Dairy Farming: A Way of Life

PART 1

HOW A CITY BOY BECAME A FARMER

Photo of a water damaged painting of the Mertz Farm found in the attic, circa 1930

2008 photo

The Mertz Farm was the home of my dreams;

My second home for the years of my youth.

I wished I could stay; it’s my roots it seems,

When I’m away I miss it; that’s the truth.

The Mertz boys could be a real pain in the rear

At nap time after dinner at noon.

But the memories of walks are very dear,

Down to the marsh while singing a tune.

Billy and Jerry were Millie and Mary;

Calling them ‘girls’ was my lark.

The contraption rides could be real scary;

But most frightening were the walks in the dark.

Memories of a time in my life

On the way to become a young man;

The blessings overrule the strife;

I think of them whenever I can.

The Mertz kids: Jerry, Billy, Roger, Bobby, and Kathy

A CITY BOY LONGS FOR THE FARM

1935 - The Great Depression. My dad had lost his job and a relative in Michigan told him of work in the silica mines in Michigan. Dad packed up and headed for the only job he could find. He developed coughing spells as a result of the dusty conditions. When he learned that a good job at A. O. Smith in Milwaukee was available, he came home as quickly as he could and was hired. His chronic cough persisted. He went for a checkup and was told that he had developed Silicosis from that dusty job in Michigan. Adding to Dad’s financial woes, he went through a divorce prior to his marriage to my mom. He had a son, John Jr. Jack, from that marriage and had alimony payments to make until Jack would come of age. Mom’s father had a dependable job as a streetcar conductor for TMER&T, The Milwaukee Electric Railway and Transport Company, and owned his home. Living with my grandparents was imperative. I was born on October 22, 1935, at St. Joseph’s Hospital. John Donald Cooper was my father and Catherine Margaret Jonas Cooper was my mother. Born and raised in the City of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, it would seem unlikely for me to choose dairy farming as my life-long career.

I always had a love for animals. I enjoyed the songbirds and squirrels and time spent in Sherman Park just a block away as the crow flies. We had a Boston Bulldog named Buster. He had short legs and a flat nose, kind of ugly, but he was my dog and I really loved him.

The first home we shared was on the far north side of Milwaukee on 44th and Burleigh. I have many fond memories of that house where we lived until I was six years old. Our home was built in the early 1930’s in a nice working-class neighborhood. It was a two-story red brick bungalow with French windows and a fireplace, heated with a coal-fired furnace, and had a detached one-car garage. We had an ice box for our food that needed cooling. A large block of ice was delivered by a horse-drawn wagon and placed in it periodically. It was a real treat on hot summer days for kids to gather when the ice was delivered and perhaps obtain a nice chip of ice if the delivery men were in good enough moods to chip one off a block.

1941 was the year of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor which was the start of the U.S. involvement in World War II, causing more financial strain with rationing on a host of items needed to carry on a livelihood. There was a blackout every night at dusk. No lights could be on anywhere in Milwaukee for enemy bombers to see where the most vulnerable targets were. We used dimly lit candles for light and all windows required shades to prevent even that light from being seen. Someone was in charge of every block in the city and would knock on any door where the tiniest light could be seen.

President Franklin Roosevelt broadcast fireside chats which everyone gathered around their radio to listen to intently for news of the war. The main attraction at the movie theater was pre-empted by news strips showing enemy troops marching in step. I remember the dreaded Adolph Hitler rallying his troops with long-winded speeches. Terrible weaponry along with the horrible destruction they caused were shown, making everyone fearful that perhaps America might be the next country to be on the receiving end of their destruction.

My Sunday school teacher, Mrs. Paul Debs, lived a few doors down the block. She and her husband were childless and they seemed to enjoy my company and welcomed me in their home for a glass of milk, cookies, or candy whenever I walked down the block and knocked on their front door. My friend, Ronny Riegert, lived in the next house north and my girlfriend, Marlene Leonards, lived in the next house south.

Sherman Boulevard was the next street east of ours and Sherman Park was on the corner of Burleigh and Sherman. In those days Sherman Park was a place kids of any age could mingle safely. A couple of blocks from Sherman Park Mom’s friend, Marge Sherman, lived with her husband, Russell, who was a Milwaukee fireman. Aunt Marge had a daughter named Joan and was divorced from Joan’s father. Joan was several years older than me and was just like my big sister. She often took me to Sherman Park to play on the swings, teeter-totters, and merry-go-round. Joan was crazy about horses and she had many small toy horses. I spent hours with her and her horses.

