken house wasn’t heated, which meant the chickens needed manure to keep them warm in the winter; poop combined with straw equaled a mess at least three feet deep. With each fork lift, the manure’s nitrogen alone KNOCKED YOU OUT. As you cleaned (and sometimes it was a twoday job) your voice changed. Even when coop cleaning day didn’t fall on a Saturday, we took a bath.

AWK! AWK! AWK! Dick, here: Sometimes, mean roosters made picking eggs a real challenge. When roosters got older, they literally jumped on our backs and really clawed us up with their big foot spurs—talons. One day, our meanest rooster ever jumped on my back. Well, I was the chicken man—the one who fed and watered them twice a day, so I knew those chickens better than anyone. I decided just axing his head off was too good for him. Bill and I caught that sucker with a chicken hooker. “We’re gonna fix you,” we said. Then, we grabbed a pair of scissors, and while Bill and Dennis held him I hacked away at his neck. That old rooster was squawking at the top of his lungs: AWK! . . . AWK! . . . AWK! And feathers were just a flyin’.

Bill, here: Dick kept cutting and cutting, but he couldn’t cut through that tough old rooster’s feathers. Eventually, I said, “Dick, let me try.” So, Dick grabbed the rooster’s legs, and I cut some more. NOPE. Couldn’t do it. That old rooster’s neck was so bludgeoned, it bled like mad. Pretty soon, Dad walked around the corner. “What are you guys doing?” he asked. “Oh, NOTHING, Dad. Nothing,” we answered in unison and freed our prey. The instant we let go, that sucker made a beeline as far away from us as he could get.

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Gophers “In the immortal words of Jean Paul Sartre, ’Au revoir, gopher.’” ~From Caddy Shack

Gophers are furry, small animals. They measure fifteen-inches in length and weigh only a halfpound. Gophers are noncombative vegetarians. They eat only roots, trees, shrubs, grass, and corn. Gophers dig complex underground tunnel systems, where they prefer to live alone. A male gopher can expect to live three years. Unless, that is, he happens to come nose to face with farm kids . . .

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Easy Money Dennis, here: Each year, on Father’s Day, our church held a huge, “must do,” community picnic. The fish pond and arcade cost a nickel. Ice cream, cherry treats, and soda pop cost a dime. Mom and Dad never gave us spending money. We earned every cent. (By the way, later in life, that taught us the value of the dollar.) Anyway, as kids, we had to figure out how to get money to spend at the picnic, because the Holewinski boys, for sure, weren’t going to miss all the fun. Well, gophers are a nuisance to farmers, so the township paid a bounty of 10 cents a head for dead gophers. We set iron-clawed gopher traps next to gopher holes along fence lines. Then, two, five, maybe even ten times a day, we ran to check our traps. SUCCESS. “I got one! . . . I got three!” we yelled back and forth. Bingo! Easy money for the church picnic.

Bounty Hunters Extraordinaire Bill, here: Gophers dig tunnels with one hole in the front and one hole in the back. We fetched pails of water, covered the back hole with a spoon, and poured water in the front hole. Before long, the gopher, certain he was about to drown, popped his head out the front hole. The moment we eyeballed his nose, we clamped our fingers around his neck and ARRRRRGH! One dead gopher. Brutal, huh?

On a good gopher day, one of us jumped on the bike, pedaled to the store, and bought a six-pack of RC cola to share.

Dick, here: Besides choking gophers, we had a good dog, and we trained him well. The instant the gopher popped his head out of the hole, SNAP! Headless gopher. It was bloody, but we’d do anything for a dime.

Dennis, here: Then, one day, Dick got yet another bright idea. He said, “Hey! This gopher’s pregnant. Let’s cut her open and grab the little baby heads.” Done deal! Nothing like gopher fetus heads to make us bounty hunters extraordinaire.

Bill, here: By the end of the year, we had 20 bucks.

Dick, here: We were rich!

Dick’s Border Collie, Odee

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Crows “Then the bird said, ‘Nevermore.’” ~Edgar Allan Poe

Some claim crows predate dinosaurs. Others insist crows top the avian IQ scale. Still others suggest crows’ CAW-CAW (a call that can carry six miles over a crystal clear Midwest winter evening) is a language of its own. Crows even get top billing in myths, legends, and an occasional spiritual tradition. Maybe. Maybe not. Frankly, farm kids don’t care. Crows mean spending money . . .

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Crow Machine Arlyn, here: When I got back from the service and started to make some money ($1.66 an hour!), I had a little extra, so Fabian and I talked . . . and talked . . . and talked about how to spend it. One night, Fibber looked up from his magazine and said, “Arlie, look at this ad for a crow machine. It’s guaranteed to call in crows.” In a day or two, we drove to town and picked up our guaranteed crow machine. Dad took one look and said, “You darn guys are wasting your money. If you don’t know what to do with it, give it to me. I’ll take care of it for you.” We ignored him. The next evening, Fibber and I carried our machine into the woods and turned it on. We were bombarded with crows. We shot . . . and shot . . . and shot until we ran out of shells. The next morning as soon as we finished chores and breakfast, Fibber, Dick, and I jumped in the car to drive to town and pick up more shells. Before I even turned the ignition key, Dad was standing next to the car carrying his gun. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go. I’ll buy the first box. You guys buy the rest,” he said. When we got back, we carried our machine into the woods, and Dad agreed to be the lookout. We turned it on, and Dad was lookin’ . . . and lookin’. . . and lookin’. But he didn’t have to look long before he signaled with his fingers . . . One crow . . .Three crows . . . Seven crows . . . Nine crows. We slaughtered them again. From then on, as soon as Dad saw his boys head for the woods carrying our crow machine, he grabbed his gun.

Dennis, here:

Crow Machine, shot guns & black cat

Mischka’s Woods

We hunted crows in Mischka’s Woods—a cedar woods that sat in a valley with open fields surrounding it. We trudged in about a half mile, lugging all our equipment. Then, we strategically placed four or five spotters—guys who hand-signaled when the crows were about a quarter mile out.

The crows were smart. They sent a scout to check out the area. So we sat, quiet as church mice, waiting. Pretty soon the scout, thinking all was safe, signaled his troops: CAW-CAW-CAW. Our spotters signaled their troops. We were ready. BOOM . . . BOOM . . .BOOM. It was like a war: one hit the ground, then another, then another. We shot, and pointed, and yelled, “One dropped here! . . . Look! Over there! . . . Another one!” If we didn’t get the entire flock the first go-round, we’d go home because the crows wouldn’t come back that day.

Dick’s Shells Dick, here: The problem was we didn’t have enough money to buy lead to kill all those crows. So Arlyn said, “Dick, why don’t you make your own shells?” Sounded good to me. I drove to Green Bay and, for 10 bucks, bought a reloading kit (a couple hand tools), lead, BBs, and powder. Then, I started packin’ shells myself. My bullets didn’t have enough power to get the job done. So I got the bright idea to add just a little more powder. Now, those crows were really in trouble—with my new shells we hit them dead-on when they were normally out of range.

Marv, here:

Coast is Clear

Dick was the master of shooting crows from a moving truck. Two guys jumped in the truck bed, one rode in the cab, and one drove. Now, in February, March, and April that was illegal. We did it anyway. We lay down so the cops couldn’t see us, and the second we spotted crows we yelled, “Get ready. Okay! The coast is clear.” So there we were, driving thirty miles an hour. Dick pulled: BOOM . . . BOOM . . . BOOM. Three crows fell out of the sky.

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I Believe You! Arlyn, here: Crows did lots of damage to corn, so the township paid a 20-cent bounty on each crow’s head. Everyone knew the Holewinski boys were the guys who kept the flocks thinned out. We shot crows for miles around. Then, we stored their heads in a tin can and doused them with gasoline. By spring, when it was time to turn them in and collect our money, they were covered with maggots and stunk like heck. But we got paid, so we didn’t care. One year, the agent asked us, “Okay, boys. How many crows’ heads this year?” “One hundred, sir,” we answered. He said, “No way!” We said, “Count them yourself.” He opened the can and took one look at the muck. “I believe you,” he said. Do the math. Yep. 20 bucks for the Holewinski boys. It’s difficult to find a live crow around our farm . . . even today.

