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A Memory of Kassendahl

By David Mathias

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 David Mathias
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-0665-5

Chapter One

The afternoon sun shone brightly as a herd of dairy cattle moved about in a small pasture, sparse from over-grazing. On the other side of an old fence in an area more shaded, the grass was greener, taller but just out of reach. A single cow reached its head below the lower of two rusty barbed wires that made the division between the farmer's fields. It stretched and leaned hard to get to the taller grass now just within reach of its tongue. Soon it was joined by other cows and the tall, green grass could be reached by pushing against the rusting barbed wire. The barbed wire screeched as it was pulled through the rusty fence staples. One by one, the staples were pulled free from the rotting post. Within minutes the low and rusting thread of wire snapped and gave way to the movement of the herd. The cows moved over the remaining wire and a very thin, weathered and rotting post yielded to the force. All at once the herd of almost twenty-five cows was grazing in the neighbor's field.

Matt Miller and his son John were donned in beekeeping attire as they saw to the hives in the small orchard near their house. Matt's wife Katherine hung laundry on the line not far away. Their hired hand, a middle-aged man, was near an open shed greasing up the hay loader and tractor. Dust billowed as an old truck came down their long driveway and pulled into the yard. They all looked up from their tasks as their neighbor, Harlan, stopped his truck and stepped out.

He tipped his broad-brimmed straw hat back and wiped his brow with his hand. "Hello, Miller's ... your cows busted through the east fenceline." he said with a smile. Then he cocked his head to the side and spat as far as he could into the dry dirt.

Matt Miller waved an arm at him as if to tell him to hold on. After another minute, Matt and John put the last of the frames back into place, set the cover back on the hive and walked toward their neighbor. As they moved away from the hive and toward Harlan, they each removed their screened hats and long gloves. Matt wiped the sweat from his brow with his long denim sleeve.

"Well, I'm sorry about that, Harlan. I planned on splitting the north forty and moving them just as soon as we were done haying that field." Matt Miller said.

"Not a problem, Mattie. The boys and I rounded them up and patched the fence good enough for now, but I don't think it'll keep them cows out for long, wire's pretty rusty." After a pause, he continued. "How's the corn?"

"Pretty near knee-high. Got it in early thanks to a good Spring - and yours?" Matt smiled as he brushed a few bees away.

"Same here - it'll be a bumper crop if we don't get a dry spell. Well, I best be getting back."

"Have a glass of lemonade?" Katherine asked. Harlan smiled.

"Some other time, Katherine, thanks the same." Harlan tipped his hat to her, Matt and John, got into his truck and drove away.

"John, you best take a load of hay out to the pasture. After tonight, we'll have to keep them in the barnyard until you and Steeg can get a new fence strung."

"Yes, sir." John replied.

Morning sun glistened over the gentle hills of the east field of Matt Miller's farm and illuminated the tips of every stalk of wheat as they slowly danced in the gentle breeze. To most it would seem calm, but summer mornings were warm and welcoming to the birds, insects and every other living thing. If you studied the earth closely enough, within arm's reach you could witness an abundant bustling of life.

It was June 13, 1944, and U.S. Troops had just landed at Normandy a week earlier. The world was at war - a world far from this field. It wasn't a war that Matt Miller had started or knew much about, but he had a son over there and this made it his war as well. Matt Miller's other son was here at home on the farm where he could see him every day - work with him, and teach him the things he would need to know in order to achieve something of meaning and value in this world. As much as he needed his son's help, he placed greater value on being able to watch his son become a man and take on a character of his own.

Two men were now preparing an early start on what remained of the two-strand fence work. Previous days of work were productive and this day would be the last that they could devote before haying began. When completed, the cattle would be able to graze in a field farther east and near the edge of the woods and swamp where it was too shady and low for crops, but rich for grass. The McCormick tractor had been filled with gas the night before. It was good practice to prepare the tractor before it was put away in the shed each night. The cedar posts, sledge hammer and metal tool box were on the farm cart glistening with dew that was quickly drying from the morning heat. A small cart that held a large spool of barbed wire was still hitched behind the tractor. The screen door swung open and slammed shut behind the two men clothed in denim jeans, sleeveless t-shirts, plaid cotton shirts with sleeves rolled up and straw hats.

Steeg was the hired hand, a Swedish immigrant who had moved down from the forest country of northern Wisconsin. He was tall blonde-haired man with a solemn expression, high cheek bones and a long blonde moustache. He was a part of this farm for as long as John could remember. As a child growing up, John had always called him Mr. Onsgaard, but now that John had made that measured growth into manhood, he was at ease calling him Steeg as the other men in town did. John earned this status to be an equal and Steeg granted it to him. And the name "Steeg" seemed to fit this man like the brim of his well-worn hat. It was still early in the morning and already the brims of their hats were wet with the first sweat of the day.

Matt's son John was a strong, and good-looking young man with blonde hair and brown eyes that gave him a look of innocence. He had just turned eighteen on the first day of June, and, having registered for the draft, expected to be called at any time. Throughout the days, he would sometimes strain to hear if Ma were calling from the house or ringing the dinner bell at a time other than the ceremonial noon. He was waiting for his call to duty.

This was Wisconsin, the dairy state, a land settled mostly by German Catholic Immigrants. Many people still spoke German, especially the older ones. Sometimes German was spoken in front of the children when the adults didn't want the young ones to know what they were talking about. The people found it funny though, that the children all picked up the language, and by the time most of them were twelve they could speak their native tongue nearly as well as their fathers, mothers and grandparents.

Out on the fenceline, Steeg was digging a hole as John unloaded cedar posts from a two-wheeled trailer. John carried a half dozen posts over his left shoulder. He laid a post every twelve feet - stepping out four long steps as a measure. After dropping the last post, he turned and started walking back to Steeg. John broke the long silence. "So, Steeg, what would you be doing if you weren't doing this?"

"I suppose I'd finish getting the hay loader ready." came his reply.

"No, I mean what would you be doing if you weren't working here on the farm?"

After a long pause Steeg answered. "Suppose I'd be up north logging ... I don't know."

Moments later, sensing that John was looking for conversation, Steeg continued, "What about you?"

John...