The Mighty Ones

It is getting harder to stand here each year. I must have been here for 125 years.

Why, I remember when I could look over east and see nothing but tall grass and buffalo. And I could see some of my relatives, some really old timers and some youngsters and all ages in between. We would wave to each other each morning as the sun peeked up. But there aren't many of us anymore. There surely aren't any buffalo.

I heard a story about how I got here. You see, with all this yummy soil between here and the lakes called the Great Lakes, lots of my relatives settled these areas. We came from the east and the winds carried our seeds high in the air. The seeds have something like the feathers of my friends, the birds. The seeds look, I am told, like little puffs of cotton. I guess that's why I am called a cottonwood tree.

Anyway, we are a proud family. We towered over the land and could watch all that was happening. My grandparents produced a lot of seeds over there by those big lakes and some of the seeds blew to about halfway between where they stood and where I stand, into an area called by people, Minnesota. That was many summers ago.

And then my parents produced seeds that blew in the winds from the east over to where I now am. So there were several of us that sunk our feet into the rich loam of these prairies. And, as I said before, there are precious few of us left.

What happened to all of my relatives? Why, I've heard that about 75 to 125 summers ago, as people were moving into this area, they would cut us down for our fine wood to make long, straight and strong timbers. For their barns to help shelter their cattle and horses. And for their sheds to protect their chickens and pigs. And to make parts for machinery so they could cut this beautiful grass to feed their cattle and horses. And to make machines to break up the soil so they could plant something called wheat and corn and oats and barley. It always made me sad to see more of my gentle neighbor grasses disappear. The grasses were beautiful and smelled so good. And my friends the birds- pheasants, meadow larks, robins, crows, blackbirds, sparrows, owls and many others- they all made their homes in the grasses and would feast on the grasshoppers and other insects they found in the grasses.

But, alas, killing my neighbor grasses is what people call progress. Little do the people see what I see from way up here. The way the soil that I thrive on and the people plant their wheat and stuff in - the way the dear soil now gets washed away by the water from the clouds and blows away by the strong winds from where the snow comes. It makes me sad. And more and more of my distant relatives - other trees - are getting cut down so more corn and wheat and stuff can be planted. And it is we, the strong and mighty ones, with our feet firmly in the soil, we are the ones that stand up to the winds and weaken them so they don't blow the soil or blow down their barns. And now we are so few....

I'm happy for that little boy person who comes to sit at my feet and hugs me and listens to me. I am getting so lonely. And I’ve been telling him about what it’s like to be a mighty cottonwood tree. 

By JD Thompson

On Startling & Being Startled

Small grain harvesting was now finished. The smell of the golden straw filled the air. Goldenrod weeds were releasing their pollen and stuffing noses. The spring-hatched pheasants were now off on their own, searching for seeds dropped by the combines.

This was a time of transition. The focus shifts from the waves of oats, barley, rye and wheat to the stately and fragrant corn. But in August, the corn is not yet ready to harvest. By the end of August, a little later, some of the corn would be cut up into silage and stored as food to be fed to the cattle in the thick of winter.

And silage time meant State Fair time. We always would take off a day from harvest to travel 40 miles to the State Fair- That was an exciting time- ­carnival rides, cotton candy, juicy barbecue pork sandwiches that always dripped on the front of my shirt- and seeing the new machinery- the green John Deeres were my favorite. It was so fun to climb up to the driver's seat and just throb to the power that was under the green cowling. Pop-Pop-­Pop.... What a big plow this one could pull.

But that would come later. Now is the time to plow under the straw stubble. This field that yielded oats just a few weeks ago is scheduled to be planted to corn next spring, And getting the field plowed now in the fall meant less work to be done in the spring, Plus, the loose soil will absorb more of that much needed moisture during the winter and spring. Getting good crops where the average rainfall was 27 inches per year was always a gamble. So now was a good time to get some plowing done.

My brother David and I had been plowing all morning, going round and round an 80 acre piece- monotonous", but the smell of the freshly turned soil was exhilarating. I loved to take off my shoes and socks and bury my feet and legs halfway up to my knees in the rich black dirt. I felt so connected with Mother Earth. Out of the soil I have been born. What comes out of the soil nourishes me. I will return back to the soil someday. I am soil- And the soil is me. Angle worms and all.

It was now time to turn off the tractor and go to my Uncle and Aunt's place for noon dinner. I was hungry. And my brother and I needed a break, a change of pace from the monotonous ever shrinking square spirals we had been making. So I drove the Model A Ford pickup to eat.

After eating and sitting back a few minutes, it was time to return to the field. I drove the pickup over by the overhead red fuel tank to fill up a five gallon can in the back of the pickup. This would provide fuel for the tractors for the afternoon's work.

After filling the can, I started the Model A and we headed back toward the field, I had to drive through a couple of gates and then along the edge of a quarter mile shelterbelt.