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Money â€œMoney will buy you a fine dog, but only love can make it wag its tail.â€? ~Richard Friedman

Farmers are reputed to be frugal. Usually, every nickel goes back into the farm. After all, farming is not just making a living. It is living. Still, farm kids need SOME spending money . . .

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HIS Money Dennis, here: Dad lived through the Great Depression, when banks sucked up all the money. He didn’t believe in banks; he didn’t like banks; he didn’t want anything to do with banks. Mom took care of the farm’s finances. Dad sure wasn’t going to trust a bank with his social security money. It was HIS money. He stashed it away—somewhere. His kids didn’t know what he did with his money. Even Mom didn’t know what he did with his money. After Dad died, we found money between the rafters in the basement, stuffed in socks, hidden in cans—just everywhere. As I recall, we found around $30,000.

Marv, here: Dad also stashed away the money he made selling calves. When I was ready to start my own business, Dad said, “You’re going to need some money.” I said, “Yeah. Do you have any?” Dad asked, “How much do you need?” When I told him maybe five or $10,000, he said, “I got that.” Mom almost fell off her chair. She said, “You do? Where do YOU have five or $10,000?” Dad said, “OH, I got a little money. Don’t you worry.” He took me to the basement, reached up in the rafters, pulled out a sock, handed me $10,000, and said, “Here you go, Marv. Let me know if you need more.” Sure, Dad was secretive about his money, but when push came to shove, and he thought we needed it, he was generous.

Marv, here:

Our Money

Mom and Dad didn’t give us spending money. We had to earn it. One way was to pick string beans and cucumbers. We had rows and rows of string beans and cucumbers that had to be picked at least every other day. We picked . . . and picked . . . and picked some more. Then, we hauled them to the cannery, where they were weighed and graded, and the cannery paid us so much a pound. But we didn’t get to keep much of that money. It was primarily for school clothes and books.

Arlyn, here: We had eight rows of beans, planted across five acres. We all went to the end of the field and picked four rows across. Then, the next day we picked the next four rows. Before long, our blue jeans had holes in the knees. To make matters worse, after we picked bags and bags we hauled them down the road to Gracyalny. He weighed them, sorted them, and paid us a grand total of three cents a pound. One day, Dad said, “That’s it. No more.” It didn’t bother me one bit—that was the worst summer job I ever had.

Marv, here: Nah! Raspberries were worse. We got scratched by briars; the damn mosquitos bit us; bees stung us. Every year the raspberry patch got wider and wider, and we got more and more ripped up.

Bill, here: We also earned our money by working for our neighbor, Hermie. After our hay was in, Hermie hired us to help him hay. All day long, we threw hundreds and hundreds of heavy, awkward hay bales. Hermie paid us a dollar an hour until Dad got smart and said, “Hermie, you need to pay my boys two dollars an hour.”

Dennis, here: Beginning about 1962, our uncle, Dr. Eugene, became the team physician for the Green Bay Packers. We loved the Packers way before then, but it did get them a little closer to home, especially when we started directing traffic in the stadium parking lot for the Packers’ games. The city paid us, and after seven games we made something like $12. But the real draw was we got into the games free.

Marv, here: When I was about eight, I drove the tractor for our neighbor, Hermie Moss. Hermie had a round bailer that spit out fifty, sixty, seventy pound bales. The wagon had a big arm with a roller, and my job was to hit the bales just right so they spun around and could be picked up. It was far from easy. Hermie paid me 25 cents an hour to drive his tractor. After about three years, I said, “Gee, Hermie, now that I’m older shouldn’t I make a little more money?” So he raised my pay to 50 cents an hour.

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RC Cola Marv, here: We spent some of the money we earned at the church picnic and some on ice cream and Chum gumâ€”two sticks for a penny, wrapped individually in a royal blue wrapper. It was the best bubble gum in the world. We blew bubbles the size of our face. The problem was when they burst the gum stuck. Anyway, we spent most of our money on six-packs of RC cola. We had general stores in two different directions from the farm, each about two miles away. So one guy rode the bike to one of the stores, bought a six-pack of RC, balanced the cardboard container on the handle bars, and rode home. All was well until he hit a bump too hard and the container of pop bottles fell off the handle bars and smashed on the road. He knew when he got home he had to face four or five thirsty, disappointed brothers.

Marv, here:

Allowance

When my brothers left the farm, Dad and I did all the work, and I got an allowance of $50 a month.

Dennis, here: You did? You spoiled brat!

Marv, here: Hey! I was doing the work all five of you did.

Bill, here: So? It was all mechanized by then.

Marv, here: Was not!

Bill, here: You were just born at the wrong time.

Marv, here: I was born at the right time. I got 50 bucks. You guys got nothinâ€™!

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Mischief “Twenty years from now you’ll be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than the things you did do.” ~Mark Twain

Farm families don’t talk about values. They live them. Compassion. Community. Integrity. Hard work. Respect for the land. And values, even unspoken, are transformed into a deep sense of ethics. Still, farm kids are farm kids—trying to make a little fun out of a harsh, workfilled farm life . . .

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1 2 14 3

8 15

13 9

10 4 16

12 Dick

6 Dennis

7 28

Farm Legend

21 22 23

25 26

1. Corncrib

15. Lost Bill in straw

2. Height of silo when Fabe climbed

16. Horseshoe pits

3. Pasture

17. Machinery shed

4. New shed (not there when we were kids)

18. Barnyard

5. Dick shooting BB gun at Dennis (see locations on map)

19. Rode pigs

6. Apple orchard

20. Manure pile

7. Cigarette smoking in ditch

21. Sparrow wars

8. Silo Fabe climbed

22. Shed Bill painted

9. Granary

23. Chicken coup

10. Barn hill ( blue dashed lines show tunnels in snow banks)

24. Norway maple

11. Two crabapple trees

25. Buried bread dough

12. House

26. Garden

13. Barn

27. Yard where chickens jumped

14. Dennis fell down silo

around without their heads

28. Stones on roadâ€”pea truck

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Marv, here:

Payday

Dad was the enforcer. He yelled at us to be careful around the machinery; he insisted that we do everything his way. When we did something wrong, it was Payday for us. Dad said, “Alright! Bend over!” Then, he whacked us. When we did something really wrong he said, “Lay down,” and we got it with the belt. If we cried, he said, “Not a peep!” And Mom? Mom never intervened. She kept quiet. Still, we couldn’t pull the wool over her eyes. No matter what time of night we rolled in, Mom didn’t sleep until we were all home safely. We could tiptoe. We could sneak. Didn’t matter. The minute we walked in the kitchen we heard Mom’s infamous, COUGH . . . COUGH . . . COUGH.

Dennis, here: I got spanked more than anybody in the family. Dad had a saying: if you don’t do it right, don’t do it at all. One time, I was bold enough to say, “Okay, I’m not going to do it at all!” As usual, I paid for that one. I remember Dad using a belt and a rubber hose.

Bill, here: When we got spanked, we deserved it, but Dad was heavy-handed. Still, it built respect for him. Later on in life we loved him for it because we came to realize that he really wanted us to be good kids who grew up to be good men.

Marv, here: When we were young, Dad was very firm and laid all the groundwork. But as soon as I turned thirteen he turned around and treated me like a real man.

Dennis, here: No wonder you turned out so good! He practiced on us. The “Enforcer” with Dick’ & Dick’s hired hand

Marv, here: Did I?

Dennis, here: We think so!

Arlyn, here: Dad always said, “Go ahead, guys, have all the fun you want, but if you get in trouble don’t call me. Buy a train ticket out of here.” We were never bad, but every now and again, we were naughty. After all, we were farm kids.

Dick, here:

“Nothin’, Dad.”

