Hi, Diary.
Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman reporting for duty, Sir. Just kidding, Diary, but that's what I'll be saying when I report to the Officer of the Deck on the gangway of a United States Navy combat ship someday. Of course, I'll have to wait until I'm seventeen years old. My parents must sign some papers, giving me permission. I figure they'll likely want to get rid of their reject. Then, I'll have to go through boot camp. That's six years from now, a long, long time. But I can dream, can't I?
By the way, I'm still not finished telling you about that "creek" Paul and Glen Peterson and yours truly discovered accidentally a few weeks ago while we were looking for a spot to pick wild berries.
Paul and Glen figured there'd be some king-sized trout there. So, we thought we'd try fishing in that creek. Thus, we rode north on the gravel road across from Thirty-Second Street at the intersection of Highway 54. Across the highway is where all those coon hounds bay and bay.
We rode just about as far as kids our age could go on bicycles. Eventually, we reached the steel bridge. Underneath it flowed a coffee-colored creek, or so we thought. Since it was such a hot, sunny day, we looked for a shady spot so we could tempt some German Brown with a gob of nightcrawlers stabbed to our hooks. Instead, the creek turned out to be a cranberry ditch. Trout don't like cranberry ditch water. Frogs might. Carp might. Not trout.
Because you're a diary, you don't know what a cranberry ditch is. Well, I'll tell you about it even though I didn't know what one was until I went to the public library and looked up two words, "Cranberry" and "Bog" in the Encyclopedia Britannica. Per the nice librarian, it's the best encyclopedia but it uses plenty of words I must look up in a dictionary. That's okay. I love to learn the meaning of words I've never met before.
Cranberry ditches are manmade trenches that cranberry growers dig so they can "move" water from a creek or a river or well into a cranberry bog, or marsh, and then move that same water out of the bog or marsh because the water gets too stagnant, sour, or hot from the sun's rays bearing down on it. "Bog" has the same meaning as "marsh" when it comes to cranberries.
In Wisconsin, they're called marshes. In Massachusetts, which grows the most cranberries, they're bogs. They're manmade, usually rectangular, patches of peat moss and clay and sand surrounded by water. Small hills, or berms, keep the water in, surrounding the marsh, which surrounds the cranberries. You see, cranberries need lots of water to help them grow. Fresher water also protects them, as well. When it's hot like it is now, too much heat can kill the berries. That's why during the summer, growers get rid of the hotter water and let in fresh, cooler water from a river or stream or natural well. Also, after the cranberry harvest takes place in autumn and before winter sets in, growers cover the bogs with water so the new berries for the next growing season won't freeze and die.
See what a guy can learn by studying the Encyclopedia Britannica?
Our swimming hole has Wisconsin River water that's been diverted to the Biron marshes. "Diverted" is a new word I met. It means "sidetracked." So, our swimming hole is sidetracked Wisconsin River water. Kind of interesting, isn't it? Well, I think so. It's also fascinating that our city swimming pool is diverted Wisconsin River water, too. The river also produces all our city's electricity at the paper mill by diverting river water, which pushes huge turbines around and around. The result is hydroelectric power. No wonder the Wisconsin River is called, "The hardest working river in the world."
Back to our swimming hole. We had a lot of fun, diving, cannonballing, and cooling off. It's the first time in our lives we went "skinny dipping."
"Nobody else knows about this place," yelled Paul. "So, we've got to keep it a secret. Let's make a pledge that we tell no one about it. it's our private swimming hole."
"Other people must know about it. What about the farmer who owns the hayfield?" I said.
"I don't think even he knows about it," retorted Paul.
"Gordy's right," said Glen. "That farmer has to see it from his tractor."
"You may think so," yelled Paul, "but I know better."
"How do you know better?" I asked.
"I just do."
"Yeah," said Glen. "If you ask Paul, he'll tell you he knows everything about everything."
"Well, I do," yelled Paul.
"See what I said? He does it every time." Both Glen and I laughed.
Although Glen's younger than Paul, Glen is built like Minnesota professional wrestler Vern Gagne. Usually quiet, Glen has a wry sense of humor and gives everyone a hard time, me included. Not many object to his comments, but if anyone does, it's Fist City time. And Glen usually wins.
So, I changed the subject. "I like our swimming hole better than the city pool. Here, we can stand up just about anywhere except for the middle, and that's just over our noses."
"What's that?" yelled Paul.
"A train," answered Glen. "It's a goldarned train, you guys. Everybody in."
At once, we were in the water and made it to a spot where we were up to our waists in the coffee-colored water. Naturally, we didn't want our bare butts and wieners to be seen by anyone else.
So, as the newfangled diesel-powered engine made its way by us, the engineer waved and blew that horrendous sounding horn. Which didn't sound too horrendous at the time, because we yelled and waved at him and his fireman who smiled and waved back twice as hard as we waved. I'll bet he wished he could join us in the cold water.
Soon, the train pulling six railroad cars carrying paper from the Biron paper mill to who knows where was out of sight.
Soon after that, we dressed. We promised ourselves to return to our personal swimming hole if the beastly hot weather continued to persist. Which it did. It's the hottest summer I can remember.
I'll tell you more about our swimming hole next time. Right now, I'm going to go outside. Bobby Kell is at the back door and just called out my name. Maybe his cat had another batch of kittens.
Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman reporting for duty, Sir. Just kidding, Diary, but that's what I'll be saying when I report to the Officer of the Deck on the gangway of a United States Navy combat ship someday. Of course, I'll have to wait until I'm seventeen years old. My parents must sign some papers, giving me permission. I figure they'll likely want to get rid of their reject. Then, I'll have to go through boot camp. That's six years from now, a long, long time. But I can dream, can't I?
By the way, I'm still not finished telling you about that "creek" Paul and Glen Peterson and yours truly discovered accidentally a few weeks ago while we were looking for a spot to pick wild berries.
Paul and Glen figured there'd be some king-sized trout there. So, we thought we'd try fishing in that creek. Thus, we rode north on the gravel road across from Thirty-Second Street at the intersection of Highway 54. Across the highway is where all those coon hounds bay and bay.
We rode just about as far as kids our age could go on bicycles. Eventually, we reached the steel bridge. Underneath it flowed a coffee-colored creek, or so we thought. Since it was such a hot, sunny day, we looked for a shady spot so we could tempt some German Brown with a gob of nightcrawlers stabbed to our hooks. Instead, the creek turned out to be a cranberry ditch. Trout don't like cranberry ditch water. Frogs might. Carp might. Not trout.
Because you're a diary, you don't know what a cranberry ditch is. Well, I'll tell you about it even though I didn't know what one was until I went to the public library and looked up two words, "Cranberry" and "Bog" in the Encyclopedia Britannica. Per the nice librarian, it's the best encyclopedia but it uses plenty of words I must look up in a dictionary. That's okay. I love to learn the meaning of words I've never met before.
Cranberry ditches are manmade trenches that cranberry growers dig so they can "move" water from a creek or a river or well into a cranberry bog, or marsh, and then move that same water out of the bog or marsh because the water gets too stagnant, sour, or hot from the sun's rays bearing down on it. "Bog" has the same meaning as "marsh" when it comes to cranberries.
In Wisconsin, they're called marshes. In Massachusetts, which grows the most cranberries, they're bogs. They're manmade, usually rectangular, patches of peat moss and clay and sand surrounded by water. Small hills, or berms, keep the water in, surrounding the marsh, which surrounds the cranberries. You see, cranberries need lots of water to help them grow. Fresher water also protects them, as well. When it's hot like it is now, too much heat can kill the berries. That's why during the summer, growers get rid of the hotter water and let in fresh, cooler water from a river or stream or natural well. Also, after the cranberry harvest takes place in autumn and before winter sets in, growers cover the bogs with water so the new berries for the next growing season won't freeze and die.
See what a guy can learn by studying the Encyclopedia Britannica?
Our swimming hole has Wisconsin River water that's been diverted to the Biron marshes. "Diverted" is a new word I met. It means "sidetracked." So, our swimming hole is sidetracked Wisconsin River water. Kind of interesting, isn't it? Well, I think so. It's also fascinating that our city swimming pool is diverted Wisconsin River water, too. The river also produces all our city's electricity at the paper mill by diverting river water, which pushes huge turbines around and around. The result is hydroelectric power. No wonder the Wisconsin River is called, "The hardest working river in the world."
Back to our swimming hole. We had a lot of fun, diving, cannonballing, and cooling off. It's the first time in our lives we went "skinny dipping."
"Nobody else knows about this place," yelled Paul. "So, we've got to keep it a secret. Let's make a pledge that we tell no one about it. it's our private swimming hole."
"Other people must know about it. What about the farmer who owns the hayfield?" I said.
"I don't think even he knows about it," retorted Paul.
"Gordy's right," said Glen. "That farmer has to see it from his tractor."
"You may think so," yelled Paul, "but I know better."
"How do you know better?" I asked.
"I just do."
"Yeah," said Glen. "If you ask Paul, he'll tell you he knows everything about everything."
"Well, I do," yelled Paul.
"See what I said? He does it every time." Both Glen and I laughed.
Although Glen's younger than Paul, Glen is built like Minnesota professional wrestler Vern Gagne. Usually quiet, Glen has a wry sense of humor and gives everyone a hard time, me included. Not many object to his comments, but if anyone does, it's Fist City time. And Glen usually wins.
So, I changed the subject. "I like our swimming hole better than the city pool. Here, we can stand up just about anywhere except for the middle, and that's just over our noses."
"What's that?" yelled Paul.
"A train," answered Glen. "It's a goldarned train, you guys. Everybody in."
At once, we were in the water and made it to a spot where we were up to our waists in the coffee-colored water. Naturally, we didn't want our bare butts and wieners to be seen by anyone else.
So, as the newfangled diesel-powered engine made its way by us, the engineer waved and blew that horrendous sounding horn. Which didn't sound too horrendous at the time, because we yelled and waved at him and his fireman who smiled and waved back twice as hard as we waved. I'll bet he wished he could join us in the cold water.
Soon, the train pulling six railroad cars carrying paper from the Biron paper mill to who knows where was out of sight.
Soon after that, we dressed. We promised ourselves to return to our personal swimming hole if the beastly hot weather continued to persist. Which it did. It's the hottest summer I can remember.
I'll tell you more about our swimming hole next time. Right now, I'm going to go outside. Bobby Kell is at the back door and just called out my name. Maybe his cat had another batch of kittens.
RSS Feed