I Used to Think God Was Perfect, But…

By Herman Bauman

This book is an autobiography. It tells the story of a boy form a poor, insignificant, farm family in Wisconsin. He believed that God called him to be a minister of the gospel. Though many discouraged him, and the way wasnt always easy, he persevered and God blessed him wonderfully. His story, that takes him around the world in his services for the Lord, is a powerful testimony that God still works miracles and is an illustration of Gods power to make anyone successful who is committed to serve Him and to go wherever He calls.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 4, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462828258

Herman Bauman

Herman Bauman was a farm boy, born and reared in Wisconsin. In his early years, he lived in a religious environment, but didn’t have a personal relationship with Jesus. When he was sixteen years old a young baptize preacher led him to Jesus and salvation. Herman believed he was called by God to be a preacher and, against all odds, prepared for that profession. He pursued an education, married a wonderful young woman, the former Janice Wright, and together they served the Lord very successfully in ministry for than 44 years. They are now retired in Arizona.

Book preview

I Used To Think

God Was Perfect, But…

Herman Bauman

Copyright © 2009 by Herman Bauman.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Dedication

I proudly dedicate this book to our three sons: Bob, Dave and Jake. They have all brought such joy to our lives. They, without complaint, followed us as we moved 28 times in our ministry. They went with us to Nigeria, West Africa, where they experienced deprivation and suffered many bouts of serious illness. They went around the world with us on an adventure that was priceless. They all worked hard to receive an education, all have good professions and all of them have beautiful families. We could not be more grateful for their accomplishments or more proud of them. Thanks for making our lives so full and rich guys! We love you!

Chapter 1

It Almost Ended Before It Began

I used to think that God was perfect but when He called me to be a minister I have to admit I had some sincere questions about His infinite wisdom. In fact there were many others who had serious questions about God’s wisdom too. I received a great deal of counsel suggesting that God made a big mistake when He called me to be a preacher. Thank God, after serving more than 44 years in the ministry of the Seventh-day Adventist Church I guess I’m convinced again that God is the One Who has all wisdom. There will be more about that later.

My story begins where it very nearly ended. I was born on a Saturday night, July 20, 1935, in Oakdale, Wisconsin. No, of course my mother didn’t go to the hospital. Who did way back then? She gave birth at home. I’ve often thought about how my parents must have anticipated my arrival. I was, indeed, an afterthought. There were three girls in the family already: Helen was sixteen, Dorothy was fourteen and June was ten. The girls were very close friends and had a wonderful relationship. Since it was necessary to walk over two miles to school, my folks held Helen out a couple of years until Dorothy was six and able to join her in school. Consequently, though they were two years apart in age, they were in the same grade. By the time June reached four years of age she was very eager to go to school too. She begged Mom & Dad to let her go. They objected at first but finally they relented and June started the first grade at the age of four. All the girls were good students, but June was absolutely brilliant.

And now I was coming to join the family. There’s little doubt that I was really a mistake. I’ve often thought about that time; not that I personally remembered, of course, but having heard the story many times. I’m sure my sisters spent many hours discussing my impending arrival. I hope it’s a boy, said Helen, we’ve got plenty of girls. Dorothy expressed her thought that, We will love it even if it is another girl. And June made her plea, I hope it’s a boy and I want us to name him Clifford. I really like that name.

It was a tremendously difficult time for my parents. My birth was traumatic in itself. My mother, who worked very hard on the farm, while working in the field one day stepped in a hole and fell. The fall not only caused her injury but also brought on my pre-mature birth. As soon as I was born the doctor immediately recognized that, after a very difficult birth, in addition to being pre-mature, I also suffered from a severe disease. He informed my father that there was no chance that I would live. In addition to that he told Dad that my mother probably would not survive either. Whether a specific disease was identified, I do not know, but it was probably something akin to preeclampsia. My dad informed the doctor that they had a name picked out for me, but the doctor said, You know, it really doesn’t matter now. You can just give him a name at the time of the burial.