One day, I got the bright idea to throw eggs. Dennis, Bill, and I whipped eggs at each other; we threw eggs at the chickens; we splattered eggs on the walls and ceiling of the chicken coop. Eggs were just a flyin’. We were laughing and having a great old time. Suddenly, the door to the chicken coop opened. Dad stared us down. “What are you guys doing?!!” “Nothin’, Dad.” Eggs were income. They bought groceries. Dad lined us up, and we got it good. I still have a mark from that one.

.22 Shells + 30 Years Arlyn, here: I’ll never forget the day our Uncle Julius parked his car in our yard while he helped Dad paint the shed. Everybody was busy, so Fibber and I snuck into his car and found .22 rifle shells in the glove compartment. We couldn’t resist. We hid a few in our pockets. But what good were .22 shells just sitting in a boy’s pocket? We set a shell on an anvil. Fibber held it. I hit it with a hammer. ZOOOOOOM. It slammed into the chicken coop. Well, unfortunately for us, Grandma Holewinski was in the house visiting with Mom. She heard the explosion and ran out the door screaming in Polish. My Polish wasn’t that great, but I knew what she meant: Just wait ‘�til your dad gets here!

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The minute we sat down at the table to eat dinner, Grandma started in on me and Fibber. She went on and on in Polish. I understood enough to know she was squealing on us, so I said, “I gotta go to the bathroom,” and ran to the outhouse. I sat there . . . and sat there . . . and sat there. Then, I heard Dad. “You can stay in there as long as you want, but when you come out you’re gonna get it.” Okay. I might as well face Dad sooner rather than later. One way or another, Payday was coming. Sure enough, Dad took off his belt, and Fibber and I got nailed. My rear end was so sore I laid there for hours. Well, the shell’s casing had hit Fibber, so he had a small cut on his forehead. Our butts hurt too much to think about a trickle of blood. Now, here’s where the story gets really good (or bad!): thirty years later, Fibber noticed a small lump on his forehead. It got bigger and bigger, so he finally went to the doctor. The doctor poked around and said, “There’s something in there.” He cut it open and found a piece of shell casing. And that’s my story. I never did anything else wrong!

Silo Climbers Fabian, here: One afternoon, Dad and Uncle Eddie were in the field picking up cut corn and loading it into the wagon, so I decided: here’s my chance. I climbed the 30-foot silo and walked the cement cap all the way around the top. From clear out in the field, Uncle Eddie saw me and said to Dad, “Don’t look now but one of your boys is walking on top of the silo.” Dad didn’t want to scare me so he didn’t holler, but the minute he got back to the farmyard it was Pay Day for me.

Bill, here: In 1960, Dad built the new silo. Same adventure; different son: I was always a climber. I liked to climb trees and whatever. Anyway, one day, I decided to climb the new silo. I was supposed to be painting but figured I was safe because Dad was in the field picking stones. I was about three-quarters of the way to the top, when I happened to glance out to the field. There was Dad, waving his arm, shaking his fist, and yelling, “JUDAS PRIEST!!!! Get down!” It was Pay Day for me, too.

Fabe climbed this silo and walked around the roof. The silo was extended since then; the stave section was added

Sadder and Sadder Dennis, here: I’ll tell you up front that Dad and I were not the best of friends. I was terrified of Dad. Still, I did things he told me not to do; I broke things; I wasn’t careful. In other words, I was always in trouble. One afternoon, I decided to hide in the cornfield next to the barn. I was about ten rows in when it got to be milking time. Being stubborn, I decided I wasn’t going to come out and help with chores. I sat there just listening as my brothers yelled, “Dennis, where are you? Dennis! Dennis! It’s time for chores.” Then, I heard Dad’s voice, “Dennis! Get in the barn. I’m not calling you again.” By that time, I was in so much trouble I decided I might as well stay put. Pretty soon, my brothers yelled again, “Come on! We’re goin’. Are you comin’ with us?” I thought it was a trick, so I just sat there. Then, it got dark, and I got scared. Finally, I decided it was time to go in the house because I knew I was in trouble no matter what I did. I walked into the house. Not a soul. I looked all around downstairs. Nobody. I went upstairs and yelled. Nobody. Never in my life had I been alone before. Now, I was really scared. As it turned out, everybody, but stubborn me, went to a special farmers’ night called a Twilight Meeting at a big farm show. The next morning Dad said, “Did you have a good time last night, Dennis?” And that’s all he ever said. My brothers, on the other hand, wouldn’t let it go. They tormented me all day: The ice cream was really, really good last night. We did this. We did that. And me? Well, I just got sadder and sadder. 217

Arlyn, here:

Grease Monkeys

David (our cousin), Fabe, and I had a knack for getting in trouble. So one day, my parents sat us in the rumble seat of Uncle Julius’ car while they shocked oats. We had strict orders to stay put. For three young boys “staying put” was a sentence worse than death. So we poked around and found a grease gun Uncle Julius left on the backseat. Ah ha! Something to do. Let’s experiment. Just how far can we squirt grease? When the family returned, the grease gun was empty. The inside of the car was covered from steering wheel to floor with slippery black grease. The boys were covered from head to toe with slippery black grease. Hot baths and lots of scrubbing managed to get us cleaned up just in time for a spanking.

Dennis, here:

Sweet Peas

Bill and I loved fresh sweet peas. Lucky for us, a few farmers in our area grew them. After the peas were picked, the farmers threw them in the back of big trucks, and the trucks hauled them to the canning factory. One afternoon, Bill and I sat for over a half hour watching pea trucks roar by. We were literally salivating waiting for peas to fall off, but no peas. Finally, Bill said, “If we put a rock in the road, maybe a truck will bump over it, and peas will fall off.” We picked up rocks. We placed them, strategically. We waited. The next truck that whipped down the road, BOOM! It hit the rock square-on. Then, BLOOP . . . BLOOP . . . BLOOP. Sure enough—flat tire. Bill and I high-tailed it for the house and watched out the window. The minute the tire was fixed we ran out and grabbed our peas. The moral of the story: if you’re responsible for a pea truck getting a flat tire, don’t tell Dad.

Dennis, here:

Another Cigarette, Boys?

One afternoon, Bill and I decided to “hide” in our three-foot-deep row ditch and smoke the cigarettes we bought. How did we think Dad wouldn’t see the smoke? Anyway, we puffed away. As soon as we finished one, we sucked on the next one. After about a half pack, I was green. Bill was green. We were just dying—so sick we couldn’t even look at each other. Dad never officially punished us. He just laughed and said, “Want another cigarette, boys?!”

Dick, here:

Crabapples

Crabapples were the first apples to ripen. But we could never wait until they were full-ripe. As soon as they were the size of golf balls and a little sweet, we picked them. In order to “fool” Dad, we had to time apple picking just right. One of us watched, and when he saw Dad carrying a pail of milk into the barn, he yelled, “Go!” The rest of us crawled up the trees and grabbed green apples as fast as we could until the lookout yelled, “Dad’s out! Get down! Get down!” Then, we feasted—we poured granular cow salt in the palm of one hand, nibbled off a little piece of apple, and dipped her in the salt. And, man, we ate them . . . and ate them . . . and ate them. Then, we got diarrhea. No more “fooling” Dad. He saw us running to the bathroom and said, “You boys eatin’ those crabapples again, ain’t ya?!” Farm orchard

Raw Meat Dennis, here: For obvious reasons, I was grounded a lot. I always played sports; I always had a girlfriend; I always went to dances. The list went on. One night, Dad was mad at me—again. He told me flat out, “NO! You are not going out tonight.” “But DAD . . . But DAD . . .”All the begging and pleading in the world didn’t help my cause one bit. Finally, Dad got sick of my whines and banished me upstairs. Well, as luck would have it, Dad had invited people to play cards that night. They got louder and louder. I knew they’d go on for hours. So I cooked up an idea: I would sneak out the upstairs door to the deck above the breezeway; Dick and Bill (who were allowed to go out!) would turn off the car lights and drive down the driveway; I’d jump in. Brilliant! Well, almost . . . The card game was played directly underneath the deck. I knew Dad and his friends could hear even a mouse walk above them. I had to be soft. I tiptoed across the flat area. But my challenge wasn’t over: I had to jump off the side of the roof. The trick was to avoid falling in front of the window where Dad would see me. I picked the perfect spot and prepared to make the 10-foot drop to the ground.

