The Aultman Taylor 30-60 was the king of tractors back in the day.

Most, myself included, don’t even know what it looked like, unless they’ve seen pictures. Only the oldest men on the colony still have memories of working with this piece of equipment.

During harvest, the 30-60 was the driving force behind the threshing machine, strong and steady, while six two-man teams took turns pitching sheaves for all they were worth. “Dependable, I should say!” one of those former sheaf pitchers chuckled when thinking of those times. “We were secretly hoping it would break down so we could catch a break. No such luck.”

Cornelius Aultman and Henry H. Taylor established the Aultman & Taylor Machinery Company in 1867 in Mansfield, Ohio. They manufactured steam engines, threshers and other farm machines.

In 1910, the first Aultman Taylor 30-60 was built and deemed one of the best tractors of its time. It remained at the top of the Aultman-Taylor line until the sale of the company in January 1923.

That sale came after years of financial difficulties. The Advance-Rumely Company of La Porte, Ind., bought out Aultman & Taylor, including all property, patents and designs. They ran into their own troubles though. In 1931, thanks to struggles through the Great Depression coupled with the State of Ohio revoking their Article of Incorporation for non-payment of incorporation dues, Allis-Chalmers of Wilmington, Del., became the new owners.

When I contacted the Manitoba Agricultural Museum in Austin for information on this tractor, I was put in touch with their historian, Alex Campbell.

“The Aultman Taylor 30-60 was a well-built, very powerful and reliable tractor for that time and could drive very large threshing machines, 50-inch cylinder width or more,” he said in an email. “To operate such a large threshing machine economically meant a large number of sheaf wagons, men and horses were required to feed the threshing machine.”

No surprise then that this was the preferred tractor for Hutterites. The acquisition of a unit proved a sound investment for Elm River Colony, as it served them well from 1934 to 1948.

From field to exhibit

Over the years, many different tractors have come and gone, most forgotten as quickly as the newest wonder rolled in. Of that vast fleet, only the remains of one warranted being placed in a museum.

This piece of Elm River Colony history went on to sit at the Manitoba Agricultural Museum for more than five decades.

In the early 1960s, the museum learned about the antique, which at that point had been parked for more then 10 years. By that time, many of its parts had been removed, some likely sold, including, sadly, all the brass parts, radiator and fan. Nevertheless, the museum was happy when Elm River Colony donated their rather sorry looking 30-60 to the facility’s collection.

The inoperable skeleton of the tractor spent years decorating the museum grounds, while other, running antiques entertained audiences at events such as the Manitoba Thresherman’s Reunion and Stampede every summer. The odd visitor occasionally lingered at its side for a while, perhaps reminiscing about their own experiences with the dependable 30-60.

Museum management always hoped to acquire parts for the 30-60 but, when that never happened, they eventually had to let the machine go.

“The museum had to make the difficult decision to deaccession this tractor, and it is no longer part of our collection,” Tricia Dyck, the museum’s collections and programing manager, informed me recently. “Deaccessioning artifacts like this tractor is always a challenging and nuanced process, as we strive to balance preservation, relevance, and the resources available to maintain our collection.”

I was surprised by this news, but certainly understood, especially since so much of the machine was missing.

Comparing the staying power of today’s state-of-the-art, but often traded off tractors though with the trusty Aultman Taylor 30-60, it seems, as Grandpa used to say, “They don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

The post Once king of the field: Tales of an antique tractor appeared first on Manitoba Co-operator.

It’s a little smaller than its full-scale cousins that still smatter Manitoba’s landscape. This one is in a tree.

Small changes to a long-abandoned birdhouse was all it took to attract new feathered residents.

A remnant of a school project from bygone years, the barn’s red and white paint is not as vibrant as it once was. The weather-beaten walls have cracks.

Much to my chagrin, no creatures have lived in it since I’ve been here, and no amount of wishing has lured any birds. Many years ago, I was told, it housed a wren family every summer. The entrance was purposefully small, so only petite birds would fit.

Tired of waiting for the intended bird types to build a nest, and remembering the year before, when a pair of tree swallows tried their best to get inside, I tentatively suggested to my stepson (the original bird barn constructor), that the hole might be made bigger.

A day later, alteration finished, I eagerly watched from our living room window.

Somebody must have told the local swallow couple about the new real estate because, less than a week later, they were there to stake their claim. Finally, I’d have a front row seat to a feathered family settling in and raising their young, and would be able to admire the fledglings when they left home.

Then, the barn became contested territory. A pair of sparrows seemed to think that, since they live here year-round, they should have first dibs. I was rooting for the swallows. What followed was days of bird-bickering and aerial fights.

Eventually, my chosen team won. The sparrows gave up and the swallow nest building continued. For the next few weeks, dried grass and feathers were brought to the barn house, mostly by the female. For days on end, she would glide smoothly past our window with a beak full of building material. From my observation, the male acted as foreman at the construction site, stopping by every so often to oversee progress.

Before long, the foreman role changed to devoted soon-to-be papa. He was kept busy bringing food for the female, who didn’t venture too far from home and her eggs. I couldn’t wait to get my first glimpse of the babies and was so excited when a tiny head peered out.

Now both mama and papa flew back and forth all day long, feeding their young. Sometimes three tiny heads were visible at the same time, wide mouths waiting for juicy bugs.