Things had not been easy for my parents for some time. They were renting a large farm there in Oakdale, Wisconsin. Suddenly their large herd of cows began to develop a serious disease. It was called bangs disease back then. The technical name is Brucellosis. It is often also referred to as contagious abortion. The cows began to die. Some of them had to be put to death. Finally, a short time after my birth, all the remaining cows had to be destroyed.

To make the situation even far worse my youngest sister, June, had developed what appeared to be a rather significant illness. Some wondered if it was a result of drinking the milk from the diseased cows. But the doctor officially diagnosed it as being strep throat. Five days after I was born Dad took June to the hospital. There, tragically, that very night she died. I can’t even possibly imagine the sorrow and heartache that he was going through. His youngest daughter had died. His newborn son, he was told, had no chance of living. And his wife probably would not survive, according to the doctor. Dorothy also was sick; so sick, in fact, that she was not allowed to go to June’s funeral. The funeral director, kindly, did bring the casket to the house so Mom could see June. The roads were so muddy that the hearse had to be pulled by horses to the house. There they rolled the casket into the bedroom so Mom could tell June a last goodbye.

The situation didn’t improve. My parents’ livelihood was gone. With all the tragic events, Dorothy and Helen stayed out of school for the whole year.

But in spite of what the doctors and the medical profession had said, obviously, I lived and, thankfully, my mother also recovered. And since I was still alive they decided they better give me a name. It seemed to affect them too strongly emotionally to use the name June had picked out: Clifford; so my mother said, Let’s call him Herman Junior.

With the cows all gone there was no way for our family to possibly stay on the large farm and so my parents began to look for a small inexpensive farm they could purchase. They finally found one they could buy for $2500.00, about five miles away in a community called Stowell. It was just across the road from Dad’s parents’ farm. It had a house and all the farm buildings and 40 acres. They put down a few dollars and made payments for the next 30 years. Though I was only two years old at the time I remember very well the day my dad hitched the horses to a hay wagon and loaded all of our earthly belongings on it. To get from the large farm to the one we had purchased it was necessary to cross over a fairly wide creek. At that time of the year it was a very fast flowing stream. I remember seeing it, as though it happened yesterday. The horses, with Dad driving, pulled out onto the little bridge that crossed the stream. Suddenly because of the weight of all our furniture, the horses, and the hay wagon, there was a loud creaking and cracking as the bridge collapsed. The horses, the hay wagon and all of our earthly goods went down into the fast flowing water. I clearly remember sitting on the bank watching as Dad did his very best to get the horses out and then to salvage whatever he could of our personal belongings. Thankfully the horses survived but most of our goods were lost.

Dad was a very hard worker and so was my mother. She worked, in fact, as hard as any man I’ve ever seen. They did everything they could to make that little farm pay off. It wasn’t easy. The sandy soil was not very fertile and it was difficult to raise successful crops. They were able to purchase a few cows and start a small herd. The milk from the cows provided nourishment for the family but there was little left to sell to be able to provide a bit of income. Those were the days following the Great Depression. The worst days were over but the trials and hardships continued for many years. I well remember going into town and standing in line for hours behind a large truck loaded with food supplies. We would all stand there waiting our turn for a handout of staples such as flour and sugar.

Our house was extremely humble with only two rooms downstairs: a kitchen and a living room. Upstairs was just one large room where we all slept. We had no indoor plumbing for a bathroom, of course. In fact we had no running water of any kind. We had to go out by the barn where our pump was located to get our water. The pump had to be primed first. Then we would pump the water and run to the house with it. In that way I guess you could say we had running water. Ha. We had no electricity. I well remember reading by the light of a kerosene lamp with a wick. It gave very little light. Then, what a thrill it was when we got new Aladdin Lamps. They operated on kerosene too, but had mantles that glowed as they burned and gave off much more light than the wicks of the old lamps. Of course we had no telephone. We had an outdoor toilet. Oh, how I remember how we hated to go out to use that facility in the horribly cold winter nights. The snow blew in through the cracks in the walls and piled up on the seat. The Sears & Roebuck catalog was a vital part of the equipment. Oh how I remember the thrill one Christmas when we received from Sears and Roebuck a package containing a simple toilet tissue roller/dispenser that we could nail up on the wall of the outhouse. We were really thankful for small things.