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Thinking I’d ease my fall, I grabbed the drainpipe. Not smart. The thermometer read twenty below zero. Naturally, my fingers froze to the drainpipe. I hung “forever.” Finally, my fingers released. My skin didn’t. Out of options, I dropped to my hands and knees and scooted across the yard. I hopped in the car—no bandages, just blood—and the three musketeers went out and drank until midnight. On the way home, we realized we needed a plan: Dick pulled the car into the driveway; Bill jumped out; he started toward the house; step by step I followed in his footprints. The next morning at breakfast Dad said, “I found footprints in the snow, boys. And, oh, by the way, Dennis, how are your hands this morning?” My hands? They were raw meat. (The gloves I wore to breakfast weren’t much of a disguise.) Dad took one look and laughed. I guess he figured my pain was punishment enough. Dennis at 16 in our cousin’s 1938 coupe

Marv, here:

Dumb

Toby was one of our best dogs ever. He was ferocious. Mean. He took on skunks. He crushed turtles. He took on a badger—and lost. Still, Toby wasn’t afraid of anything. Well, bumblebees nested in the asbestos between the inside and outside wall of our machine shed, and Toby didn’t like to hear them buzz. One morning, he tore through the wall. The bees swarmed. They attacked Toby. But did that stop him? Nope. Toby got bit to hell, but he chomped and chomped until at least fifty bees were dead on the floor. Toby was sick for the next couple days, but the minute we let him out he charged back to the shed after the bees. And until the day Toby died, he went ape-crap every time he heard bees buzz. Anyway, one summer Dick got yet another bright idea: It’s really hot. If we cut Toby’s hair short he’ll be cooler. But a short haircut wasn’t enough. My brothers schemed and decided to turn Toby into a lion. They shaved off his hair clear to the skin, except for the mane around his neck, little puffs on his legs, and a bushy tail. A couple days later, the veterinarian came out to the farm. He took one look at this ridiculous looking dog and said, “What in the world happened to Toby?” When my brothers explained their plan to keep Toby cool, the vet said, “Dumb! His hair insulates him from the heat. If you don’t keep him in the milk house, he’ll probably die.” So for the next month, poor Toby was confined to panting on the concrete floor in the milk house.

AFLAAAC!! Bill, here: Mid-60’s was the era of muscle cars. Dick bought a 1965 Pontiac Lemans GTO. It had a big horsepower engine and was very fast. One day, he was headed to Pulaski, when a new Ford Mustang roared up behind. Dick said, “I’m not gonna let him pass. I’ll leave him in the dust. Hang on.” With that, he jammed the pedal to the floor. We were going 125 miles an hour before we knew it. No way could the Mustang keep up. Suddenly, out of nowhere, we saw a flock of ducks waddling across the road. Dick tried to stop. Too late. Plop … Bong … Poof. All Dick could see in the rearview mirror was a cloud of white feathers. AFLAAAC!!

GTO in driveway

Best Laid Plans Dennis, here: When I played basketball in high school, I wasn’t allowed to drink alcohol. And for the most part—only because I didn’t want to get kicked off the team—I followed the rule. Almost every weekend during the summer my family went to a wedding. In those days, wedding invitations weren’t addressed to only “Mr. and Mrs.” The whole family was invited. Anyway, everybody drank at weddings. Dad drank. My brothers drank. Our neighbors drank. That left me to be the designated driver. One night, everybody was more gone than usual, and I knew I had to get them home before all hell broke loose. I thought: No problem. From the dance hall in Hofa Park, it’s a straight shot to our house. As they say, “The best laid plans . . .” I dropped off our neighbor. Great. Almost home. Then from the backseat, “Stop! We gotta stop. Now!” I pulled over. Bill rolled out and threw up in the ditch. A few yards later Dick yelled, “Stop!” rolled out, and threw up in the ditch. The REAL problem was they couldn’t climb out of the darn ditch. And me? I just wanted to get the car home puke-free.

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Marv, here:

THAT Stupid

When Mom and Dad played cards, they didn’t get home until around midnight. So I did the chores real quick and headed out for a long night of fun. On this particular occasion, I had too much fun at the Pulaski picnic and got really drunk. Come time to go home, I managed to find the truck and stick the key in the lock. The door wouldn’t open. I tried it again. Still wouldn’t open. What the hell? I knew it was the right key. I tried again. No luck. The bewitching hour was close, so I kicked the door latch. Nothing. Now, I was mad, really mad. In one of my most stupid moments, I lost my temper and kicked the hell out of the door. I just smashed it. Nothing. Okay. Not funny. What was I to do but break the little smoking window, stick my hand inside, unlock the door, and somehow drive home? The next day, after I came to my senses, I said to myself: There’s no getting around this one and found Dad. “Ah, Dad. I’ve got to tell you something,” I said and came clean. Dad said, “I don’t believe you.” “But, Dad, that’s the truth. I’m sorry.” Dad said, “I don’t believe you. You ran into a ditch, and hit a pole. Didn’t you?” I said, “Dad! NO! I’m telling you the truth. Honest.” Dad looked at me for a minute. Then, he said, “No son of mine would be THAT stupid.” With that, he turned around and walked away.

Look What I Found! Bill, here: During our last couple years of high school, we could buy a case of beer at the local tavern/general store with no questions asked. Then, we had to hide it somewhere before driving to an isolated spot and drinking with our friends. We had our secret hiding places. During the winter, the favorites were snow banks or road ditches. You see, there was a deposit of two cents for each bottle. So when we returned the bottles. we saved the money for the next purchase (gopher and crow money was precious). One morning, our neighbor, Hermie, stopped by. There on his tractor, in plain sight, was a beer case filled with 36, seven-ounce bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon—our beer of choice. “Hey, Tony. Look what I found in a road culvert in the ditch next to your other farm. Some of the bottles are even full. Do you have any idea who hid this case of beer?” Dad shrugged and asked a few questions. Then, he turned around to look at his boys. His boys were nowhere to be seen. Kiss that case good-bye.

Dennis, here:

Every Detail

Mom and Dad were not travelers, but when Dick, Bill, and I were in high school they took ten days and went all the way to the West coast with some neighbors. Dick decided it was time to have a farm party. Well, we’d never had a party, so we didn’t know what we were doing. Come to find out, the two or three .45 records we owned, including my all-time favorite Everly Brothers, were far from sufficient for a real party. Still momentum built rapidly, and before we knew it, we had arranged a large event. The party went off without a hitch. Naturally, we were very proud of ourselves. After we cleaned up the house, we stashed the two excess cases of beer in Hermie’s cornfield, convinced that the five-foot-tall corn stalks insured a secure hiding place. A couple days later, Hermie stopped by. “No. We don’t need anything, Hermie. Mom and Dad will be home soon. Thanks for checking on us,” we said. Then the bomb: “You boys must have had a real party the other night. I could hear your music a quarter-mile away.” We turned beet red. Silence. Hermie continued. “And, you know, just this morning I noticed footprints leading into my cornfield. I followed them. Can you believe it? I found two cases of beer. I don’t suppose they’re left over from your party?” “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, Hermie. Not ours! Who would do such a stupid thing?” we said. We were sweating. Hermie didn’t let up. “You’re sure they aren’t yours? I wouldn’t want to take your beer.” “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, Hermie. We never saw that beer before in our entire lives.” “Okay,” Hermie said. “I’ll just take it home. Sure wouldn’t want to waste good beer. Bye, boys. Be good, now.” Hermie climbed in his truck. He turned the key. He leaned his head out the window. “Ah, boys. Maybe next time a guy leaves footprints in my cornfield, he’ll be smart enough to cover his tracks?” Hermie shoved the truck into gear and waved. “Oh, and by the way, boys, your secret is safe with me!” Lesson learned: when you’re a novice at secret parties, take care of EVERY detail. And, by the way, true to his word, Hermie never snitched.

