Dairy Farming: A Way of Life

By D.F. Don Cooper

A story about Don Cooper from infancy, born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, his maternal ancestors emigrated from Germany in the 1850s. They made their homesteads in Washington County, Wisconsin. Don visited their farms frequently as a youth and eventually was employed as a farm hand on the farm of his mom's cousin. Those many visits convinced him that

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Oct 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781648952562

D.F. Don Cooper

Don was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, in 1935. His maternal ancestors were farmers who emigrated from Germany. His grandmother’s homestead is in the Town of Wayne, Washington County, Wisconsin, -- “out home” to him. He visited her homestead and the Armand Mertz farm frequently in his youth. He made many Greyhound trips from Milwaukee to visit there every chance he had and developed his love for farming on that farm.

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My Prayer

Heavenly Father, You great and awesome God,

I sincerely thank You for all the blessings

You have continued to shower upon me.

Thank You for my salvation;

For allowing me to know and love

Your Son, Jesus, for as long as I can remember.

Thank You for Your true Holy Word, the Bible.

Thank You for my grandmother, Sunday School teachers,

Pastors and friends, who instilled its knowledge in my mind;

I asked You for a wife of Your choice;

How can I thank You enough for Your perfect choice?

Father, I asked You to allow me to be a farmer,

You provided a farm, family,

and herd beyond my wildest expectations.

I asked You for children;

You gave us six wonderful individuals.

I prayed for grandchildren and great-grandchildren

to bless our children;

Please send Your Holy Spirit to guide them through life.

I look forward to many more great-grandchildren,

if it is Your wish.

What more can I ask for, than to be what You will for me

To be for the rest of my days.

Help me be a witness to the name and love of Jesus

Wherever You send me.

Thank You for a wonderful life,

I look forward to eternity with You in Heaven. Amen.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Armand Wimpy Mertz, who molded me and prepared me for a lifetime of pursuing and following my dream of becoming a successful dairy farmer. He was my mother’s cousin, but to me he was my hero and mentor, more of a favorite uncle than whatever his official relationship actually was.

You will read in Part 1 of this book how he actually affected my life and still does today. I believe that he is enjoying eternity in Heaven with those who were waiting for him, and he is waiting to greet those of us who will be with him in the future.

My grandmother Laura Menger Jonas charted my course spiritually. Her love of Jesus, the Bible, and her church were so profound that they couldn’t help but rub off on me as she made a special effort as long as she was able to teach me all the things that were so dear to her. Her influence is with me every day of my life.

Me and Grandma Jonas, taken in 1939 or 1940 at the gate to her homestead

Acknowledgment

Above all, I want to acknowledge the most important guide and compass throughout my life. The Lord has been my guide to see me through the challenges, which could have been disaster if not for His watchful presence in every occurrence in my life. I believe that He allows the tough situations to test and teach us and enable us to handle all of life’s tribulations.

My grandma Jonas, for the spiritual guidance I needed as a growing child.

The Bible has been my handbook, helping me understand His will. He speaks to us as we read and meditate on its content.

My loving wife, Ruth, for her important contribution to our spiritual life from the time we met, her patience and resolve throughout our marriage, and for tolerating my many hours on the computer and critiquing my efforts as I pursue my new life as a writer.

Our six children, Laurie, Daniel, Cindy, Jennifer, Amy, and Christopher, who so much more than pulled their weight over all these years.

My daughter Cindy Midtbo, who proofread and formatted this book and helped me get through computer software problems. Her husband, Todd, who helps me with my lack of technology when I’m frustrated by the things my computer does. Todd has the patience and computer savvy that I will probably never master.

My grandson Andrew Evraets, who keeps my computers running when I can’t.

The members of my writers’ club and all the other folks who encouraged me.

The folks who provided the content of the stories in this book.

Last but not least, Armand Wimpy Mertz for preparing me for my life as a dairy farmer.