The pleasures of life were few. But I do remember listening to the radio. Dad would take the battery out of the car and connect it to the radio so we could listen to it during the week. Some of those programs were great. There was Bob Hope, Jack Benny, Doctor I Q, Henry Aldrich, Fibber McGhee & Molly, among others. Then, on Saturday night, he put the battery back into the car and we always went to town to do our week’s shopping. There Dad would take the battery out of the car once more and take it into the hardware store to get it charged up so it would last us for another week of listening to our favorite radio programs.

We hadn’t been at our new farm very long until another tragedy struck. Our horses were suddenly stricken with sleeping sickness. I remember well how the horses would seemingly go crazy from the disease. They would ultimately become virtually immobile and unable to care for themselves, unable even to stand. I remember Dad putting up four sturdy poles and making large slings to put under the horses bellies and then with pulleys, pull the horses up to give them some support. We lost our entire herd of horses from the sleeping sickness.

I very well remember an event that took place one day when I was three years old. Dad was working on the car, as I remember he was installing a Southwind heater. I was playing on the door that covered the outdoor cellar entrance. Unfortunately the door had not yet been hinged and fastened. It was just lying there. I decided it would be a good idea to pull my wagon up on the door and then ride down. It worked well for a number of times. No one seemed to notice what I was doing. And then, all of a sudden, something went wrong. The door fell in as I climbed up on it. There I lay at the bottom of the cellar steps with my wagon and the cellar door on top of me. Of course I started to cry. Dad saw my dilemma and pulled the door and the wagon off me and then picked me up and carried me to the top of the steps. He set me down on the ground and my leg collapsed under me. My right leg had suffered a compound fracture.

Our family was a part of the local Seventh-day Adventist church. We didn’t have a church building: we met in a house. There were very few who came. The house was owned by the Cady family and they hosted the church. There were three of them: Mr. & Mrs. Cady and their daughter who had a learning disability. Then there was our family of five. Occasionally a few others attended, but not regularly. The pastor came every six weeks for an afternoon service. He had five other churches. Obviously there was little to impress young people or to keep them interested. They did try to operate a little church school for a couple of years when my sisters were starting high school. They found a teacher who was willing to teach for a very small salary and the school was conducted in a garage. Helen and Dorothy lived in a chicken coop at the Cady’s house in order to attend. Sadly that experiment couldn’t survive and after two years the school was closed. So my sisters went to public school all during their elementary years and then to the public high school in Tomah for their final two years. We lived about twelve miles from Tomah. There was no school bus back then and Dad didn’t have dependable transportation so he could transport my sisters back and forth each day. Consequently my parents found a family named Streeter in town who were willing to have Helen & Dorothy live with them so they could attend high school. My sisters were sorry not to have access to an Adventist education, but they had made an important decision that after graduation from high school they were going to Mount Vernon, Ohio, to attend an Adventist nursing school. They were very excited about the prospect, and wanted to be prepared to do something special to serve humanity and the church.

After graduation from high school the preparations for a major move to Ohio began. There were certain special clothes that they needed to take with them. Purchases were made. They had to have physical examinations in order to be accepted at the nursing school. Helen went and had some significant dental work done. Just a few days after her visit to the dentist’s office she developed a fever and began to sense a weakness physically. Her situation became increasingly worse. Doctors checked her out and were not really able to determine what her problem was. Unfortunately it was serious. Dorothy, at the same time, as she was having her physical examination was discovered to have a growth in her thyroid. The doctor assumed that it was some kind of goiter. Wanting to be certain, he sent her to the Mayo clinic in Rochester, Minnesota for them to make a full and accurate diagnosis. She was indeed diagnosed with a poisonous goiter. With Dorothy’s problem and with Helen’s situation continuing to worsen they had to scuttle plans for the nursing school in Mount Vernon. It was later determined that Helen had suffered from polio and she experienced crippling that would affect her for the rest of her life.