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Off the Hook

Bill, here:

Once we got the hang of party-giving, we decided the Holewinski farm was an ideal place for underage parties. During the �60s, the legal drinking age for beer was twenty-one, but we had a friendly local tavern/grocery store owner who knew our parents and us boys quite well. He was always willing to sell us a case of beer—“for Dad.” One morning, Mom announced that she and Dad were going out the next night to play cards. Bingo! The stage was set for a parent-free late night. Five minutes after my parents pulled out of the driveway, about fifteen cars loaded with over thirty friends started to roll in. We were psyched for loud music, drinking, and cards—fun, farm kid style. The night was going great. UNTIL . . . until, we heard a car drive into the yard. It was only ten o’clock. Who could it possibly be? Ugh-Oh! Busted! Mom and Dad were home early. Dad walked in and looked around. Then, he very graciously said hello to my friends. When Mom went to their room, I thought I was REALLY in trouble. But Dad sat down to watch us play sheepshead. Pretty soon, he even asked if he could join us. We played for about an hour, my friends left, and Mom and Dad helped me clean up. Dad still didn’t say a word about the party. I went to bed wondering, What’s up? The next morning at breakfast Dad said, “Bill, don’t ever do that again. If somebody gets drunk and has an accident, you will be to blame.” That’s it? I was shocked. But then, Dad loved cards. Maybe winning most of our money was enough to let me off the hook.

Dennis, here:

Teenage Beer Run

Mastey’s Country Store and Tavern was less than a two-mile ride from the farm. From the time we were old enough to ride a bike, one of us was there almost daily to spend our gopher bounty on goodies, including my favorite: popsicles. As we got older, we bought cases of beer for card nights or to quench our thirst during hot summer days when we worked in the field. Anyway, one night when I was in high school, my friends pressured me into buying a case of beer for a party. This was during basketball season. I was reluctant. But, then, this was high school and they were my friends. So, I drove to Mastey’s Country Store and Tavern.

When I asked Norb Mastey, the owner, for a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, he raised his eyebrows. Then, he asked, “Your family must be having a party tonight?” I didn’t know how to answer, so I just shrugged and said, “Well, Dad gets really thirsty on these hot nights, you know.” Norb said, “He must be really thirsty tonight because Dick was here and bought a case this afternoon. Bill just left with a case. And now you’re here for another case. Does your dad know you’re here at this late hour buying beer?” Trapped. In panic mode, I decided to bluff my way through. I said, “Do you want to call my dad?” Norb studied me a minute before he answered. “Guess not, Dennis. Surely, you wouldn’t buy beer for yourself and take the chance of getting kicked off the basketball team.” Off the hook! I could hardly keep the smile off my face. I grabbed my beer and headed to the party. But my woes weren’t over. For the next couple of weeks I was on pins and needles knowing that Norb could squeal on me, and if he did, Dad would make me quit basketball. Apparently, Norb never said a word to Dad. But I learned a good lesson about peer pressure and never bought another case of beer until I was legal.

Onto Us Arlyn, here: One night, Fibber was out really late. At the breakfast table Dad said, “What time did you get in last night, Fabe?” “Oh, I don’t know. But it was early, Dad.” “Well, it must have been darn early because when I went out to the barn the car’s engine was still warm.” You see, as soon as Dad got up he checked the mileage on the car. “Did you go into Green Bay last night, boys?” he’d ask. “Ah, Ah,” we’d stammer around. “Don’t lie to me, boys. I checked the mileage!” Even though we disconnected the speedometer, Dad was onto us. Fibber about 1956

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Bill, here:

Smart Pigs

When we were kids, Dad raised about 30 pigs. As usual, Dick had a bright idea. “Let’s go ride them pigs,” he said. Dennis and I were in. At first, we tried to ride all the pigs, but it didn’t take long to learn that the really big ones were too fast. So we settled for the small pigs—three feet long, 200 pounds. As long as they had ears we could hold onto and were tall enough to keep our feet from dragging on the ground, they were fair game. Well, it wasn’t like any of the pigs begged us to ride them. We had to entice them with corncobs. The second they stopped to eat, they didn’t pay any attention to us, so we snuck up behind them, grabbed their ears, and hung on for dear life. They were muddy, bumped against each other, and squealed like crazy, but we managed to get in a few good rides. Then, the pigs got smart: we had a big, round straw mow surrounded by a fence. The pigs learned to go straight for that fence and WHAM! We went flying into the mud puddle and ended up filthy dirty, stinking to high heaven.

Dick, here:

E-lec-tra-fried

We strained our milk directly from the cows into a 10-gallon milk can. Our barn cats were one on top of another, going after that milk like a swarm of ants. We couldn’t keep them away. One day, we decided to fix those cats. So, I got the bright idea to set the milk can on a block of wood and hook it up to the electric fence. When the cats jumped up, it was hot as a firecracker. MEEOOW . . . MEEOOW . . . MEEOOW. Their tails stuck straight up in the air. They couldn’t scamper away fast enough. Those cats were e-lec-tra-fried!

YEEEEOW Marv, here: When I was about six, my brothers conspired: Let’s try the electric fence trick on Marv! So, one afternoon while we were haying, they said, “Marv! Open the gate.”

“Is the juice off?” I asked. They said, “Yeah! Yeah! It’s off. Go on now.” They were snickering demonically, so I asked, “Are you SURE it’s off?” “Of COURSE,” they said in unison. “Come on, Mudge. Don’t be such a baby. Just open the gate.” I grabbed the gate with both hands and YEEEEOW! I dangled like a strung-up chicken. And let me tell you, I wasn’t just shocked; that fence grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. To this day, I’m terrified to touch the electric fence.

Easy Arlyn, here: Well, what can I say? Tormenting Mudge was great fun! Anyway, one summer our cousin, Jerry, from Milwaukee came to visit. Jerry was a city boy, so we decided to set him up. “Come on, Jerry, we’ve got something really cool to show you,” we said and led him to the electric fence. “Jerry,” one of us said, “we’re going to play the Who Can Pee Highest? game. Everybody has to try to pee on the hot wire in the center of the electric fence, and whoever gets closest wins.” “Sounds fun,” Jerry said. So, one at a time, we farm kids “tried,” but none of us could pee quite high enough. Then, it was Jerry’s turn. “What’s wrong with you guys? Easy!” he said and peed all over the hot wire. “Easy” or not, Jerry literally turned blue. But as far as we know, Jerry eventually got married and had children!

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Cards & Casino “I’ll open with two.” “Pass.” “Four.” “It’s yours.” “Hearts are trump.” Farm families have played cards for years: smear, sheepshead (schafskopf ), gin rummy, pinochle, cribbage, poker all helped pass the time during long, cold, winter evenings. They were the highlight of snowstorms. Sure. Everybody liked to win. But, for farm kids, winning isn’t everything. Card games are a time to visit, swap stories, catch up on gossip, drink a few beers, AND enjoy “lunch” . . .

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Heaven Dennis, here: Dad loved to play cards. AND he was a loveable card player—he was excited, happy, funny, clever, all while drinking beer and smoking a cigar. AND he was a sneaky old fart—he knew exactly what cards everybody held. AND he was damn lucky—he won all the time. AND each and every time he won—WHAM! He smacked down his cards, jumped up, ran around his chair, and bragged: “I only had one trump! . . . I only had one trump!” As young kids we weren’t allowed to play, but we loved the nights when relatives and neighbors came to our house to play sheepshead (a game like hearts), smear, and poker. We were supposed to be in bed, but we sat on the steps, watching and smelling the house fill up with cigar smoke. It was heaven.