I had a great admiration for the multitude of horses used for most of the home delivery services in the City of Milwaukee in my preschool years. They reminded me of the farm horses out home at the Mertz farm and even the smell of the horse apples they left behind was pleasing to me. The horses used for garbage pickup often pulled two wagons which were able to tip to the side to unload when they reached the dump. Horses used for coal delivery were massive beasts, regular powerhouses with a statuesque beauty. Four-horse teams were usually used, but the larger loads were pulled by six horses. Wagons used for coal delivery carried their loads high enough for the men to place their basket under a chute which they would open to fill each basket. They would pull up alongside the driveway entry where two or three muscular men would hoist large metal baskets to their shoulder and dump each basket down a chute placed in the coal bin in the basement. Kids were sternly warned by grumpy coal deliverymen to stay far away if we didn’t want to end up in the coal bin ourselves.

The teams looked so graceful as they walked down our street. I dreamed of being a teamster and driving a team someday. It amazed me that the milkman’s horse knew just exactly where to stop, and they waited patiently for his return as he made his deliveries.

Mounted policemen were a common sight, and we could hear the vendors call out from the end of the block. Rrrrrraaaags! the rag picker would call out in a loud voice, notifying the whole neighborhood of his presence. Sometimes he would have something on the back of his wagon that looked good enough to purchase or trade for something to add to his wagonload of castoffs. The rag picker’s horse was nothing to look at, skinny and sickly, it looked like it might never make a return trip if it did indeed make it home that day. It was definitely not comparable to all the other horses that made the rounds of the neighborhood regularly. I really felt sorry for that horse. It would enjoy a carrot if I could find one to sneak out of the house, and even a bread crust was a real treat for him.

One day a photographer with a small pony came walking down the street looking for any child to mount his steed and have their picture taken. Wherever he stopped all the neighborhood kids would gather, wait their turn, and hope their parents or grandparents would ante up for the cost of the photo. All the kids, including me, were anxious to put on the leather chaps, vest, and cowboy hat supplied by the photographer. We would climb aboard his handsome spotted pony and have our pictures taken. Boy, we were real cowboys and cowgirls, even if for a very brief time, and we would have the photos to prove it. I think the photographer made quite a haul when he returned with the developed photos to show to our proud parents and grandparents.

Most of my close relatives were city folks who would have been out of place in a rural setting, however, my maternal grandmother, Grandma Jonas, grew up on a farm and cherished her life as a young girl. She told me many stories about her childhood and her youth as a farm girl. She loved the animals, the land, and the walks on the gravel road to school and to pasture with the cows and horses. She walked among the trees and grassy areas near the stream and sometimes just looked at the sky, watching the clouds, some of them friendly, puffy, or wispy, and some of them dark and foreboding, warning to seek shelter. She thoroughly enjoyed the fresh country air and exploring its solitude and vastness. I could easily dream of myself in her place as she re-lived her life on the farm, in her one-room school ¼ mile down the gravel road, and in Salem Church and Bible school in the tiny village of Wayne just two miles from her home.

Grandma told me about the times her dad and brothers hitched the horses to the buggy or to the sleigh when roads were snow covered. She recounted the wonderful rides on balmy days and the discomfort on inclement days. Heavy blankets were needed for the trips on cold and snowy days. I think Grandma shared my love for horses. Hers was a life made for daydreamers, and daydreaming was one of my greatest talents.

When Grandma told stories of days long ago

I wished I’d been there to watch her grow.

To walk with her in those days long past,

Sitting in a meadow would be a blast.

Watching the clouds so high in the sky;

Just losing track as the hours whisk by.

Seeing the flowing rippling stream,

Living out home was my fondest dream.

THE MENGER - GUENTHER SAWMILL

(Excerpted from Page 39 of Winding through Wayne)

The descendants of Johann Guenther, my maternal ancestors, immigrated from Bechtheim, Kreis Worms, Hesse Darmstadt, Germany. My great-great-grandfather, Johann Phillip Guenther, was the first to settle in the Town of Wayne, Washington County, Wisconsin. I think he had experience in the lumber business before he left Germany. He heard about the vast virgin, densely forested land available just waiting for someone to put sweat and blood into harvesting some of its untapped wealth. I believe that he had the necessary financial ability to pay for the trip across the ocean and purchase a nice piece of American soil. He and his family arrived sometime in the 1850’s, settled on the land, and established a sawmill in the early 1860’s.

He notified my great-grandfather, Fredrich Jacob Menger, a young man born in 1845 and still living in Germany, of the opportunity waiting here: the availability of a great business venture and perhaps a marriage-age daughter who could possibly become his wife. Young Fritz took him up on the offer, made the voyage in 1867, married Katherina Guenther in 1869, and joined his father-in-law in the sawmill, which they ultimately named The Menger - Guenther Sawmill. The information regarding the dates is backed by Washington County records. Much of the rest of the story is pure conjecture and snippets from relatives.