I’d heard fledglings are pushed out of the nest by the parents and was looking forward to see how this would play out. Sometimes, it seemed one of the babies (now fully feathered) was wondering the same thing, as it poked its head out of the hole and looked down to the ground below. I hoped they’d be all right, especially with a number of dogs around our Hutterite colony.

Days later, while folding laundry, I noticed the female frantically darting around the tree. Upon closer look, there was a squirrel, but it seemed as if it was trying to get to the dog dishes beside the tree.

I grabbed my phone and recorded as the squirrel made for a water dish, the mother swallow swooping toward it in an effort to scare it off. The squirrel seemed nervous, and soon scurried back up the tree. Halfway up, it stopped, seemingly noticing the birdhouse for the first time. The little mammal clambered towards it and nimbly balanced on top. This sent the swallow into an anxious frenzy.

As the squirrel reached the opening, I thought there was no way it would fit through the hole. Surely the babies were safe.

The squirrel thought otherwise. It scrambled for access as I watched, wondering if a squirrel would, in fact, eat baby birds. I was horrified when it got partly through the hole.

Phone abandoned, I hurried outside, looking for something long to reach the birdhouse. By then I was angry enough to want that squirrel dead. Unfortunately for the critter, a hoe stood right beside the front door. The squirrel came out of the birdhouse just as I got to the tree. I poked at it with my weapon and, apparently cowed by my hoe, it scampered away. It stopped on a nearby branch and looked back, probably to see if I was still there.

Then a blackbird joined the battle. The newcomer chased the squirrel through leaves and branches, staying right above it, squawking loudly as the interloper scurried up and down trees and out of sight.

I stood watching, still holding my weapon. I wasn’t sure what to make of that chase, since a few days before, another blackbird visit had been met with anxiety from the swallows.

My eyes turned back to mama bird, still anxiously darting around the tree. Not a sound came from her home. A few feathers clung to the opening, a sorrowful reminder of the harm inflicted by a squirrel. After a while, the female swallow flew away, not even going near her nest. I haven’t seen her since.

A few hours later, I witnessed another somber moment as the male swallow flitted in front of the nest, but also held back from approaching the opening. I stood by the window in silent lament as it dawned on me that, if I had intervened sooner, there might still be a swallow family in our old birdhouse.

I know squirrels have to eat too, and have since learned that they only go after eggs and baby birds when unable to find other food. However, it doesn’t ease the sadness that the bird family I had the joy of watching for weeks ended so tragically. Three babies were inside the birdhouse when my stepson cleaned it out the next day. I, like the swallow parents, could not bear to look.

Still, there is always hope that another feathered family will call the old barn home one day, even if it wasn’t this year.

As I return to my laundry, I’m reminded of Emily Dickinson’s poem, Hope is the Thing with Feathers:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

The post Summer of the swallows appeared first on Manitoba Co-operator.

Looking out any window of our house, I’m bound to see one or more of the dogs that live at our Hutterite community in southern Manitoba.

The dogs are all shapes, sizes, colours and breeds: collie, terrier, poodle, German shepherd and American bulldog, to name a few. Most are mixed breeds, with maybe one or two purebreds.

These canine creatures can be seen playing with each other or the children, chasing birds or snoozing under a tree.

I always find it interesting how some of them hang out around the school during the school year. They obviously love the children as much as the children love them.

Each dog has his or her own tale as to how they came to live in a Hutterite community. Rowley, a fairly big American bulldog, sported a beautiful beige coat, coffee-coloured eyes and a nose that looked like someone had pushed it in.

In summer 2016, one of the families in our community wanted a dog, although they weren’t sure what type or even where they’d get one. The dreams and plans of this family never included the kind of dog that ended up joining them.

One summer day, the parents were coming home from Winnipeg when they noticed something strange in the ditch. Curious, they stopped to take a look. As they walked toward it, they first thought it was a pig. They knew there had been an accident involving a semi-truck hauling pigs a few days earlier, and thought it could have come from that truck.

On closer inspection, they saw it was a dog — a very sick looking dog. Its hair was mostly gone, its body was full of sores, there was yellow stuff coming out of its eyes, it had mange and was barely alive. Add a strong stench to all that and the flies having a field day.

Many people would have departed quicker than they had arrived. However, this couple felt compassion and couldn’t fathom leaving a suffering creature to die in a ditch.

As gently as possible, they wrapped it in a sweater they had bought that day and carried it to their vehicle. At home they laid the dog on a rug on their back porch. Surrounded by shrubs and flowers, the covered porch was a pleasant place for a convalescing pooch.

None of the kids were very excited about this turn of events.

“It doesn’t even look like a dog,” said Fern, the youngest daughter. Some thought it looked like a kangaroo. Why would their parents even bring the thing home? Yes, they wanted a dog, but not an ugly, smelly, half-dead, rescue mongrel! Oh well, perhaps it would die. Then they could get a real dog.

But since they had been raised to show love to all of God’s creatures, the children helped take care of the dog. First, it had to be quarantined because of the mange. In a week or so, rehydrated, well-fed and cared for, they were astonished to see that the dog started to improve, and before long the sores healed and its hair began to grow back.

Slowly but surely, he had nosed his way into their hearts. One day they were discussing names for their pet.

“How about Pigler,” Lee jokingly suggested.

“Absolutely not!” the girls chorused.