It was in connection with Helen’s polio that I began to demonstrate a bit of deviltry. I was about five years old and was responsible for helping Helen to get around. If she needed to go to the toilet I pulled her out to the outdoor toilet in my little red wagon. One day I had faithfully performed my task, but with a little added feature. I locked her in and left her there alone. A little bit later I was with Mom in the garden. I looked toward the toilet and saw Helen with one leg in the wagon trying to push herself toward the house. As I saw her I called out in surprise, How did she get out? My mother asked me to explain my question. I had to confess that I had locked Helen in the toilet and left her and wondered how she got out.

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Herm’s family in 1934.

From left: Helen, Mom, June, Dad, Dorothy.

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Herm at nine months.

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From left: Dorothy, Dad, Helen, Mom and Herm

in the middle in front.

Chapter 2

My Roots

It is always interesting to know the answer to the question Just who am I and where did I come from?

My dad’s father, Herman Carl Bauman, immigrated to the United States from near Hamburg in Germany, in 1875, at the age of twelve. Dad’s mother, Anna Marie Thiedemann, came from Germany in 1881, at the age of thirteen. They both settled in southern Wisconsin. They became acquainted, courted briefly and were married there in Wisconsin in 1885. Their marriage soon resulted in the birth of a son who, sadly, lived only two weeks. Then another son was born who died at birth. Another son was born who lived four months. Still another son was born who died at birth. At that time Herman and Anna moved to McHenry County in northern Illinois. There, on a farm, they began anew their life together.

They were thrilled and thankful to be in the United States. Their farm, though small, was sufficient to provide for them the food that they needed as well as to care for a few dairy cows. It wasn’t long until their home was also blessed with the birth of another little boy whom they named Herman. In fact they gave him a great German name: Herman Ferdinand Wilhelm Bauman. Herman was my father. In another two years another little boy arrived who was given the name of Wesley. Two years later Walter Gustav Otto came along. Then, in another two years, Wilhelm Ernest arrived. By that time they decided to make a move a little farther north back up into Wisconsin. They settled on a little farm in a community called Stowell, in Monroe County just south of a crossroads named Shennington. There they successfully operated a 40 acre farm.

They were so happy in their new country and in their new Wisconsin home. How could they be so blessed?! But then, in 1900, tragedy struck. All four of their sons were stricken with scarlet fever. Wesley died. Walter suffered significant mental retardation. He would never marry and would never be able to live a life without supervision. Wilhelm was very severely affected mentally and would later be sent to an institution to live out his life. Only Herman, who was eight at the time, survived the scarlet fever without any physical or mental complications. Then came another boy, August Frederick Henrick. As life continued another child, this time a little girl, was born. They named her Mabel Amanda Marie. Some years later they added yet another child to their family, this time by adoption, Myrtle Leola. Things were not easy there in Wisconsin. The winters were extremely cold. And often the summers went by without sufficient rain, and the crops failed. Struggling to make a go of it, Dad’s parents kept him home from school much of the year to help on the farm. Consequently, though he was very bright, he was able to complete only the third grade.

My mother lived in the country just north of Shennington. Her name was Laurena Florence Madsen. Sadly her parents, Carl and Josephine Madsen, were, to her, very mean and uncaring people. By the time Laurena was three years old they had her out working in the fields on the farm and picking beans and strawberries and planting and harvesting other garden crops. When she cried and complained that she was hot or tired they simply rewarded her cries by telling her to work harder and faster. What made it even worse was that she had an older brother, about five years older than she, named Henry, who seemed to be able to get away with sitting in the house relaxing while she had to be out laboring in the fields. Her parents were Seventh-day Adventists but it’s easy to conclude that they did not in any way act like Christians. They often beat Laurena, sometimes mercilessly, and frequently sent her to bed without her supper, simply because she had not performed quite up to their expectations and demands.