WOO! HOO! Dick, here: When we got to be about twelve, we were allowed to play, too; so we played lots of cards in our young days. We played once a week with our neighbors, and if it went beyond a week, Hermie said, “The deck’s gettin’ moldy, you know.” During snowstorms, we had an unspoken rule: Card Night! Neighbors took turns hosting games. When it was our turn to go to Hermie Moss’s house, we all jumped on the tractor and drove a quarter-mile down the road. We usually had a hard time making it back home. They always brought out the dandelion wine that had aged for years. And WOO! HOO! A little bit of that and we were gone.

Lunch Bill, here: We played sheepshead for nickel, dime, double on the bump—if you didn’t get 31, you had to pay double. It was a friendly, fun game with money changing hands back and forth. A big pot was a couple bucks, and if you won five dollars you had one hell of a night. But our games weren’t about money—they were about camaraderie, storytelling, beer, and food. Actually, food was one of the main reasons we loved card nights. What we called “lunch” was a tradition. About eleven o’clock, after the last hand, the wife always served lunch. A typical lunch was fried Spam or thick-sliced ham sandwiches on homemade bread, coleslaw, homemade dill pickles, blitz torte, and assorted pies.

Dad’s Pockets Arlyn, here: When we were young kids, once a month, Dad invited big shots from Pulaski—Uncle Sam, Eddie Karcz, Ed Zlabloche, and Stanley Swiecichowski—to our house for poker. They played for big money. Mom always said, “Why play with those guys? They’re out of your league.” Dad came back with, “Don’t worry. They bid with their billfolds, but I bid with the cards that are dealt. Bluffing ME never works.” Dad was right: he seldom lost. And, as a bonus, in the morning when we asked Mom for a quarter for the high school’s hot lunch, she said, “Look in your dad’s pockets.” We didn’t ask twice. Dad’s pockets were always full of more than enough money for our hot lunches.

Happy Marv, here: Mom loved the casino. After Dad was gone, every time I went home, Dick said, “Going to the casino tonight?” When I told him that I didn’t plan on it, he’d say, “You better change your mind because Ma’s ready and waitin’.” And sure enough there was Mom: sitting in her rocking chair, all antsy, wearing her kerchief and little red jacket, pocketbook on her arm, ready to roll. I asked her, “Want to go to the casino for an hour, Mom?” She jumped up. “Let’s go,” she said. That “hour” usually turned into two or three. Mom was happy at the casino. And her boys lost lots of money keeping their mother happy!

Mom next to slot machines

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Mom and her boys at Carrie’s wedding

Dick, here:

EIGHTY-SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS

I’ll never forget the afternoon Mom got back from the casino just a smilin’. I teased her, “Did you get skunked again?” She couldn’t even talk. She just opened her pocketbook and showed me a two-inch stack of bills. “So you hit her big,” I said. Mom grinned from ear to ear. “EIGHTY-SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS,” she said. “I can’t believe it. They had to bring my money from the big casino, so it took them an hour to pay me off.” We were never sure how Mom spent her winnings. But one day she said, “I’ve got a gambling purse. After I die, you boys take that money.” Sure enough: we found $12,000 in Mom’s purse.

Holewinski women posing for fun: Sue, Judy, Jill, Sara, Mary, and Mom

Lucky Dennis, here: Mom was lucky. She played slot machines, and she won. From our perspective, the casino was the only thing she truly enjoyed during that time in her life. We loved her so much. We were glad to take her.

Marv, here:

Best Birthday Ever

Dad never wanted to go to the casino, so even when he was alive and before casinos opened close to home, Mom went to Las Vegas with Father Alex, our priest. She loved the lights and excitement. For her 75th birthday, we took her to Atlantic City, and that was probably her best birthday ever.

Give �em Katoosh! Dennis, here: The one and only time Dad went to Atlantic City was when he was in a wheelchair after his accident. I was throwing craps. Dad rolled his wheelchair up next to me, and pretty soon he asked, “How do you play that game?” I said, “You put your money down on the table. Then, you throw the dice. If you roll a seven after your first number, you crap out.” When it was time for Dad’s turn, he stood up and winged the dice down the table. Dad was lucky. He made his number for about thirteen rounds, and each round he yelled louder, “Give �em Katoosh.” When Dad started, nobody was at the table, but by the time he finished, at least a hundred people stood around watching. Dad was so happy.

Mom’s birthday at casino: Cynthia, Mom, Arlyn, Mary, Dennis, Marcia, Sara, Sue

Because this was Dad’s first time gambling, I wasn’t sure he understood about the money. So I pulled him aside and said, “Dad, you’re making a ton of money, but what if you lose? Do you have enough? How much did you bring?” He just looked at me and said, “Three thousand dollars. Why? Isn’t that enough?” I guess he didn’t want to be short!

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Church & School “The celebration of an anniversary for a parish is not only the unusual occasion for a public manifestation of the faith and loyalty of St. Stanislaus Martyr Parish, but an occasion to thank God for the 100 years of extraordinary grace that He has poured into the life of the community that makes up your parish.” ~Aloysius J. Wycialo, Bishops of Green Bay, October 1983

There is a beautiful Catholic church in Hofa Park, Wisconsin—St. Stanislaus, by name. St. Stanislaus has been the spiritual home to the Maple Grove faithful since 1883. But it wasn’t always easy to attend church. St. Stanislaus Church, 100 Years records, “For the first three years after their arrival in the town of Maple Grove in 1877, the first Polish settlers did not see a Catholic priest in Hofa Park. Until the number of families increased [there were four] there could be no consideration of building a church of their own. Furthermore, before the settlers could afford to do this, they were in the meantime busy laboring strenuously for their daily bread and the support of their families.” Still, the need to attend Mass and receive the sacraments was so prevailing that parishioners traveled “nine miles to Seymour. . . .The round trip usually took three days. The Hofa Park Catholics would leave their homes on Saturday morning, some walking, some (mostly women and children) riding in the ox cart. They would have to bypass deep swamps or ford the shallower ones carrying their women and children on their backs. For some, this round-about trip amounted to twenty-four miles one way.” By the time the farm kids came along, they didn’t have to travel three days to worship at St. Stanislaus. Still, like Hofa Park faithful before them, they have the same deep-rooted devotion to the Catholic faith . . .

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Respect Bill, here: St. Stanislaus, our grade school, was a two-room schoolhouse, with four grades in a room. Our teachers were nuns. We went through more sisters than I can count—some were blind; some were half-deaf; some were mean. But they all were disciplinarians. When they told us that one plus one equals two, we didn’t ask them to prove it. If we got out of line, we got hit across the knuckles with a yardstick; we had to show respect. Still, we were used to discipline, and most kids who went to our school were raised like us.

Dick, here: In those days, teachers could discipline kids, and that was okay. Then, when you got home you were disciplined again. To tell you the truth, I think everybody should have gone to our school. If they did, we wouldn’t have the troubles we have today.

Smart in Different Ways Marv, here: Even though we were brothers, one following the others in school, the nuns didn’t compare us. We were smart in different ways: some were practical; some were artistic; some were mathematical. It all depended on how we applied ourselves. Bill got the best grades; Dennis never studied; Arlyn never brought homework home.

Right or Wrong Dennis, here: We had boys’ and girls’ baseball diamonds in our schoolyard. One recess, the boys, as usual, were teasing the girls, so the girls snagged our ball and threw it in the woods. I was mad. So, I ran to their diamond and threw their ball in the woods. The nun came after me and gave me all kinds of grief. I kept insisting, “They did it to us . . . They did it to us.” No matter. When I got home, Dad whipped me. He had a hard and fast rule: it didn’t matter if we were right or wrong; whatever the teacher said was right.