They didn’t think much of that idea, since they wanted to forget what he first looked like. Finally, they agreed to name him Rowley, after a character in their mom’s favourite movie, Diary of a Wimpy Kid.

The family never found out who ditched the dog, but certain signs indicated Rowley had been abused. Whenever he saw someone with a broom or big stick, he ran away to hide. This made them love him even more.

Rowley seemed to love everyone on the colony, even those who didn’t particularly like him. He especially loved the family who had nursed him back to health and gave him a new lease on life. He loved to lick them, especially their feet. Upon researching this behaviour, they learned that this was the dog’s way of showing gratitude.

The newest member of the family was a very emotional dog who sometimes came home pouting after a scuffle with one of the other dogs on the colony. He enjoyed playing tag around the house, playing outside with his four-legged, furry friends, Mia, Lucy and Jasper, or snoozing in the shade on hot summer days.

But best of all, he loved to join Fern when she took golf cart rides around the colony after a long day working in the garden. Rowley knew Fern reserved the spot right beside her for him, and sat there like the proudest pooch of the pack. He also knew, when he jumped off for an impromptu swim in the lagoon, that he had to go in the back or run home.

One of Rowley’s favourite activities was swimming in any body of water, lagoon, river or swimming pool. It didn’t seem to matter that as an American bulldog, his centre of gravity was around the torso, which made it hard for him to float properly and keep his head above the water. His stubby nose didn’t help either.

Then there was the day he leisurely ambled around the colony. His stroll led him to an open door at the communal kitchen. A tantalizing scent met his twitching nostrils. Thinking the door may have been left open especially for him, he followed his nose right to the bakery. Before the bewildered bakers could react, he had snatched a few fresh buns from the table and high-tailed it back out.

After a few years, arthritis slowed him down considerably. I always felt sorry watching him with the other dogs when he clearly could no longer keep up with their antics. The family, not wanting to watch him suffer, made the painful decision to put him down. They decided to wait until morning to tell Fern this sad news.

That night there was a thunderstorm. Fern heard it and hurried outside to check on Rowley, who got really scared when it stormed. Not finding him on his back-porch rug, nor in his dog house, she grew frantic running around in the pouring rain calling his name. Hearing the commotion, her mom came to the door and called her inside.

“I can’t find Rowley,” Fern said with a shaky voice.

“He’s gone,” her mom said quietly.

After the sad truth sank in, Fern slowly walked to her room, a sad mantra playing in her head like the haunting song of a mourning dove. Happy memories mingled with sad ones as she drifted into dreamland. No more Rowley licks. No more golf cart rides with Rowley as co-driver. No more games of tag.

Rowley’s final five years were happy ones, thanks to the people who adopted him. He took full advantage of interesting places to discover and romp through on our colony. Rowley, the rescue dog, will long be remembered by his adoptive family. In his own language, he showed that he believed every word of this poem:

I Am Rescued

You didn’t care how I looked or that I wasn’t a pedigree.
You showed me that I wasn’t disposable and that I was loved.
You brought back the sparkle in my eyes and the shine of my coat.
You restored my spirit so my tail can wag again.
You took a chance on me to see what I can become.
You gave me a place to call home and a family to call my own.
– Author unknown

The post The life of Rowley appeared first on Manitoba Co-operator.

— Michael Bridge

With COVID-19 hanging over the entire world like a depressing grey cloud, I am quite content to stay home in order to help ‘flatten the curve,’ since I have a few tasks begging to be finished.

There is bedding sitting on my sewing machine, stories on my computer and a new venture waiting for me in the attic. The new venture won first place. I decide to crochet a rug for our back door, where its rich hues and homemade warmth will welcome all who enter. I’ve crocheted doilies, afghans, potholders and other small items, but never a rug. The idea of working with a cumbersome rug draped over my lap, never appealed to me. Until now.

An ample amount of yarn, tucked away in the attic of my new home, kept calling me to do something with it: one never knows where the next nudge to create will originate. A loving mother had unravelled sweaters and meticulously sorted and stored this yarn, likely dreaming of creating lovely rugs. However, God saw fit to take her home.

I didn’t know Sara well, having met her only once. From all accounts, she was a devoted wife, mother and grandmother – whose beautiful family I adopted by marrying Michael. I am humbled, that in God’s divine plan, I am now part of her family, blessed by the work of her capable hands and loving heart.

Kneeling beside barrels and boxes brimming with beautiful yarn, in a variety of hues, felt strange at first – like I was going through someone else’s belongings. As my eyes scanned the multicoloured skeins, I wondered which ones Sara would have chosen to make a rug. I held up a green and a black ball towards the light. Would she have liked this combination? Or perhaps she would rather have gone for something bright, like blues and yellows? I finally settled on a mixture of red and white contrasted by shades of grey. I put my selections into two tuckers, dragged them downstairs and started mixing and winding a number of thin strands to form one thick one. A few hours later I had two large balls of yarn ready for my project. I was excited about trying this traditional Hutterite skill.

Crocheted rugs have graced Hutterite homes for many decades. Years ago they were simply made, following no particular pattern, using mostly leftover balls of yarn from knitting stockings and mittens. Repurposing yarn from unravelling sweaters was also quite common. Today, complex patterns are used to create attractive works of art, which sometimes requires new yarn.

