Rural character is shaped by storytelling and keeping alive the memories of the past.
I grew up a farm boy in a time that predates social media, smartphones and 24/7 access to the outside world. Folks still got their news from the local paper and their rumors from the local coffeeshop. We had to be creative. We enjoyed the company of others. We talked, made our own fun and even played practical jokes.
When I was about 16, my early chore was to prep the barn for the morning milking. One morning with darkness in the air and drowsiness in my eyes, I opened the feed shed door. There stood a frozen coyote, erect and lifeless, meticulously placed by a neighbor in the dark of night. It scared the bejesus out of me.
Like all good neighbors, my dad could spot a neighbor by the cloud of dust and roar of a vehicle miles away. He once saw a cloud of dust and surmised he’d have about five minutes until a neighbor approached our location. Dad parked along the ditch, opened his truck hood and doors, turned the hazards on, took off his boot and shirt and threw them on the road. He proceeded to hunch over in the ditch. As the neighbor arrived on scene of the apparent “emergency,” he approached to render aid. Laughter erupted from the ditch, which was met with a few “neighborly” words, “Dang it, you (son of a gun), you got me good!”
A few months after graduating high school, I was in Fort Benning, Ga., for basic training. I was in the barracks one evening after chow, which was usually the time for mail call. This was a special time, where those lucky (or perhaps unlucky) would receive packages, letters and reminders of home. Mail was opened and inspected by drill sergeants to ensure contraband or other inappropriate items were not being shared.
On this day, I vividly remember my drill sergeant shouting, “Private Kramer, get your (insert any series of expletives here) and get in the front lean and rest position.” As I began push-ups, with dozens of barracks-mates watching, I worried what mail could garner such attention. My smirking drill sergeant placed on the floor in front of me a photo from home: a bloated, breathless red Hereford cow.
“I don’t know where you come from, Kramer, but this is some weird, freaky stuff,” one drill sergeant said. Some folks in the room, mind you, had never seen a cow, much less a dead one.
We all had a good laugh, especially the drill sergeants. I told them I could figure out who the responsible culprit back home was in three guesses or less. Believe it or not, that Hereford cow bonded us. We spent the evening sharing stories and learning about each other. Where we came from. Why we were there.
It is funny how when old friends get together, the same stories are retold – and still make us laugh. Memories can make us feel like we never left. My hometown of Linton is celebrating 125 years this summer, July 3 to 7 (www.lintonnd125.com). You should come. It’s going to be a blast. There is sure to be multi-generational get-togethers, reminiscing, storytelling and lots and lots of laughter. I can’t wait.
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Josh Kramer, editor-in-chief of North Dakota Living, is executive vice president and general manager of NDAREC. Contact him at jkramer@ndarec.com.
