Wisdom's Harvest East of Smallville: A Collection of Short Stories

By Joseph Lange

Wisdom's Harvest: East of Smallville is a series of short stories from my life growing up in a family of ten children and a single mother. A continuation of Thoughts from a Treestand, it tells of things learned from living life in a small central Wisconsin hamlet. We had very little, but we did have love . . . and that made all the difference in my life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781640038738

Book preview

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Wisdom’s Harvest

East of Smallville

Collection of Short Stories

Joseph R. Lange

ISBN 978-1-64003-871-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64003-872-1 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-64003-873-8 (Digital)

Copyright © 2018 Joseph R. Lange

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Table of Contents

Foreword

A Moment in Time

A Mother’s Love

A Mouse in the House

Prodosia

Catching the Past

Chickadees

Christmas in America

Congenitally and Emotionally Joined

Crazy Folk

Cry Baby and the Search for Farley

God’s Timing

I… Am Hebrew

I Think I’m Allergic to Sulfa and… Horses

Liquor and the Lies

Living in the Magical Land

Molotov. I Should Have Known!

Money’s for Nothing, Ticks for Free

Pawnee Country

Photinus or Photuris?

Piano Sounds

Searching for an Echo

Voices

The Awakening

The Breach

The Dylan Crabb Award

The Smile

Waking from a Bad Dream

When the Angel Comes

When the Pipes Played

Woodpiles

You Want Some Cheese with That Whine?

You’re Not from Around Here, Are You?

Our Cat and Why It Hated James

Puzzle Pieces

Floating for Squirrels

Trapline

Milestone Deer with a Bow

Buster and the Lessons He Taught Me

Holding On and Forgiveness in the Quiet of Night

Raging against the Storm

Dysfunction Junction

Yes, She Loves Me… until Mile 6

The Town Cryer

For What It’s Worth

Believe in Yourself

The Graveyards

Our Journey Home

Best Left Alone

Camp Nowhere

I Toed You So

The Futility of Forgiveness

And the Graves Shall Whisper, Liar!

Bear Guides

Hayfields

Puppy Dogs and Baby Kisses

Memory and Snow Globe Tears

If I Could Be Me

The Old Man and the Si

The Otters, a Fox, and a Big Doe

My Friend

Our Fathers

The White Doe

If We Could Only Rehearse, or Pre-Hearse

In the Garden of What Could Have Been

I Head to Canada, Land of the Mountain Men

Painters, Poets, Music, and Man

The Boy on the Bench

I Join… Lynyrd Skynyrd

About the Author

To my wife Michelle, I dedicate this book. I will love you into eternity.

Foreword

I pondered on writing a second book after Thoughts from a Treestand was published in August of 2017. I had a few additional memories and life lessons from a different day. A much simpler day. Of lessons learned from growing up with nine brothers and sisters. East of Smallville.

I believe the bottom line to these stories and those from Thoughts from a Treestand are that poverty doesn’t win or have the last word. And a mother’s love is stronger than a small boy’s fears. With it, one can overcome many of life’s trials.

Be careful out there.

A Moment in Time

One cannot go through life without drawing parallels along the way. No matter how short or long your life is, God gives us all the ability to see, if we pause to look.

I have pondered on this while perched above God’s woodlots and have found truth in it. Note youth and its passing. How often have we seen the beauty of a flower and not appreciated the glory in it. I recently observed forty-two years of marriage and brought home a dozen roses. How lovely they were. This singular moment in time. I observed them a week later, and they hung their heads low and were to be tossed into the vault of soon-to-be-forgotten memories. Yet I viewed them for only a moment in time. I had not taken the time to observe each one. The individual beauty found in each one. I simply saw what I saw.

We do that with people. We see many, yet we see none. Each one like those roses has a beauty, a singular attribute that makes them different from the others. God does not make the same thing twice. As I age, I am trying to take the time to see the beauty in each.

So many folks have problems appreciating their uniqueness, their worth. They don’t like themselves. They feel somehow inferior to others. Yet each of them has been placed on this earth by God. How can that not have worth?

Youth is so. I have recently observed photos when I was seventeen years old and thought, Where did that man go? Yet I am here still. Different physically to be sure but still here. I have changed and not noticed these changes along the way.

