Jerry Apps - Never Curse the Rain: A Farm Boys Reflections on Water

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Jerry Apps

WISCONSIN HISTORICAL SOCIETY PRESS

Published by the Wisconsin Historical Society Press
Publishers since 1855

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2017 by Jerold W. Apps

E-book edition 2017

For permission to reuse material from Never Curse the Rain (ISBN 978-0-87020-794-5; e-book ISBN 978-0-87020-795-2), please access www.copyright.com or contact the Copyright Clearance Center, Inc. (CCC), 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, 978-750-8400. CCC is a not-for-profit organization that provides licenses and registration for a variety of users.

Cover linoleum print by John Zimm 2017
Design and cover illustration color by Nancy Warnecke, Moonlit Ink
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Apps, Jerold W., 1934

Title: Never curse the rain : a farm boy's reflections on water / Jerry Apps.

Description: Madison : Wisconsin Historical Society Press, 2016.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016022476 (print) | LCCN 2016024268 (e-book) | ISBN 9780870207945 (hardcover : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780870207952 (e-book) | ISBN 9780870207952 (E-book)

Subjects: LCSH: Water-supply, RuralWisconsin. | Rain and rainfallWisconsin. | Farm lifeWisconsin. | Country lifeWisconsin. | Water-supply, AgriculturalWisconsin.

Classification: LCC TD927 .A67 2016 (print) | LCC TD927 (e-book) | DDC 333.91009775dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016022476

If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water.
LOREN EISELEY

I dedicate this book to my late father, Herman Apps, who helped me understand why we should never curse the rain.

As a farm boy growing up on a hilly, sandy, stony, and droughty central Wisconsin farm, I learned early in my life to cherish water. The lives of our cattle and horses and of the crops that we grew depended on it.

We had three sources of water at our farm: the water we pumped from our deep well with a windmill, water that fell from the skies as rain, and water that fell as snow. None of these sources was dependablethe windmill sometimes didnt turn for days; the rains might come regularly one growing season and be spotty for another. Some winters the fields were covered with three feet or more of snow, and others the fields were as bare as a southwestern desert.

My dad instilled in me a great appreciation for the water we did have, and a bit of dread, too, for times when the rains didnt come, the weather was hot, and the windmill was still. When it rained, it was time for celebration. And when my brothers and I complained about a rainy day spoiling our plans, my father admonished, Never curse the rain. Pa passed on to me an understanding of the great importance of water and how the farms need for water must come before the familys hopes and wishes. Oftentimes this latter point was difficult for my brothers and me to understand, and I suspect it was even hard for my mother to accept at times. She never complained, and she cooked, cleaned, and washed clothes with as little water as possible.

Not all of our interest in water related to the farms operation. My brothers and I enjoyed swimming in a nearby lake; we went fishing, more often in winter than in summer; we ice-skated; and everyone in our family enjoyed just sitting on the shore of a lake or a river and looking, listening, and thinking our own thoughts.

In this book I share some of my stories related to water. Some of the stories go back seventy-five years to when I was a youngster; others are more contemporary, as water has continued to be an important part of my life.

In a chapter I call Final Thoughts, I write about my concerns for the future of water and the challenges we must overcome if we will continue to have sufficient and safe water for drinking, growing food, and enjoying our natural surroundings. Water is one of the most precious things on this planet, necessary for all life, and we must do everything we can to protect it through careful use, legislation, and regulation. For many of us this will require a change in our thinking. We can no longer assume we will always have the water we need.

By July of 1938, when my brothers were six months old, Donald was very ill. In fact, the doctor had told my parents he probably wouldnt live. None of us had been baptizedmy dad didnt think it was necessary. But now my mother, who had grown up in a German Lutheran family and had attended a German school for her early schooling, insisted that Donald be baptized. Pa agreed. Although we didnt belong to a church at the time, we occasionally attended a Norwegian Lutheran church a few miles from our farm, and Ma asked the pastor, Reverend Carl Vevle, if he could come out to the farm and baptize the twins.

On a Wednesday evening, Reverend Vevle arrived at our farm. He asked for some warm water. Pa poured water from the pail next to the sink into a little pan and added warm water from the teakettle on the stove. My mothers brother, Uncle Wilbur Witt, and his wife, Katherine, had agreed to be witnesses for the event. I stood nearby watching, a curious little four-year-old (my birthday had been three days earlier) who had never seen anyone baptized. It seemed strange to meand maybe even a waste of good wateras Reverend Vevle sprinkled a little water on Donalds head and intoned the words, In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.

I immediately wondered which father he was talking aboutmy dad, maybe? And which son? And, wow, what was this holy ghost business? I knew enough about Halloween to have heard about ghosts, and now my sick baby brother was having water sprinkled on him in the name of a ghost, a holy one at that.

Darrel came next, the same sprinkling, same words. Ma watched carefully. Even at age four I could see all of this was very important to her. Darrel squirmed a little, but he didnt cry.

Well, I guess that takes care of it, said Reverend Vevle as he began folding up the special little towels he had brought along.

As long as youre here, Pastor, you might as well baptize Jerry as well.

Sure, said Reverend Vevle. I didnt know he wasnt baptized.

At my mothers direction, I bent my head over the pan. I got the full treatment, not just a sprinkling of water for me, but a goodly amount, as I heard the words, by that time committed to memory: In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

So now we were all three baptizedchildren of God, as the pastor said, patting me on the head. After Reverend Vevle left, I asked Ma what all of this baptism business was about, and she explained it to me as best she could. When I asked about the water, she said we had been baptized with Holy Water. It still seemed like ordinary water to me, having come from the water pail that sat every day on the edge of the sink. But I questioned her no further.