Contents

My Prayer

Dedication

Acknowledgment

Introduction

Part 1: How a City Boy Became a Farmer

A City Boy Longs for the Farm

The Menger-Guenther Sawmill (Excerpted from page 39 of Winding through Wayne)

Grandma Jonas

Christmastime with Grandma Jonas

An Unlikely Couple

Dog Patch

Grandpa Jonas

Out Home

Uncle Eddie

The Cottage at Cedar Lake

Family Heritage

Grandma and Grandpa Cooper

My Second Home, the Mertz Farm

Threshing Oats

The Next Generation Farm Owners

My Many Illnesses

Wimpy’s Hired Hand Dusty

Smokey’s Hat

The Contraption

Joan Out at the Farm

Brother Butch on the Farm

Paper Route, Pigeons, and Rabbits

The Move to North Carolina

The Restaurant Business

My Freshman Year in High School

Summer on the Farm

A Full-Time Farmhand

Back to High School

Next Summer on the Farm

Building That Fence

Edgar Miske, a Good Neighbor

High School Graduation

Part 2: A City Boy’s Rocky Road to Farm Ownership

High School Graduation

My Last Visit with Grandma Jonas

My Last Year on the Mertz Farm

Excavating Job

My First and Last Deer Hunt

An Unforgettable Christmas

Clover Lawn Farm

Back Home to Saukville

Curtis Candy Company Artificial Breeding Service

The Feed Mill

The Machine Shop Job

Milk Testing and Artificial Breeding

The Love of My Life

Our Wedding

Our Honeymoon

Bugs in Our Bed

A Home of Our Own

A Herd of Cows and Our First Rented Farm

Our Second Rented Farm

Foster Boys

A Good Farm and a Great Start

Boys Will Be Boys?

Marketing Our Milk

Tornadoes

Farm Bureau

NFO

The Battle with Our Bull

Farm Finance

Search for a Farm to Purchase

The Purchase of a Farm of Our Own

The Poch Auction

The Overloaded Pickup

Moving Day

Our Lifelong Dream Fulfilled

Organizing Dairy Farmers Associated Milk Producers Inc.

Part 3: Dairy Farming: Our Way of Life

Dairy Farming: Our Way of Life

Our Daughter Jenny’s Open-Heart Surgery

4-H and the Sheboygan County Fair

Farm Politics / AMPI Associated Milk Producers Inc.

Building Projects and Further Land Purchases

The Day Our Barn Burned

Out of the Ashes—A New Barn

The Real Estate and Auction Business

Great Northern Land and Cattle Company

Richard J. Freund

Cooper Real Estate and Auction Service

Farm Finance

Sheboygan County Interfaith and Groundswell

Threat of Foreclosure

Our Herd Dispersal

The Final Curtain

Cemetery Sales

Sale of Parcels of Our Farm

Sale of our Farmstead to the Wisconsin DOT

Changing Times Bittersweet

Memories

The Demolition of Our Farmstead

Our New Farmstead

Conclusion

Our Faith

Faith in Action

Don’s Songs, Choruses, and Poems

Heaven-Preparing

Christian Love

Other Works by Don Cooper

Psalm 23, King James Version The Lord Is My Shepherd

Psalm 121, King James Version The Lord Is Thy Keeper

The Lord’s Prayer

How a City Boy Became a Farmer

About the Author

Introduction

My mother’s mother, Laura Menger Jonas, was born and raised on the Menger Homestead, referred to as Out Home. Grandma’s sister, Alma, married Armand Mertz, who was raised on a farm one quarter mile south of their homestead. Their son, Armand Jr., Wimpy, became my hero at a very young age, and I spent much time as a youth Out Home on the Mertz farm. Wimpy became my mentor, and I eventually stayed on his farm most of my summer months. When I reached the age of ten, I was there for the whole summer. Soon I became his summer hired farmhand. He instilled in me the desire to become a dairy farm owner one day.

This story was originally going to be told in three separate books but was put together in this one volume instead, divided into three parts. As a result, there are stories that appear in more than one part.

Part 1—How a City Boy Became a Farmer tells about my adventuresome life through high school graduation.

Part 2—A City Boy’s Rocky Road to Farm Ownership tells about my earlier years as a farmhand, the farm-related jobs I had until the time we purchased our small herd of purebred Holstein cattle, and the nightmares we experienced on our first rented farm prior to renting the outstanding farm that provided us the ability to purchase our own farm in Sheboygan County, which we named Cooperhaven Farm. It tells how difficult the road is for a young family with the desire in their hearts to own a dairy farm.

Part 3—Dairy Farming: Our Way of Life continues our life story as dairy farmers—the fulfillment of a lifelong dream!—the wonderful experiences, the trials, tribulations, errors, and how the Lord guided every step along the way.

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

The Great Depression—1935. 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 Milwaukee, Wisconsin, it would seem unlikely for me to choose dairy farming as my lifelong 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 1930s 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 the ice box 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.

The year 1941 was the year of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, which was the start of the US 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 preempted 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 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 ragpicker 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 ragpicker’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 relived her life on the farm, in her one-room school one quarter 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 1850s, settled on the land, and established a sawmill in the early 1860s.

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 1800s and early 1900s, 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