Razor-sharp Reasoning Dennis, here: One recess, Chuckie Dombrowski (my cousin) and I decided to smoke a cigarette. Recess ended and the other kids returned to class. Chuckie and I conspired: We’ll light up out back. But after we discussed it further, we decided that wasn’t a good plan because we might get caught. Now what? With razor-sharp reasoning, we climbed through the small square hole behind Sister Jeromine’s desk and ended up in the attic—a perfect place to smoke secretly. We lit up. Sister smelled the smoke. She called up, “I know you’re up there, Chuck. Come down right now. Dennis, are you up there too?” I probably said, “NOOOOO. Not me, Sister.” Anyway, when school let out for the day, Sister made us stay in the attic until Mom and Dad arrived. The aftermath was not pretty!

Wonder Bread Dick, here: When we went to grade school, Mom packed our lunches in round tin pails. They had a handle, were about six inches deep, and had a cap on top. We carried those pails forever. I don’t think anybody else in the whole school had anything like our lunch pails.

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Our sandwiches were leftovers—meatloaf, summer sausage, bologna, or Spam. We couldn’t eat meat on Friday, so we got cheese. But what we really loved to do on Fridays was go across the street to Swiecichowski’s Tavern. For a quarter, we could buy one of Bernice’s delicious egg sandwiches—fried eggs on skinny, white, soft Wonder bread with lots of butter. We loved them because they weren’t made on Mom’s homemade bread. For 15 cents, we could buy a bowl of Bernice’s chili or chicken soup. We loved that, too, but her fried egg sandwiches were to die for.

Just Try Bill, here: I went to college, so Dennis wanted to go to college, too. But Dad was adamant: “With his grades on his report cards, and he thinks he’s going to college? NO WAY.” Mom, on the other hand said, “He’s going, and that’s that!” It was a real battle.

Dennis, here: Yes. It was a real battle, and I probably shouldn’t have gone to college. I was ready to graduate high school, but Dennis being Dennis, I had no plans. I didn’t even think about college until late in my senior year. One day, Dad said, “Well, Dennis. I guess if you aren’t going to college you probably want to take over the farm.” OH, BABY! I signed up that afternoon. I was so out of there. Sure, I’d never thought about college, but I wasn’t sticking around to hear the end of that story. I couldn’t make it to the guidance counselor’s office fast enough. When she said, “Well, Dennis, why don’t you try this course of study,” I was all over it: “Great! Whatever.” Bill didn’t let me down. He said to Dad, “Dennis can go to college with me. We can ride together. It will work out.” So, Bill and I went to the University of Wisconsin in Green Bay. We did our chores every morning and then drove to school.

Dad was almost correct, because the first semester I ended up with a 1.1 or 1.2 grade point average and was ready to flunk out. But the thought of going back to the farm made me really study for the first time in my life. I ended my college career with a “B” average. The moral of the story: it’s surprising what you can do when you just try.

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Licked Dick, here: Our family attended Mass at St. Stanislaus Catholic Church in Hofa Park every Sunday. What we learned in church was an important part of our lives. Families paid pew rent—a fee that allowed them to have an assigned pew. Mom sat with the choir, but Dad and we kids always sat in our pew—number 88. We had to look perfect. Dad wore a coat and tie. We wore our Sunday best: sports jacket, ironed dress shirt, and our good shoes—shoes that Melanie polished every Saturday night. When we were in grade school, we wore clip-on bow ties, but when we got to high school, we graduated to real neck ties. Then, there was the hair thing: during the drive to church, Mom turned around from the front seat and gave us the once-over. If our hair stood up on end in a rooster tail, she wet her hand with her spit and flattened it down. I got licked more times than I can count.

Ood . . .Dvish Dennis, here: We didn’t dare move in church. We were taught to sit still in our pew, one next to the other, and BE GOOD. We, certainly, weren’t allowed to turn around and look to see who might be behind us. If we even so much as sneezed, we really got it. If we dared do something we weren’t supposed to do, Dad pulled our ears. Dad called me an Ood . . . Dvish, which means trouble, so I was the one who usually had to sit next to Dad. I’m lucky I still have ears!

Mom with our Nuns, and Priest

If Looks Could Kill Dick, here: We could never be late to Mass, and Mom always tormented the driver. “Come on! Ya gotta get there . . . Ya gotta get there.” One Sunday, I was driving, and we were running a bit late. Mom went on and on until I couldn’t take one more word. I snapped, “When we get there, we get there.” And, man, if looks could kill I’d be long dead.

Fair Share of Prayers Marv, here: Church, Dad, and her kids were everything in Mom’s life. She went to church every single day. Mom had a special devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary, so Tuesdays (the day special prayers were offered to Mary, the Mother of Perpetual Help) were especially important to Mom. Mom prayed the rosary so much she wore them out regularly. I suppose her boys had something to do with Mom’s ongoing need for new rosaries. I know, for sure, we received more than our fair share of prayers.

Mom and Carrie at her First Communion

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Self-taught Organist Dick, here: Years ago, there was a Catholic school in Hofa Park, and its nuns played the church organ. But when the nuns left, the church didn’t have an organist. Even though the choir and the congregation sang, the church seemed lonely. Mom sang in the church choir for thirty years, and she couldn’t stand it without organ music. One day, she said, “We’ve got to get our organ playing again.” And, with that, Mom taught herself to play the organ. That was in ’66 or ’67, and Mom played and sang every morning after until she was eighty years old.

Bill, here: Mom practiced . . . and practiced . . . and practiced. That organ woke us up many, many mornings. And if we’d had a few beers the night before . . . Oh My! BIG headache.

Dennis, here:

Mom playing her beloved organ

Guilty Without Being Charged

We attended a two-room parochial grade school in Hofa Park, about two miles away from the farm. Hofa Park was a crossroad consisting of St. Stanislaus Catholic Church, a school, a cemetery, a cheese factory, three bars, and a baseball diamond. To us, it was the big city. During school recess, we could even walk across the street to Swiecichowskis’ tavern/ grocery store and buy a treat. One day, I really, really wanted a Baby Ruth candy bar, but when I got to the store I realized I’d lost my one and only nickel. What to do? Well, I noticed that the store’s employees were all in the bar waiting on other customers. The next thing I knew the devil got my attention. I thought: I can simply take my Baby Ruth. Nobody will even know. I waited several minutes, built my courage, grabbed the candy bar, and ran as fast as I could. That’s not the end of the story . . .

During my walk home that afternoon, I started feeling guilty: Did I really steal a candy bar? What if someone saw me? What if Dad finds out? Oh my God, I was so stupid. I could go to hell for such a grave sin. Panic attack! The rest of the day and most of the night I worried about my sin. After all, I was Catholic! My conscience continued to pester me: “Ah, Dennis, you can’t go to Confession until Saturday. You can’t take Communion until after Confession. How are you going to explain THAT to Mom? Now what, you sinful boy?”

Saint Stanislaus, May Crowning

Brilliant idea: I had another nickel stashed away. The next day I couldn’t wait to get to school/ church. The instant the car stopped I bolted

across the street yelling, “Bathroom! Bathroom!” every step of the way. (After all, I needed an excuse, and this seemed as good as any.) I grabbed the nickel out of my sweaty palm, placed it on the counter, and ran back to church. When I stood to follow my brothers to Communion, I was the happiest kid alive. I walked back to my pew, hands folded, halo glowing. I glanced up to the choir loft. There was Mom: pride oozing from every pore, smiling down on her saintly young son. Maybe he will become a priest?

St. Stanislaus altar boys

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Devoted Altar Boys Dennis, here: Every morning, we loaded the milk cans in the truck, so Dad could drive them to the cheese factory. If it was warm enough, we hopped in the back of the truck, and Dad drove us to school. School started at 8:45, but every morning before school we went to Mass, so he dropped us off at the church by 7:30. Anyway, at one time or another we were all devoted altar boys—accolades—who served Mass. Bill, Dick, and I were known as The Three Musketeers. Mass was in Latin so we had to learn to respond to the priest in Latin: “Adeum addium quelaytilicat youven tu te meium.” Then, we said, “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.” To this day, we remember those prayers in Latin. Actually, we were happy to learn Latin and serve Mass, because whenever we served Mass, Mom fixed us an extra sandwich (usually egg because it was really our breakfast) that we were allowed to eat in school right after church.