My rug leans more towards simple, as the pattern consists only of interchanging four rounds of red, and then four rounds of grey. Still, grey and red will look striking in a rug. If nothing else, it will always serve as a reminder that it was created during the coronavirus lockdown. Grey, for the dismal veil hanging over the whole world right now, I muse, as I start crocheting, admiring the contrasting hues. Red signifies strength, hope and determination to stay positive through this pandemic.

I’ve always found my crocheting hobby relaxing and gratifying. My mind meanders, as hook in hand, timeless treasures are turned out. It’s also an ideal time to dream, reflect, plan and listen to music, pondering messages in the songs.

As I make my way through another round, I hum along with Amos Raber, playing on my phone:

If you read the paper and turn on the news,

It doesn’t take long and you’ve got the blues…

There’s better times a-coming, but they ain’t here yet…

I wonder what’s in store for us with this vicious virus. It’s mind boggling to think that this pandemic has most of the world in the same predicament. I tried to imagine what our Easter holy days would feel like as I worked. Here in my new colony, we’d already postponed baptism and the same would be true for communion. I ponder the plagues God sent over the Egyptians, before freeing His chosen people, Joseph’s descendants, from bondage, since it’s basic to our annual communion service preparation teachings. This year, the mere mention of plagues will strike a raw chord, as one is leaving a devastating trail around the globe.

Numerous questions churn in my brain: Are we being careful enough? What colony would have the first corona case? Would we lose loved ones? What will students have lost, when school resumes? When will I see my family next? This was highlighted when I heard that my eighty-four-year-old mom, who doesn’t quite understand this social distancing, keeps asking, “Why does Linda no longer come to visit?”

Visions from yesteryear scroll through my mind when Mom was still crocheting rugs. After every few rounds she was on the floor with her creation, patting it down, stretching it in all directions, then standing up and tramping it down, all to get it to lie flat. Sometimes she simply had to unravel it and start over.

Yanking days of work apart, she stated, “Ich erger mich la anmol. I’m only perturbed once.” I can relate to all of it, as this is my first rug and I have done a fair share of my own yanking. Watching me one evening, Michael reassuringly, but with a hint to mirth, whispers, “I promise not to tell anyone how often you’ve unravelled it.”

I started out with no pattern, just advice from my sister, Sonia and my Aunt Susie and my own crochet experiences. Apparently that is not enough. Finally I got my hands on a pattern. However, I could make no sense of it, as the abbreviations were nothing like the ones in my crochet books. It may as well have been from China.

Then one day, our minister, Eddy Vetter and his wife, Judy Basel stopped by. I told her of my dilemma and she was able to explain the pattern to me since she’s used the same one many times. The symbols indicating the various stitches are still strange, but at least I understand them now and my rug is growing again. Best of all, I don’t have to spend so much time on the floor trying to tramp and stretch a bubbly rug into submission. It’s gratifying to see my once unruly rug lie beautifully flat.

Woven into my rug are a few heartfelt prayers: asking God to protect family and friends, to give wisdom, strength and courage in dealing with this pandemic, and patience while we stay home until this plague is contained. I pray for our leaders, health-care workers, truckers and businesses… all of whom strive to keep us safe, and ensure needed supplies are available. I thank God for His protection, love and omnipotence during this anxious time, the friend who lent me a stack of German novels, family and friends who call and write, the cooks who prepare delicious meals for us to take home, for my family, and the lovely Easter lily with which my husband just surprised me.

I’m reminded of a drama we did years ago, “Grandma Says.” In it, Grandma is always knitting. All day long, while family and friends stop to share their worries and woes. Each time, Grandma, barely looking up, calmly offers advice, but keeps on knitting, which serves to frustrate her visitors. After each one leaves, Grandma prays for them. The message is simple, yet timeless: stay busy, stay calm, trust and pray.

Hopefully in the years ahead, I’ll become more like this wise Granny – something to work towards. Nonetheless, thanks to Sara’s stash of skeins, I’m hooked on my new hobby.

And I long for the day when everything will return to something approaching normal. Until then, my ‘work of the heart’ will help fill these COVID-19 isolation weeks. I’m grateful for this skill and my supply of resources to engage in this immensely therapeutic work.

Linda Maendel is author of Hutterite Diaries and she now writes for Crystal Spring Colony, where she’s relocated to, due to her marriage.

The post Work of our hearts appeared first on Manitoba Co-operator.

On a Hutterite colony, typically one couple is in charge of the vegetable garden. They’re the ones who decide what will be planted, when the garden needs weeding or produce is ready to be picked.

For these tasks, the women’s work group and sometimes the men and older children will help as well. When it’s a smaller task, like digging a few boxes of carrots for the kitchen, the gardener couple will do it with a few Dienen, young women.

I have many happy memories of helping Josh Vetter and Kate Basel, my aunt and uncle, when they were the gardeners at our colony. One memorable autumn task for me is ‘fasielen dreschn,’ harvesting dry beans. We had combines, of course, but unlike today’s gardeners, Josh Vetter preferred the old way.

“Girls, you can start pulling out the bean plants,” Kate Basel announced when we arrived at the garden. “Posst ober auf! Se sein zimblich truckn. Be careful they’re very dry.” The sun-dried, brittle beans sang their crackly harvest song as we worked.