During those years it seems that Mom developed an ability to work with her hands and became very proficient at picking things such as beans and strawberries. Later she also worked at the cranberry marsh and was consistently the top cranberry picker. One year she was given special recognition as the Champion Cranberry Picker. Her parents sent her to school in Shennington where she did quite well. However, when there was work that needed to be done, it took the place of school. And so she was forced to miss a lot of her educational opportunities. Upon her graduation from elementary school she wanted very much to go to a Seventh-day Adventist school. Her parents finally agreed to send her to Hutchinson, Minnesota, to an institution that is now known as Maplewood Academy. Back then it was called the Danish/Norwegian Seminary. She was thrilled to be there and loved the fellowship of other Adventist young people. She also treasured the opportunity to get an education. However her parents refused to send any money to help with her tuition or living expenses and within a couple of months she was forced to return home. She would not have any further opportunities for formal education.

Sadly, sometimes when Laurena would complain about her situation and ask why she was being treated so shabbily and Henry seemed to be favored, her parents would respond with an answer something like this: Well you don’t really belong to us, or, Henry is our son but you’re not our daughter. And, You’re not as good as Henry. Those comments hurt deeply. These conversations began to take place when she was as young as three years old. In her innocent little mind she would ask, Well who do I belong to then? Or, If I’m not your daughter where did I come from? In answer the Madsen’s sometimes would respond, The rag man brought you to us. She didn’t try to figure out why her parents responded in that way, but in the back of her mind an impression was made.

Some years later, after June was born, at the age of 27, my mother decided that she was going to do some investigating and try to determine really what her situation was. Was she really the daughter of the Madsens or was there more to this story? After years of searching and discovery she found out this very intriguing answer. In the southern part of the state, near Kenosha, there had lived a family named Anderson. John Anderson was an immigrant from Denmark. He and his wife had three children. When his wife died he married again and, with that wife, had two children. Tragically, in childbirth, that wife died. Mr. Anderson, before long, sought out companionship once more. He met a lady named Mary whom he felt would fit well into his family and would be able to care for his children and meet his needs, so he asked her to marry him. She accepted the proposal. Their union was blessed with four more children. Mary had a daughter who was sixteen years old at the time of their marriage. Before too long after John married Mary that sixteen year old daughter became pregnant. In those days there was probably no more shameful thing that could happen to them, so they knew they would have to deal with it. They kept the sixteen year old girl locked in the house so that no one could see that she was pregnant. When the baby, a little girl, was born they looked for someone who would be willing to take her; carefully keeping the whole thing a secret. Surely no one must be the wiser. It was then that the little girl was taken by the Madsen family. She was given the name Laurena. She was never legally adopted but simply was kept by the Madsens and was used to help meet their needs.

When my mother finally learned the story she discovered also that she had six sisters and three brothers. Amazingly, and thankfully, she was privileged, after all those years, to become acquainted with them. As you could easily understand, the Madsens were not at all pleased that Mom had found her birth family. On one occasion Grandma and Grandpa Madsen were at my parents’ house visiting from California. As fate would have it Mom’s sister, Helen, and her husband, Ray, came from Milwaukee to visit. Unfortunately they didn’t get along too well and Grandpa physically attacked Ray and tried to make him understand that he and Helen were not welcome there. The atmosphere was not pleasant and Grandma and Grandpa walked to a neighbor’s house and had them take them to the train so they could return to California.

It was there in Wisconsin that my dad’s parents, who were born and reared strict German Lutherans, first became acquainted with Seventh-day Adventists. (My dad, in fact, had been baptized a Lutheran.) They began to attend a little Adventist church in Tomah. Later that church decided to split and part of them started a small church in Shennington that actually, for awhile, met at the Bauman’s house.