Marv, here: The truth is, there were two reasons we served Mass: one, our parents insisted; two, every summer the priest and one of the dads took the altar boys to Geano’s Beach bay perch fishing.

Dennis, here: Pious altar boys, Latin prayers, egg sandwiches, rooster tail hair, pulled ears, guilty conscience, weekly confessions, and perch fishing aside, our belief in God and the traditions of our Catholic faith were, and always will be, our guiding light.

Dick, Dennis, and Bill

Saint Stanislaus Catholic Church, Hofa Park, Wisconsin

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Afterword “Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.” ~Nathaniel Hawthorne

It’s been over forty years since the last farm kid (except one) left the family farm. But, then, the circle of life is inevitable . . . farm kids do grow up; they do become men. And even if it takes sixty-eight years to find the right one (Dick!), they do marry. Some even have kids of their own. Mom was always proud. She knew, instinctively, way back when her boys were boys, they all would be successful. And Mom was correct . . .

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Arlyn left the family farm to eventually

retire in 1997 as vice president of Asplundh Tree Expert Company. He developed and built a national business around ground line treatment and reinforcement of electric utility poles. Arlyn lives in Southampton, Pennsylvania.

Left: Amy Holewinski, Justin Holewinski, Sue & Dick, Lower row right: Andrew DiMaria, Judy Holewinski, Megan DiMaria, Nicholas DiMaria, Back row right: Arlyn Holewinski, Carrie DiMaria, Tony DiMaria

Fabian

left the family farm and bought a farm of his own, about a mile down the road from the family homestead. From the time Fabian was a farm kid, he was passionate about farming. Fabe is still passionate about farming. He built a large herd of prizewinning registered dairy cattle. Fabian’s son operates the farm full-time now, but most days you will find the two of them working together from dawn to dusk. After all, the farm and the land are part of their heritage.

Kneeling first row: Vincent Liebergen, Luke Liebergen; Standing first row: Jackson Holewinski, Grant Holewinski (sitting), Griffin Holewinski, (sitting)—Lydia Rasmussen, Pam Liebergen, Cynthia Holewinski, Kelly Holewinski, Anne Zernicke; Back row: Mason Rasmussen, Jeannie Rasmussen, Erik Rasmussen, Chris Jacobson, Marty Jacobson(missing), Ryan Liebergen, Sue & Dick, Fabian Holewinski, Garrett Holewinski, Jionna Holewinski, John Holewinski, Beth Holewinski, Lexi Zernicke, Brianna Zernicke, Gavin Zernicke

Bill left the family farm to eventually retire

in 2009 as general manager/senior director of engineering and construction for Wisconsin Power and Light. Over his career, he was responsible for construction and maintenance of several coal-fired and nuclear power plants. Bill lives in Naples, Florida.

Left of Bride—top to bottom—Dillon Holewinski, Cooper Holewinski, Shawn Holewinski, Londyn Holewinski, Sue & Dick, Lower right: Mary Holewinski, Owen Holewinski (sitting), Marcy Holewinski, (child Layne-unborn), Back right: Bill Holewinski, Reid Phillips, (Jordan-Reed’s daughter, missing) Evan Holewinski, Bethany Holewinski (child Ryder, unborn)

Dennis left the family farm to eventually

develop an international consulting company— Environmental Consultants, Inc. His professional consulting employees provided environmental services to electric utilities. They worked out of offices throughout the United States, Canada, Europe, and Australia. He sold the business and retired in 2007. Dennis lives in Richboro, Pennsylvania, and Marco Island, Florida.

Front row: Keenan O’Donnell, Jill O’Donnell, Sean O’Donnell, Elizabeth Grunwell, Julia Grunwell, Sue Holewinski, Sara Grunwell, Caroline Grunwell Back row: Dane Holewinski, Matt O’Donnell, Sue and Dick, Dennis Holewinski, Matt Grunwell

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Marvin left the family farm to eventually start

a weather forecasting business—The WeatherTime Radio Network. His company broadcasts weather to over 100 radio stations in Wisconsin, Iowa, and Minnesota. After thirty years, he sold it to his longtime employee and cousin. Marv is still responsible for company sales and customer service. He lives in Verona, Wisconsin.

Sitting: Kelsey Holewinski, Marcia Holewinski; Standing: Skylar Holewinski, Sue & Dick, Marvin Holewinski, Aaron Holewinski

Dick.

Dick never left the family farm. Then, there’s He still works the farm started by his dad and mom in 1936. And like his dad and all the Holewinski farmers before him, Dick doesn’t just work the land, he respects it. He is part of it. After all, Dick Holewinski is a Pole. Gospodarz is his heritage. It is his legacy.

Sue and Dick Holewinski

Back row: Fabian, Dad, Mom, Arlyn Front row: Dennis, Marvin, Dick, and Bill

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When Mom and Dad lived on earth, they were the family’s source of refuge—the foundation of belief in God and strong Catholic traditions—the role models for living life based on family, frugality, compassion, courage, discipline, ingenuity, integrity, honesty, hard work. They were the very core of what the farm kids were, are, and will be. Even though mom’s encouragement and dad’s paydays are gone, the now white-haired farm kids often return to their roots to recharge with carefree fun and farm memories. Rarely do they pass up an opportunity to connect with family and friends during weddings, fishing and hunting trips, Packer games, holidays, special family celebrations, and a round or two of golf. Back on the homestead, Dick might show off his new tractor, introduce a new cow or two, or suggest looking at the newly planted cornfield. For sure, he’ll open a jar of his homemade dill pickles and fix a farm-worthy meal, followed by homemade apple pie. If it’s a very special day, he might even attempt to bake a Vienna Torte Cake. After all, it is Dick who keeps the homestead tradition alive. It is Dick who reminds his farm kid brothers that the family farm is still an extension of Mom and Dad’s heart and soul—it still represents what they believed in—it still cultivates the love they showered on their family. Today, tomorrow, and forever the Holewinski family farm is still HOME.

White-haired Arlyn, Fabian, Dennis, Marvin, and Billâ€ŚDick is home milking cows

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Farm kids & city girl

Between the Lines “Individually, we are one drop. Together, we are an ocean.” ~Ryunosuke Satoro

Thank you, Tammy Surratt, for your vision, your belief in the power of stories, your confidence in me as a storyteller. Thank you for introducing me to Dennis Holewinski. Thank you, Dennis and Bill Holewinski, for your editing diligence. Thank you, Enid Grigg, for your heartfelt commitment to bringing The Farm Kids to life through compelling design. Thank you, Dee Moustakas, for your attention to proofreading details. Thank you, Chuck Schwabe, my husband and friend, for supporting and promoting my unwavering quest to be the best personal historian on the planet. Now, farm kids—Arlie, Fabe, Dick, Bill, Dennis, Marv—thank you for being you. I’ll never forget the day you marched, in lock-step, into our interview room. Yep. There you were: my interviewees, in age-order, wearing matching Orange Grandma T-shirts, sporting name tags. I thought: My. My. What a formal group. Then you started to talk, and my thoughts did an about-face: Okey. Dokey. Let the games begin. You interrupted each other; you talked over each other; you taunted each other; you mocked each other; you one-upped each other. But most of all, you loved each other. During my fifteen years as a personal historian, I’ve interviewed well over 300 people. Interviews are all good. But NEVER have I had such fun. My only regret is I don’t have the technology to preserve, in writing, the clink-clank of ice cubes, the pop-fizz of beer cans, the crinkle-crackle of sandwich paper, the munch-crunch of potato chips, the snort of laughter, and the sniffle of tears that accompanied our meaningful two days together. Farm kids, thank you for sharing your stories; thank you for your trust, your openness, your warmth; thank you for allowing me—an only child, a city girl—to experience the magic of being loved by a large farm family. You will live in my heart and soul forever. Judith, here

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