Using pitchforks, we placed the plants on one half of a huge tarp, then pulled the other half on top of the plants, completely covering them. With his little garden tractor, Josh Vetter drove back and forth on the tarp a few times. This broke the pods, so the beans fell out. After that, the tarp was lifted, the plants thrown out and the beans, plus a lot of plant bits and dirt poured into a huge container.

“Who needs a combine, when we can thresh like this?” Josh Vetter quipped from his perch on his Farmall A. “Geat’s nit guet?” I agreed with my uncle, it was fun, because it was like stepping back into pioneer days.

Finally, it was time for the wind winnowing process, to separate the beans from the dirt. Kate Basel filled a dipper, held it high over a tub and slowly emptied it. The beans fell into the tub, while the chaff was blown away by the breeze. If there wasn’t any wind that day, a large fan worked just as well.

Much as I enjoyed this process every September, the beans were of no significance to me. I didn’t enjoy eating them and certainly wasn’t aware that there was anything special about the variety we grew back then. I probably didn’t even know that there were numerous varieties. These beans were pale green with a distinct black rim around the eye. The ones we grow now are white and smaller in size. For the most part, we cook the beans and serve them with sausages. Leftovers become pork and beans to be served with the fries at supper, or soup the next day.

These bean memories were reawakened recently when I read an article by Sandra Fisher, titled “Living Heirlooms,” in the Fayetteville Observer, an online Iowa newspaper that landed in my inbox via my Google Alerts “Hutterites” setting. The blurb that caught my attention read, “Seeds which have been preserved keep people in touch with their ancestry and help retain history. Imagine a variety of fruit or vegetable that was so important to a family’s history or homeland that they would bring it with them when they immigrated to America. Such is the case with Greek melons, which were introduced in the early 20th century when Greek immigrants settled in Utah, and Hutterite Soup Beans, which came to North America in the 1870s by virtue of Hutterite Christians fleeing persecution in Europe.”

Intrigued, I sent a message to the author. She didn’t know much more than she had in her article, but suggested I contact the Seed Savers Exchange in Iowa. Upon researching via Google, I found a website that boasted: “Hutterite Soup Beans make a soup unlike any other bean.” Other websites described the soup from these beans as “rich, delicious and creamy,” and also have their origin in the bean’s description.

Some, however, express doubt that the bean was brought to America by Hutterites in the 1870s, since there is evidence of these beans being in North America before that. William Woys Weaver, an internationally known food historian, believes the bean is a Russian variety, known as China Yellow, and that, “The Hutterites could indeed, have brought the bean with them to Canada and the Dakotas.” The original strain was called Lemon Yellow, which “may indicate some crossing with a white variety, sometime in the past, perhaps to improve its quality as a soup bean.”

I asked other Hutterites whether they ever heard of the heirloom beans. Few knew anything about them or had only a vague memory. However, one gardener couple has been growing them for a number of years, after buying a package from the Seed Savers Exchange. They were told that the beans cannot be bought in bulk. Therefore, they save some of their beans every year for seed — for their own use and to share with others. They kindly offered me some. I plan to offer them to our vegetable gardeners, in the hopes that we’ll start growing Hutterite Soup Beans once again. Only this time, I know the story behind them.

As we celebrate Thanksgiving, I was in awe that a late-19th-century Hutterite gardener had the faith and foresight — before crossing the Atlantic on the S.S. Hammonia — to tuck a bag of dry beans into his trunk.

Over 140 years later, they are featured on national seed catalogue pages as heirloom seeds — registered Hutterite Soup Beans!

Linda Maendel lives on a Hutterite colony in central Manitoba, and is author of the book The Hutterite Diaries.

The post An heirloom harvest spurs memories appeared first on Manitoba Co-operator.

Two columns of bricks create a makeshift stove, over which giant rectangular pans sit atop a steel table-like structure. Barrels of scrap hardwood, collected throughout winter at our carpenter shop especially for this, stand nearby. As my sister Sonia adds wood, sparks spew from the roaring fire as whistles and crackles create a merry tune. Steam rises from the gently bubbling Manitoba maple sap, filling the air with a sweet aroma. While the sap is boiling, the water-like liquid changes into beautiful golden-brown syrup.

Growing up, the ‘Laura books’ were among my favourites and the maple-sugaring story from Little House in the Big Woods captured my imagination. Little did I know back then a family member would re-enact this treasured memory every year, using our native trees. Each time it brings back happy reading memories, as the last traces of winter disappear.

Weeks before the cooking begins, Sonia goes out and taps trees around our colony. Using spiles she’s made from PVC pipes to tap the trees, the sap drips into repurposed juice or vinegar jugs.

“I’ve tapped 100 trees this year, the most I’ve ever done,” she happily informed me. Less snow, coupled with an earlier-than-normal thaw made that possible, putting Sonia right in her element — enjoying nature and producing a nutritious treat, which she shares with family and friends.

Each year is different when it comes to collecting sap. When spring is nice and mild one week then much colder and wintery the next, it causes the sap flow to be much slower. Ideal conditions are created when nights are -5 C, and daytime temperatures are around +5 C. Maple sapping is a long process, and it takes about 40 gallons of sap to get one gallon of syrup. This year yields have been better for Sonia, she was able to get a gallon of syrup from 34 gallons of sap.