The property had a small stream running through it and an area where the stream ran between two hills making it a natural place to construct a dam which could be used to power the saw. The first saw was a vertical blade which sawed in an up and down fashion powered by the stream’s dammed water running over a waterwheel. That worked, but it was too slow to keep up to the demand for sawed lumber. A steam-driven circle saw was purchased and installed along with more up-to-date equipment to move the logs and sawed lumber, speeding up the process. Throughout the late 1800’s and early 1900’s the sawmill was no doubt a busy place and a much-needed service to the area settlers.

Many of the arriving settlers just wanted to be farmers; thinking the opportunity was greater in America than in their homeland. The land had to be cleared before it could be farmed; there was great demand for the lumber to build not only farmstead buildings, but all of the other buildings required for the many immigrants who were arriving at a rapid rate, many of them starting businesses. Buildings were needed in the thriving villages to provide structures for their inhabitants. Civic, school, and church buildings were also in demand.

I can only imagine the hard work to fell the trees, clean up the brush, and dig out the remaining stumps. When that was completed settlers could concentrate on farming the land. Many of the surviving buildings throughout the area were constructed using lumber sawed at the Menger - Guenther Sawmill. The sawmill prospered until the death of Fredrich in 1921 when it was closed. Much of the needed building in the area was completed and enough land was cleared to support a robust livestock and crop growing agriculture. The property was now suitable for his son, Phillip, to grow crops to feed a dairy herd, hogs, geese, ducks, chickens, and the horses needed to provide power and transportation.

I recall spending time at Uncle Phillip and Tanta Emma’s farm playing on some of the remnants of the old sawmill. His team of horses, cows, and calves were in the barn. I watched the many ducks and geese enjoying the nearby stream and was fascinated by the chickens with their little babies scurrying around searching for insects or anything else to eat, just looking over their living menagerie. The dam was destroyed sometime after the steam engine made the water wheel obsolete so all I ever saw was the remaining banks on each side of the stream and unusable remnants of the sawmill.

One of my most memorable experiences was witnessing a field day sponsored by the Gehl Manufacturing Company of West Bend, demonstrating one of their newfangled crop choppers, powered by a Wisconsin air-cooled engine. Folks gathered from far and near to watch that shiny new implement perform its task. What fun it must have been for Grandma and her siblings growing up in such a wonderful environment. Why must I leave this heavenly place and go back to Milwaukee? I wished that I could stay there forever.

They came to America many years ago;

Seeking the freedom to live and to grow.

Wisconsin, they heard, was almost like home;

A place to settle, never more to roam.

It wouldn’t be easy clearing the land;

But the wood from their trees was in great demand.

They were so thankful that God sent them here;

They wanted to show that their faith was sincere.

They built a church to worship and pray;

A place where God’s Word can be sought any day.

Blessed are they that hear the word of God, and keep it.

LUKE 11:28 (KJV)

GRANDMA JONAS

Grandma loved Bible school. She also loved attending church and always made sure that I got to Sunday school and church. My parents were not faithful church goers when I was young. They would attend at times on the special days, and Dad would almost always be there when they needed his cooking expertise. Mother would be there with him. It disturbed me that they didn’t attend church more often, they both loved to sing and had good voices. I enjoyed sitting near them and listening to them sing while out driving. It seemed strange to me that they didn’t want to be in church at least for the singing. I thought they would be outstanding choir members but I don’t recall them ever participating in the choir.

Grandma Jonas, however, took church attendance very seriously. I recall riding the bus with her every Sunday without fail. Sunday and church were synonymous to her. I feel as serious about church attendance as she did; her love for Jesus is etched in my soul.

CHRISTMASTIME WITH GRANDMA JONAS

The tree was a work of art, starting with choosing the right tree. The tree was secured in its stand so it stood as straight as possible, and a white sheet was spread around the stand. She had been saving the clinkers from the coal furnace and placed them around the base of the tree with special care to be sure that the best clinkers would be in the front, and pieces of cotton formed the snow on the mountain.

When Grandma decorated the tree she pulled out all the stops. She had a miniature menagerie with little houses and a church with a cross on its steeple and little people and ice skaters placed on mirrors carefully tucked in sheets of cotton. A herd of mountain goats and sheep was carefully placed on Clinker Mountain. I loved to let my imagination take me right inside those villages and the mountain. The horses were my favorites to play with and whenever I did, Grandma would make sure that everything was back in its correct place. The only thing I was allowed to do was to hand her the next item she wanted.