It was there that Herman Bauman and Laurena Madsen first became acquainted. Their courtship, according to everything that I’ve heard, was quite an eventful one. The Madsens refused to let Herman come to their house to see Laurena. They didn’t want her falling in love with anyone. She might want to get married and leave home. What would they do without her to do all that work around the farm?

In spite of the parents’ restrictions, Herman and Laurena found a way to get together. If, however, she was out on a date with Herman and came late to the barn to help with the milking, her dad would beat her. Whenever she went out with Herman her mother would accuse her of wasting her time and not helping sufficiently with the house work and she would beat her.

Dad and Mom had some romantic elements in their courtship anyway, such as dating in a one horse sleigh in the cold of winter with a heated flat iron under the blankets to help keep them warm. Their date one night was especially eventful. The horse Dad drove was blind and, after they had been out together for a while, (I can’t imagine a date being this boring), my dad fell asleep. The horse, trotting along, wandered off the road and got into a snow bank and they were nearly upset.

Dad was reticent to take Laurena home to meet his family. He was really embarrassed and, to be truthful, a bit ashamed of Walter and Bill. However when they did meet Laurena really took to them and befriended them. To make their relationship even more difficult, Dad’s parents didn’t really like Laurena very much. They told Herman that she was too young for him and maybe even not worthy of him. To this Laurena responded, I know I’m not the Queen of Sheba, but why don’t they like me? Herman simply responded, You’re a Queen to me, and that is all that matters. After dating for some time, Herman, at the age of 26, asked Laurena, who was then 20, to be his wife. The Madsens were desperately opposed to the marriage. They told Laurena that she would never be allowed to marry Herman. On the day their wedding was scheduled to take place her parents beat her mercilessly and forbade her to get married. Herman went to pick Laurena up at the Madsen’s house. Seeing that she had been beaten, he informed the Madsens, This is the last time you will beat this girl, and he took her away. In spite of the Madsens’ efforts Laurena and Herman were married. They lived with Dad’s parents for a short time and then went to really enjoy the beginning of their life together on a little farm near Albion, Wisconsin. Eighteen years later they were back in the Stowell community.

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Herm’s mom, Laurena Florence Madsen,

on the day of her wedding on September 26, 1918.

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Herm’s dad, Herman Ferdinand Wilhelm Bauman

on the day of his wedding on September 26, 1918.

Chapter 3

Growing Up At Stowell

I have wonderful memories of growing up in the Stowell community in Wisconsin. The place where we lived, actually, was just across the road from where Grandma & Grandpa Bauman had lived. Grandpa died in 1932, more than three years before I was born. Grandma died in March of 1942 when I was six years old. My memories of her are very limited. I remember her mainly just sitting in a rocking chair and gently rocking back and forth. She didn’t seem to be in very good health.

We had terrific neighbors. Just east of us lived the Jensens. Ruth was a year older than I. She had two older sisters and four older brothers. Next to them was the Vinz family. Twins Gloria and Glenda were a year younger than I. Immediately to the west of us lived the Finch family. Ted and Victoria Finch raised five children. By that time all had gone from home. But there was a young boy named Bobby Dale living in their home. He was actually their grandson who had been born to his mother out of wedlock. The grandparents took total responsibility for his rearing. Bobby and I were inseparable. He was about two years younger than I and clearly my best friend. Ted and Victoria’s son, Albin, married my sister Dorothy. Some years later Bobby’s mother, who by that time was married, one day just disappeared. She was never found or heard from again.

The next family to the west was Henry and Nina Frei. We called him Uncle Hank. He actually was my uncle for he had been married to my dad’s sister, Mabel. They had a little girl they named Olive who lived only nine weeks. The trauma of losing her was more than their marriage could bear and they divorced. Henry later married Nina. They had no children. The next family was Henry’s older brother Albert, his wife Mary, and their two children, considerably older than I. The next family was another brother, Herman Frei. He and Georgia had four children: Edna, Douglas (one year older than I) and a younger set of twins: John & Joanne. Next to the Herman Freis was the Stowell school house. It is where I, along with the others whom I named, attended our eight grade one room school.