Sonia’s mode of transportation to tap trees and collect sap is usually a golf cart. Loaded with a drill, spiles, pails and jugs she makes her rounds twice a day. With many of the maple trees in wooded areas, getting to them can be an adventure when there’s lots of snow. One year she had to crawl over three- to four-foot drifts to get to the trees. This works well when the pails are empty, but gets more challenging when they’re full of sap, especially since you don’t want to lose any of the sweet goodness.

During wet springs, dodging puddles and mud makes for a different set of challenges. But Sonia takes everything in stride, even if it means plodding through thigh-high snow or trudging through ankle-deep mud, balancing two pails of sap. Of six sisters in our family, she’s the one who embraces the outdoors the most, savouring each season as it comes and enjoying whatever it brings.

Sometimes she takes our five-year-old nephew Jakobi to help collect sap. He loves being outdoors as much as Sonia, and feels very important taking the jugs from the tree and emptying the sap into a pail. However, he tends to get distracted by the puddles that call him for some splash time. One day there were new baby chicks in the barn.

Driving past the barn he asked Sonia, “While you collect sap, I will stay with the baby chicks. Will that work?”

“How about we both collect sap first,” Sonia responded. “Then we’ll visit the chicks later?”

Sonia also makes maple butter, which I enjoy even more than the syrup. A rich layer of this natural goodness spread on fresh homemade bread makes for a delicious and nutritious snack. I close my eyes, savour this seasonal morsel, and reminisce.

I’m a little girl again, licking maple sugar snow candy with Laura.

“Grandma stood by the brass kettle and with a big wooden spoon she poured hot syrup on each plate of snow. It cooled into a soft candy, and as fast as it cooled they ate it. They could eat all they wanted, for maple sugar never hurt anybody.”

Linda Maendel lives, works and writes at Elm River Colony, and is author of Hutterite Diaries: Wisdom From My Prairie Community

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The first Earth Day was on April 22, 1970. At a conference in Seattle the previous September, U.S. Senator Gaylord Nelson proposed taking one day a year to remind of the importance of keeping our planet clean, and invited everyone to participate. The idea took off like a field of winter wheat sprouting in spring. Today it is celebrated in 192 countries.

I learned the value of frugality not so much from words as through observation. My parents taught by example, showing us that thrift was as much a biblical principle as “Love your neighbour as yourself” (Mark 12:31). Mom never threw out empty containers or anything else she thought might be reused. A plastic bleach jug, for example, would become a clothespin holder. After she cut a hole in its side and a slit at the bottom of the handle to serve as a hook, this receptacle slid along the wash line with ease.

Mom served as colony nursery school teacher for many years, and among the sandbox toys there were always some repurposed items. The top half of a pop bottle became a fine funnel, and the bottom an ideal mould to make beautiful mud cakes. A detergent bottle cut off diagonally turned into a sandbox shovel.

Just inside the door of our home there’s always a crocheted rug crafted from the wool of unravelled sweaters. Part of the washroom décor we have a beautiful and practical rag rug created out of old Fortrel clothes. With patchwork hot pads and dishcloths knit from recycled yarn, the kitchen boasts old-country appeal. In the past, when sugar and flour came in cotton sacks, these were bleached and turned into dish towels, with colourfully embroidered designs added on one edge or in the corners.

Values continue

Although some of these recycled items have been retired along with the old-fashioned syrup-pail knitting “baskets,” the values they instilled are as durable as colony clothes.

“It’s not garbage when it can still be used,” rings in my ear whenever I want to throw out something that could be reused. That was Mom’s way of reminding us of the teaching in Psalm 24:1: “The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof; the world, and they that dwell therein.” This implies a sacred duty to take care of the Earth.

Although I grew up and saw individuals and families repurposing things, it’s a relatively new thing to recycle as a colony. This can be challenging when there is no program in place. However, the real challenge is getting some of our people to understand the importance of recycling. A Hutterite kitchen for example, ends up with a variety of recyclables, including plastic, tin and glass containers, cardboard boxes and plastic bags. Sadly, most of these things end up on the nuisance ground, when they could just as easily go to a recycling depot. If individuals and families see the value of recycling, why not embrace it as an entire community?

To ensure our students are aware of the importance of recycling, we incorporate special programs into our school schedules. For a few years now, an organization called Take Pride Winnipeg has offered its Bag Up Manitoba program to schools. During the month of October, each school that registers has their students collect plastic bags, wrappers, or bubble wrap from their homes, preventing them from going to landfill sites. At school, the items are counted and packaged into bigger bags. The bags are eventually shipped to an American company that builds decks, park benches, planters, and birdhouses out of recycled plastic. Programs such as this one cannot be successful without the support of our families and friends.

Through our school we’ve also incorporated a recycling program to gather recyclables from the colony homes. These include glass, plastic, juice and pop containers, cardboard boxes and paper. Through Recycle Everywhere, a Manitoba province-wide recycling program, we acquired free collection containers. Each Thursday morning our Grades 5 to 8 students collect the recyclables and bring them to our storage building for sorting. Every second Friday, Portage Recycling picks up these items and takes them to its depot where they’re packaged and shipped to various destinations for recycling.

With all this in place, however, there’s still more work to be done. I dream of the day when recycling will be a mainstay in all our communal buildings. Our kitchen, barns and shops all have many items that could be recycled.

Out of necessity Hutterites and others lived frugally centuries ago. Some kept it up and passed it on to their children; sadly, others did not. Learning new ways to utilize old things is imperative in today’s world. With materials more readily available nowadays, people tend to thoughtlessly throw out and replace things, rather than reusing or recycling them. As stewards of the earth, we’re obligated to celebrate Earth Day every day!