When the base scenery was in place hanging the lights was usually done by Dad and Mom, closely supervised by Grandma. When that was finished to her liking, she hung a multitude of old ornaments, each in a special place. There were many ornaments to hang and she took a lot of time to make sure they were all in the right place. When everything else was on the tree she had one last ornament, a pickle. Everyone had to leave the room while she carefully decided where it should go. The pickle ended up in her secret spot and a family tradition was to see who would be the first to find it. Usually we were well into the season before someone found the pickle. I have a pickle to place on our family tree to this day, and the tree is not finished till the pickle is hidden. After all the ornaments were in place, tinsel, and lots of it, was carefully hung until we could finally view Grandma’s masterpiece.

I never knew how serious Grandma’s illnesses were until the time came when she could no longer decorate our Christmas tree.

AN UNLIKELY COUPLE

My brothers and sister were too young to ever witness the times that I really cherish. Grandma had a Bible which she read daily, sharing with me the pencil-shaded verses which she felt were the most important in guiding her life. I wish I could see that old Bible and compare her shaded verses with the verses I have chosen to mark in my own study Bible. I have a feeling that her attempt to teach its importance in my life, and her coaxing me to memorize her favorite verses, subconsciously entered my young mind and still wets my appetite for studying God’s Word today. Those memories prompted me to write a song, Gramma’s Tattered Bible.

Gramma’s Tattered Bible – verse 1

I remember long ago, sitting at my gramma’s knee;

Reading from her tattered Bible she tried to int’rest me.

A sweet gray-haired lady who’d never raise her voice,

Except when she was singing a hymn of glad rejoice.

Her life was not an easy one, and when the tears were done,

I could hear her softly saying, Better days will come.

She said, "Son, go to church ev’ry Sunday,

Listen to the scriptures and sing those hymns of praise.

Believe God’s Word, and I promise you one day;

You’ll be singing in His Heavenly choir some of these days!"

Complete song recorded on Farm Country Gospel albums.

Grandma attended the Milwaukee Conservatory of Music and became a piano teacher, traveling from house to house giving lessons to children throughout the City of Milwaukee. She married Frank Jonas, a Milwaukee streetcar conductor. They seemed like an unlikely couple, Grandma was very quiet, loving, and pious; Grandpa, on the other hand, was impious, fun loving, a beer drinking, pipe smoking, devil-could-care type.

I remember when I was just a toddler how he loved to lure a squirrel into our vestibule and have it crawl on his back and beg for a nut, it always seemed anxious to entertain. He would swing me in a swing attached to the ceiling. When I was a little older he loved to take me to the family days sponsored by TMER&T where he worked conducting a streetcar. He and Grandma and I would attend every one of them. Balloons, bubble gum, candy, ice cream, and games were available for each of various age groups of kids. Movie cartoons of Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Bugs Bunny, Road Runner, and many others were shown. The adults attended a meeting while the kids were being entertained.

He and Grandma loved to take me to some of the many vaudeville shows taking place in the swell downtown Milwaukee theaters. My favorites were Houdini with his escape and magical tricks and Spike Jones would have music and entertainment. I enjoyed watching him place a wiener dog into what looked like a large meat grinder, and when he turned the crank a string of wieners linked together would come out of the discharge spout. Grandma and Grandpa would laugh exuberantly along with me. Grandpa always called me Hansie, and for a long time I didn’t know my name was Donald. In my presence Grandpa was always jovial. I was really shocked the first time I witnessed him verbally abusing my dear sweet grandma.

I was never told how my Grandma and Grandpa Jonas got together. I often went along with Grandma while she was teaching piano to her students and I’m guessing that perhaps Grandma met him while riding on his streetcar while she was traveling between her piano classes. He did have a personable side when he was sober. Streetcar conductors were under close scrutiny while on the job, so I’m sure that he had to remain sober while driving. She may well have been intrigued and infatuated by his demeanor as a streetcar conductor.

Gramma’s Tattered Bible – verse 2

That old Bible was a gift from her childhood long ago.

Pencil-shaded verses telling the ones she had to know.

Each passage remembered from Bible School I’m sure;

They guided her through sorrow and when health was poor.

She knew she had a home above and trusted God’s own Son.

I could hear her softly saying, Better days will come.

She said, "Son, go to church ev’ry Sunday,

Listen to the scriptures and sing those hymns of praise.

Believe God’s Word, and I promise you one day;

You’ll be singing in His Heavenly choir some of these days!"

DOG PATCH

The last home we shared was on the far south side of Milwaukee in an area