The year before it was time for me to begin school my parents allowed me to go to school and visit one day. The only thing I remember about my visit is the recess. We were playing a game called Pom-Pom Pull Away, a game something like Tag. I, after some delay, made my break and headed for the goal. The teacher caught me, gave me a big hug and kissed me. I was so thrilled I have never forgotten it. I fell in love with that teacher, and teaching, right then. I later spent fourteen years of my career as a teacher. Oh, by the way, that teacher’s name was Miss Leona Kissinger.

My parents had the responsibility of cleaning the school room. I helped them and that was our task every Sunday.

The day to begin my first grade in school was a big day in my life. I got there early so I wouldn’t miss a thing. At the invitation of some of the older boys I climbed onto the merry-go-round to take a ride. The big boys were inside, by the center pole, pushing it. Being close to the center they were able to make it move at a very rapid speed. I was becoming afraid and pleaded for them to slow down. They just laughed and made it go faster. Finally, I lost my grip and fell off the merry-go-round. I knew immediately that there was something wrong with my right arm. Just above the wrist it was bent up at a forty-five degree angle. The kids called the teacher and she came out to investigate what had happened. She knew immediately that my arm was broken. She helped me up and took me into the school room. She gave me a chair to sit on and then began to apply cool clothes to my forehead as she gently caressed my back and spoke comforting words to me. She sent one of the big boys to go on his bicycle to tell my parents of the mishap. We had no telephone at our home and there was also none at the school. Of course they took me to the doctor, Doctor Cramer, where the compound fracture was set and my arm was put in a cast.

About a week later I was sitting on the ground one day watching as my father was cranking the old Model A Ford to get it started. He kept trying and trying and trying. But that old Ford just wouldn’t start. Then all of a sudden there was a huge backfire, the car kicked, the crank suddenly spun backward and it hit Dad on his right wrist. He fell to the ground screaming and writhing in pain. His wrist was shattered. My mom took him to the same doctor I had gone to the week before. Unfortunately Doctor Cramer was not as acquainted with orthopedic challenges as we might have wished. Also with the limited equipment he had he was not able to determine the full extent of the injury. He did his best to set the break and put Dad’s arm in a cast. But Dad’s arm was not healing properly. By the following week my dad had to be taken to the University of Wisconsin Hospital at Madison. There they endeavored to treat his arm. They performed surgery, hoping to be able to restore it to usefulness again. Unfortunately those hopes were not realized and Dad’s wrist remained stiff for the rest of his life. I well remember going with Mom down to Madison to visit Dad at the hospital. I recall the two of us having our pictures taken together; each of us with our right arm in a cast and in a sling. As some people have seen those pictures they have commented, Oh, isn’t that cute? His daddy had a broken arm so he had to have his arm wrapped up to look like his daddy’s. Yes it was wrapped up all right. We had something in common, both of us with broken right arms.

My parents were very poor people, as far as this world’s goods. We sold our milk to the local creamery and bought butter and cottage cheese and cheese from them. There were weeks when instead of getting a check for our milk we would receive a bill for the butter and cheese we purchased. The amount of milk produced was insufficient to cover the cost of our purchases. In season our family income was augmented by selling strawberries, beans, cucumbers and other garden products.

Though always struggling financially my parents were extremely generous. Of my mother, especially, it could be accurately said, She would give someone the shirt off her own back. There was an old peddler who used to come into our community selling his wares. His name was Flock. We called him Father Flock, because he claimed to be a Catholic priest who had retired and was now supporting himself by peddling. He would come and knock on the door and shout out, I have buttons, thread, needles and needle threaders. My mother would buy little things from him when she could, but she always treated him to a good meal before letting him go on his way.