Fame is another moment in time. It is often referred to as everyone gets their fifteen minutes. I would agree. Large or small, you get your fifteen minutes. Attention spans of man are short, and so is the glow of fame. Who can remember who won this or that in sports a few short years ago?

This time of year, the bird feeders are bustling with the young of the year. Robins, orioles, all manner of woodpeckers and finches. I paused and observed as they each brought their young to the feeders. They feed them by taking a little seed or grape jelly and putting it into their mouths. How come I had not noticed this before? How come I never knew the male cardinal will bring food to the female and, in what appears to be a kiss, give her a small seed? If I had not taken the time, the chill of fall would soon be upon me, and they would all have left. Would I have another spring? Another chance to see? So many wasted years of not seeing.

The sun rises and sets, yet how many do I remember? How many have I paused to see? How many more chances do I get to see? In this day of electronic distraction and noise, we simply are like the leaf on the small stream. Carried here and there without thinking or worse yet caring. Unsure of our destination.

I wear a watch that can detect when I need to breathe, and it buzzes me and tells me so. Have I evolved to this state, and is this my fate? To have an electronic gadget telling me when I should pause and take a few deep breaths? God, I hope not.

Little kids get it. You can see them take a dandelion and hold it close to their little faces and marvel at it. Or a sparkling tiny stone. Little things God has scattered across our paths.

Emotions, some of them, belong in the moment-of-time category. Anger for one. The sooner it is forgotten, the better. Sadness and hurt as well. Love should not be included. This is truth. Love transcends time. We often don’t know love or that one loves us until a crisis and then thank God we have it. Sort of like some money we stashed away for a rainy day and it rained. I recently needed it and was happy to see it was there. But never assume it is not there. Love I have found is like that tiny glowing ember in the bottom of the woodstove ashes. All it needs is a small breath of air. Make sure you give it some. Relationships need fresh air; communication is the fresh air. Take the time.

One thing I have concluded is that moments in time are just that. At the end of the day, we have had many. How many we have actually seen is up to us. Like hurrying through an art gallery, we miss them in our haste to get out of the day. Tomorrow is another chance, always another new chance.

Be careful out there.

A Mother’s Love

Most of my short stories deal with me growing up and somehow surviving to be sixty-two years old. Finding the humor in an oftentimes not-too-humorous world. Being able to see my daughters grow up and get married. See my grandsons grow and go on to college. A full life. A beat-the-odds life. A no-regrets life.

With hunting season here, I was thinking about the happy times that I have experienced over forty-seven years of hunting afield. I also thought of a time in my life that I will recall for you in the hope that you maybe find time in your busy lives to read it to your loved ones.

About thirty-three or so years ago, I was working in security at the hospital in Marshfield. Working nights and stationed at the main entrance. Long crazy nights. I saw a lot of things come through those doors.

One evening, I noticed a young girl walk past my office, pushing a little stroller. She just looked into my office, and I noticed her face was one of quiet anguish, yet she managed a slight smile and continued down the hall. The next evening and then the next, I noticed her walking the stroller that contained a little boy. I finally got up and opened the door as she went past and asked her if she needed a cup of coffee or if I could be of assistance in any way as watching her walk past so lonely pushing that little child was breaking my heart.

She was from out of town which made it doubly hard for her. From a tiny town Up north, she said, and her little boy had cancer. She was at the hospital for him to undergo the series of treatments; and as one could imagine the emotional stress of a young mother dealing with her child going through this horror, being away from home, the expense and stress was incredible.

We had coffee, and I sat and listened to this young mother relate the trials and the hard moments and how much she loved her little man. I had one of my didn’t like God too much moments, and with all the not-so-nice folks I often dealt with in my job, I wondered why God does things like give little kids cancer.

I didn’t see this young mother after that and just hoped things worked out for her and her little man.

Fast-forward to many, many years later.

I did most of my bowhunting along the Highway 8 corridor area and one day stopped into the local gas station, and as I was exiting, I saw, hanging on the wall, a photo of a young man who appeared to be around twenty-five or so, kneeling by a nice deer. The caption stated, In Memory of Shaun Winter.

Immediately, I remembered the young mother so many years ago and her last name and recalled that her son’s name was Shaun. I turned to the teller and asked, So he didn’t beat that damn cancer?

She stated, No, he beat it. He was killed in a hunting accident during gun season.