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“Why do we have to be the scapegoats?” one area resident protested. Another wondered, “How can they decide to sacrifice my land to spare others’ properties?”

Others saw beyond that: “I totally understand why they chose this spot. It’s an oxbow of the Assiniboine, so the current isn’t as strong.”

The “method” to the control led breach “madness” was to save a more populated area from potential flooding, which in turn meant the people southeast of this bend would be sacrificing their homes and/ or livelihoods for others.

With that menacing scenario in mind, a flood of activities united our community to brace for the breach. People from all walks of life generously donated time, energy and resources to protect homes from the Assiniboine breach water. Not just area residents and those whose properties were threatened – everyone involved – was treated to a dramatic demonstration of neighbourly love. High-schoolers worked shoulder to shoulder with retirees, city and town folk beside farmers, while Hutterites served food to army regiments.

Sandbagging sites crawled with volunteers who produced sandbags in record time. These were trucked to homes where human chains were formed to place the bags and build dikes around vulnerable homes. Military personnel erected aqua dikes, and Hutterites from colonies all over Manitoba came to help. When members of Sunny Side Colony were asked why they were not protecting their own colony, they answered, “We’re farther away, so we can help those in greater danger first.” This massive effort continued until every house in danger of flooding had a white or black barrier standing guard.

Fortunately, river levels are steadily receding, the breach has been closed and homeowners can breathe easier. Soon, those white and black barriers will be only an eyesore, a mute reminder of the back-breaking cleanup to come. Hopefully, the community spirit prevails for this task, so people inside the dikes can be confident they won’t be left alone to remove their dikes.

“I guess we’re all changing our cellphone numbers when we’re done here,” someone joked while building dikes and already thinking about taking them down – just one example of the humour people used to cope with the emergency stress.

In our Portage area, we are presently enjoying smoother sailing. This is not the case everywhere, as the waters are still rather rough along Lake Manitoba. Damages there far exceed those here, with some homes surrounded by water, and the crest is not expected before mid-June. Furthermore, there is the threat of serious erosion. One can only imagine what it feels like to see water overtaking one’s home, but hopefully, the government’s proposed compensation package will alleviate at least some stress and help restore the beauty and serenity of living on the lake.

Linda Maendel writes from her colony home near Newton, Man.

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Twelve fire trucks from Portage and area colonies surrounded the carpenter shop trying to douse the fire, but the building collapsed. “We have nothing,” one carpenter lamented. “Not even screws or a tape measure!”

Naturest Bedding was established in 1991, in an old 40 x 28-foot building, to make waterbed and futon frames, bunk beds, dressers and bedside tables. This venture didn’t do well, so the kitchen cabinets and vanities market was targeted and the name later changed to E &R Furnishings and Millwork.

To accommodate the growing number of orders, expansion was imperative. Therefore, the carpenter shop was moved to one side of the broiler barn, a relatively new 250 x 40-foot building, but more room was needed, so the whole building was utilized. (Elm River had discontinued producing geese so the goose barn became a broiler barn.)

The larger building provided opportunity to invest in larger, more complex machinery: shapers, glue wheel, edge bander, lathe and rip saws.

“This meant we’d be able to expand our business and build furniture more efficiently,” said Irvin Waldner, shop foreman. For over a decade beautiful, sturdy cabinets were manufactured for private homes, hotels, doctor’s offices, restaurants and other businesses all over Manitoba, into Saskatchewan and Ontario, building a name as a quality furniture factory.

A state-of-the-art Computer Numerically Controlled (CNC) router was acquired from Italy. It cuts, drills, and routs quickly and precisely. To accommodate the orders, plans were made to extend the building in spring 2011 and add a CNC nesting machine for melamine; a durable, economic particle board, pre-finished with a smooth laminate used for the insides of cabinets.

“Initially, most furniture was made of oak,” James Maendel, a carpenter explains. “Today, cabinet doors and drawer fronts are also custom made out of maple, mahogany, hickory, cherry alder, knotty alder and pine, finished in many different colours.”

E &R Furnishings employed seven full-time and four part-time workers. “I don’t have a job after school,” a highschooler reflected, his voice thick with emotion. “Carpentry is something I learned to enjoy. Now it’s gone!”

Days after the fire, the carpenters talked about rebuilding.

“No doubt, this is a severe setback,” James said. “But I am confident we can rebuild and continue our business as strong as ever.”

A temporary shop is set up in a barn with the office at the preschool which is used only during summer months. Contractors are constructing a new 300 x 70-foot building, and new machines are being ordered

“Compared to all the things we still have to be thankful for, this building was but a speck,” Rueben Vetter, our minister reminded us, during the first Sunday service after the fire.

Some customers have offered to wait for their cabinets until the shop is back in business.

A machinery salesman offered manager, Mac Hofer three interest-free years on the purchase of new machines.

“My heart goes out to my buddies at E &R Furnishings,” Pauly Kleinsasser, Springfield Woodworking posted on Facebook, and offered their shop to build cabinets for the new houses at Elm River.

This support, along with viable insurance provides the means and determination to rebuild after a devastating loss.

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The crisp message rings from the public address system, inviting colony members to a shift of picking weeds and lumps of dirt out of newly harvested potatoes travelling by conveyor into the shed.