There was an extremely poor couple named Jack & Hermie Alton who lived some distance from us. He had lost a leg. It was off almost up to his hip. He had a steel rod that was fastened to his stub. At the bottom of the rod he had a wooden block with a piece of old tire fastened over it to give him traction. It was amazing that he was even able to walk, but he and Hermie hobbled along all over the community visiting people and hoping for handouts. They lived in a tiny shack with no electricity and no heat. They often came to our house to get a good meal, or good meals, and frequently stayed with us for days. It was not unusual to come home from town on Saturday night and find Jack & Hermie in our house, probably asleep on the davenport. (Of course there was no need to lock the doors in those days). My mom would give them a good meal and they would spend a few days with us enjoying the warmth and good food.

One summer a teenaged girl named Frances committed herself to being a colporteur, a seller of religious books and Bibles. She was looking for a place to stay while she canvassed. So, of course, my mother said, There’s always room at our house, and she came and spent the summer with us. My mother gave her all her meals and washed and ironed her clothes and made her a part of the family. She had a successful summer selling books filled with the message of God’s love.

There was another teenaged girl who was having some really terrible problems in relating to her parents. They were beside themselves wondering what to do with her and how to deal with the problems. My mother, of course, offered them a solution. She said, Let her come and live with us. I’m sure she will enjoy, and get along well with, Helen and Dorothy, and their little brother will be nice to her, too. So May came to our house to spend some time. She stayed for two years. The experiment worked out well. She truly seemed like a part of our family.

I had an early, exciting, adventure in my life. My sisters decided to take a trip to Chicago. Aunt Mabel and Uncle Chuck and Cousins Evelyn and Berniece lived there. They invited us to come visit them and see the great city of Chicago. What an adventure that was. I had never been farther from home than 100 miles, down to Madison. And so to take such a huge trip, over 200 miles, even out of state, was a tremendous adventure. Our relatives took us all over the city of Chicago. We saw the Field Museum of Natural History, the Museum of Science and Industry, the aquarium and many other wonderful sites. I loved seeing so many wonderful things, but also came away with a clear recollection of how tired one could get doing all that walking in such a huge city. One thing I’d never seen before, and was really impressed with, was escalators. How amazing, you simply step on a stair step and it moves and takes you all the way to the top. It was a moving stairway. The one complaint I expressed to my sisters, however, was, Why don’t they have moving sidewalks? That’s what we really need.

I was soon to experience another extraordinary trip. Dad’s old car was in really bad condition and he needed to get another one. Uncle Ray, Mom’s brother-in-law, who lived in Milwaukee, invited him to come down there to find a car where the selection would be much greater than it would be in our little home town. Dad worked for the railroad, so he invited me to go with him to Milwaukee. The special thing was that we would ride down there in the caboose of a train. What fun that was! I will never forget that experience.

Tragedy struck the home of Aunt Myrtle and her husband, Uncle Charles. They were living right across the road from us in the home where Dad and his siblings grew up. Uncle Walter and Uncle Bill lived with them on the home farm. Perhaps the pressure of being newly married, or of having her dependent brothers living with them, or some other stress, was too much for Aunt Myrtle. Sadly, in the night she attacked her husband, Uncle Charles, with a butcher knife shouting, I’m going to kill you, again and again. Fortunately he was strong enough to overcome her. A doctor came and diagnosed her as having a mental breakdown. She was taken to Mendota, Wisconsin, to a hospital for the mentally ill, where she stayed for a considerable length of time before being declared safe to return home. Upon her return Uncle Bill was placed in an institution where he remained for the rest of his life. Uncle Walter stayed with them for some time and then came and lived with us for several years.

Those were the days of the tragedy of World War II. I well remember December 7, 1941. I was six years old and was out at the edge of our woods sitting on an old hay rake imagining myself a huge successful farmer, I suppose. My dad came out to me, obviously very concerned about something, and he said, There’s some really bad news. I just heard on the radio that the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. That means they bombed our ships and killed many people, and now we are in a war with Japan. Of course, I obviously didn’t grasp the enormity of