I actually felt the blood run from my face. I was just floored. What the hell! Does his mom still live around here? I asked. The teller didn’t know but stated she thought that his mom had moved away, and that was that.

I didn’t hunt that day. I turned around and went home, but over the next few weeks, I was haunted by the memory of that young mother and how, in God’s holy name, her son could beat cancer and then have this happen. What kind of God would let that happen? I simply had to find her and have her tell me what happened. I couldn’t explain it, since I had just known her for about four days, but I just had to know.

I finally located her after much effort, and a bit of luck. Surprisingly, she remembered me.

I was at that time the director of facilities at the hospital, and she said that she had a clinic appointment soon and would stop and tell me what happened.

When I saw her coming down the hall, the memories of this young mother and her little son came flooding over me.

She told me that she had spent many hours at the hospital, many long trips, and that her son had finally beaten the dreadful cancer. He had grown to be a strong young man and gotten married. I saw a photo of him holding his mom’s hand at the top of Rib Mountain on his wedding day, and the look of love they were exchanging was just heart-wrenching.

That day of the gun deer season came as all do, and although the young man wasn’t a gun hunter as much as he was a very fine bowhunter, Shaun decided to join the group that day for the camaraderie of being with his family. Gun hunting is a family tradition up north, and Shaun was all about family.

Apparently, a deer ran between Shaun and another member of the hunting party, and Shaun was struck and killed.

He had graduated from UW Madison with a degree in biochemistry and was studying for his MCATs so that he could enter medical school. He was considering a specialty in pediatric oncology so that he could help other children survive cancer.

The finality of it. The entire mother’s love in the whole world could not do anything. All the tears, all the prayers, nothing. My heart just sank.

He was twenty-six.

This month, he would have been thirty-five.

In Loving Memory of Shaun Winter is a Facebook page that his mom started to keep the memory of her beloved son alive. I would ask all of you who consider me a friend to go to that site and see what pain looks like.

Real pain. Break your heart pain. Look at the photos. Read her comments. Just sit in a quiet place… and read them. A mother’s love is legendary; I know my ma loved me very much. I cannot imagine a mother loving her child more than this one. Or a mother’s pain of losing a child… Being deeper.

A scholarship established in his name is at UW Marathon County. I again ask anyone that considers me a friend to give thought to donating to this scholarship. Any amount is welcome. This name needs to be remembered so that this story can go on being told.

Mothers, please take time this fall to not just mention it. Sit your family down. Look them in their eyes. Get their attention. Tell them this story.

Be careful out there.

A Mouse in the House

As most of you may have gathered from reading the past episodes from Thoughts from a Treestand, you may have come to the conclusion that James and I were always looking to augment our income by all manner of occupations, nefarious or otherwise.

After shoveling snow for over two solid hours to earn enough money to go to a monster movie playing at the Abby Theater, we were rewarded with… a cookie. That grandma who hired us wasn’t as sweet as we had figured. On to other revenue streams.

Enter… the mouse.

We grew up in a small house east of Smallville, and although it wasn’t the Hansel and Gretel house in the story, it was close. We were as comfortable as ten kids could be squeezed into the place we knew as home.

It wasn’t lavish by any means, and hearing Ma scream brought both James and me to the rescue. A mouse! she screamed. Being budding mountain men, we were always looking for trapping opportunities, and, well… prey was prey.

Scouting the landscape, we noticed a small hole in the inside wall of the garage. Easy enough for astute trappers like ourselves. The plan was to set the trap with some goodies, and Ma had promised us a dime per mouse, so the income opportunities beat the hell out of snow shoveling.

You can imagine our joy when the next morning, we found the mouse in our trap. A shiny dime was our reward, and we set our trap once more with visions of soon-to-be viewed monster movies in our small yet scheming heads.

Nothing. Could there be only one mouse in this house? It was a full week, and still, nothing.

Plan B had to be formulated and fast.

Desperate times meant desperate measures. I don’t recall how the sinister plan came to be; but my suspicion was that James came up with it, ’cuz, to this day, I can’t imagine it was me, given my virtuous nature.

We would continue our trapping efforts, but once we were paid, we would save the mouse and reuse it for the next time if our luck didn’t pan out. Sounded like a reasonable plan.

God, being gracious, gave us our second mouse, and Operation Rodent Reuse was triggered. We would have to keep a straight