“This is a recorded announcement!” one of the young women deadpans. Grabbing gloves and a jacket she heads for the potato shed.

Every autumn brings the exciting racket of tractors, trucks and potato diggers rattling and rumbling their way to the potato fields. Here at Elm River Colony, three generations gather to work on one project. Even the children help to harvest the brown-skinned, white-fleshed Russet Burbank potatoes, commonly used for french fries.

DIGGING

In the field, two John Deere tractors prepare to start; one pulls a four-row digger and the other a three-row digger. These massive machines driven by Jake Hofer, the potato manager and his helper, Marvin Waldner, drive slowly up and down the field. Each digger conveys the potatoes to a Ford truck moving alongside, while the plants are returned to the field.

A fleet of two Sterling and three Ford trucks transport the potatoes to the concrete shed where they are unloaded into a huge even-flow bin. This bin, which can hold approximately two tandem trucks of potatoes, ensures an even flow of potatoes onto the grading table.

In dry conditions, a clodhopper is used to eliminate dirt clumps, but this year’s rain made that impossible. The wet earth would clog the machine.

At the grading table, four people work quickly, taking out as much dirt as possible. As the potatoes tumble onto a conveyor, children and adults continue the task.

“Try to get all the dirt and small potatoes,” Mark Hofer, the foreman instructs. “We don’t want undue dockage at shipping time.”

COMMUNITY EFFORT

Finally, the conveyor drops the spuds onto the hopper of the piler, which moves them into the shed. This telescopic, arm-like conveyor is remote controlled, and moves from side to side and up and down, creating a neat pile, which fills the shed to capacity.

The potato shed requires the most workers: children, teenagers, fathers, mothers, grandfathers and sometimes even grandmothers work along the conveyor. The result is a jovial atmosphere and tonnes of relatively clean potatoes in storage.

This scene brings to mind Hans Krl’s description of community, a Hutterite elder in 1569. “It was like the work of a clock when every cogwheel drives another and everything turns in an orderly way, or like a hive of bees where all work together, some making honey, some making wax and some carrying nectar to the hive.”

“Kevin, tell me once more,” a Dien, young woman grins. “How many orders of french fries does this shed hold?”

“For the last time: 90,000, hundred- weight bags! Each bag yields some 500 orders of fries about three ounces each,” Kevin intones. “If you’re good at mental math, you can figure it out quite easily. If not, the answer is 45 million!”

NEAR MISS

Due to this year’s rain, the star table on the grading table gets clogged with dirt more than usual, requiring frequent cleaning. Kevin climbs up and begins unclogging it. Intent on finishing as quickly as possible, he doesn’t notice a frayed piece of his coveralls snagging on the moving parts.

Abruptly the machine grabs the sleeve and rips it off. Fortunately someone close by pulls him away and stops the machine, without serious harm. “Let this be a reminder for all of us to be more careful,” a grandfather admonishes. “It could have been much worse.”

Once the shed is full, the door stays sealed to maintain a temperature of 9 C. From a pit under wooden floor slats, gigantic fans circulate air up through the potatoes. A humidifier ensures 98 per cent humidity, to prevent shrinkage. This way, healthy potatoes can be stored from September to August of the following year, without spoiling. After they are shipped, the shed is cleaned and disinfected.

An average crop yields about 365 bags per acre, but this year’s projection is close to 417. Yields fluctuate annually, depending on growing conditions. Potatoes thrive in cool weather, with cool nights especially crucial. Too many hot days, with no night cooling, stifles growth. Potatoes also need at least an inch of water per week, so irrigation is essential.

DISEASE PRONE

Since potatoes are prone to disease, primarily blight, growers have to be vigilant and take preventive measures, including fungicide spraying every eight days during dry conditions and every five days during wet conditions, starting when the potatoes are about 30 cm high. In severe cases, the only option is watching the hard work and investment disappear under a plow.

To prevent blight from spreading when there’s only a touch of disease, there’s an expensive solution of spraying the potatoes as they go into the shed. “When you haul these potatoes to the processing plant,” one farmer joked, “don’t stop for coffee. You simply can’t afford it.”

With good weather, our 600 acres of potatoes can be harvested in approximately two weeks. Normally, digging begins around September 15, but certain conditions deter us. Last year the middle of September was too warm. The ideal temperature for digging is approximately 18 C: it is best that potatoes are cool upon storage.

This year, we had a slow start because of rain in the weeks before harvest. Poor weather can prevent or delay potato harvest before heavy frost damage.

“You girls at the grading table, let your hands move as fast as your mouth!” Andrew hollers. “Do you want to be here till Christmas?”

“Oh, bring me a potato perogy!” someone starts singing to the tune of, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” in hilarious response.

At the end of potato harvest, everyone enjoys the sight of trucks, tractors and diggers returning to the colony. That evening we celebrate with a barbecue supper, scrumptious baked potatoes with sour cream and a tossed salad. After a cream cheese dessert, everybody joins in singing a German evening hymn, thankful for food on the table, but even more for the blessing of those who we live, work and celebrate together with, on the Prairie of this land called Canada.

———

“It was like the work of a clock when every cogwheel drives

another and everything turns in an orderly way, or like a hive of bees where all work together, some making honey, some making wax and some carrying nectar to the hive.”

– HUTTERITE ELDER IN 1569.

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