I turned through one gate and then the other to enter the shelter belt. Oops, the throttle was set a bit high so the pickup didn't slow down to idle at the slow speed I was accustomed to. So ZIP I went through the gates, turning rapidly first right and then left. And now we are off for the quarter mile trip along the elm trees.

Model A Fords are fun to drive. Turning the steering wheel clockwise and counterclockwise made the pickup respond as rapidly and faithfully as when I neck-reined a horse.

Also, the Ford had an ignition lever so I could advance or retard the spark to the engine. I had learned sometime ago, as the blown-out muffler gave evidence, that I could turn off the ignition, push down on the accelerator, retard the spark and then turn back on the ignition so that a huge backfire would occur. And it was especially fun to do along the shelterbelt because the trees would echo much of the explosive sound back to me. What a great way to startle the crafty black crows sitting up there in the trees. BOOM! BOOM! KAPOW! It was really going great, the crows are squawking and on their way. Wish I could do this when I am going around those boring spirals!

When we arrived in the field, David glanced back through the rear window and then shouted "DARRELL (that's what I was called while growing up), THE FUEL CAN IS ON FIRE! There's a fire in the back of the pickup.” So I quickly stopped the pickup and told David, "I'll get the can out and you drive the pickup away from here so it is safe!".  He said "OK" and I hopped out and leaped to the back of the pickup and grabbed the can, and jumped down to the ground. I ran a few steps with the can, dropped it, and ran about 25 feet away from the can and lay down on the soft soil. The flame kept coming and the smoke was going up like from a bonfire.

Then, all of a sudden, a huge ball of flame and a mushroom cloud of black smoke. The can blew up. And then, as rapidly, there was no more flame, only the big cloud that was rising in the sky, pointing its finger down at me.

Neighbors driving along a road at the edge of the field, a quarter of a mile away, stopped to look. What was this? We waved at them- All is okay- (Just don't ask.)

So David and I asked ourselves- How did this happen? Oh, yes, it was pretty clear. The can tipped over as I drove rapidly through the gates, turning sharply right and left.

And then, with fuel leaking through an incompletely closed lid, the dripping fuel was ignited when the crows were being startled. And my brother and I were in for a bigger startle. Now back to get another can of fuel. And no backfiring this time..... 

Written by JD Thompson 

Nov 20, 2001

John Thompson Farm

John Thompson purchased this farm on the SW quarter of section 14 of Belford township in South Dakota from his father Oskar. John and Margaret moved back to the farm with their three sons in 1938. Son Thomas was born here in 1941. The farm remains in the Thompson family. Son Oscar and his wife Doris bought it and moved there as a young married couple. This family farm has been owned by Oskar Thompson and his descendants since the orginal land grant in 1881. It has been home to Thompson families since 1882. This glaciated prairie land was rich in black topsoil. Because it was located near the margin between farmland and ranch land and because of the extremes in winter and summer temperatures, farming was sometimes challenging. John raised wheat and small grain, hogs, and cattle.

John preferred spotted Poland China hogs. They were good feeders, matured early, were very prolific and produced these characteristics in their offspring.

John's beef cattle were Polled Herefords. The bull was named Myron Astor. These cattle with a typically large, muscular, red frame, with a white face, crest, dewlap and underline were one of the primary cattle breeds in the world’s beef market. The Polled Hereford are highly resilient cattle, able to withstand harsh weather conditions and insufficient grazing. Considered to be one of the gentlest natured cattle breeds, owners of these cattle will be quick to point out the ease with which these cattle are handled. Their docile temperament continues to be unrivaled by other breeds.

Milk cattle were also raised on the farm. The cream was sold and the skim milk was enjoyed by the family. The Thompson boys were responsible for the cows which required care and milking in the morning and evening. Working the cows early in the morning, Darrell developed an aversion to oatmeal because he associates it with the smell of silage. The boys had to manage their after school activities so that the cows received the care they needed.

David and Oscar with Babe

Prairie winds roar harshly across the open plain. Farmers plant trees in shelter belts along their property lines to subdue the wind and protect their homes and crops. In 1938, John planted Norway pines. In 2008, they were 70-80 feet tall. Darrell helped plant Russian olive
and caragana when he about 12 years old. They plowed a furrow in the sod, put the plants in the soil, and covered the roots of the trees.

The boys with Blackie ~1945

Working the land requires hard labor and is consuming, but a farm also provides fertile soil for making rich memories. The Thompson boys share many fond memories. Two farm dogs, Ginger and Lassie, provided great companionship. Blackie or Black Beauty was a much loved Shetland pony.

Oscar riding Blackie ~1947


Thomas with his cats ~1949


Oscar, David, and Thomas enjoy
a favorite summer treat -
homemade ice cream.

Oskar Thompson Farm ~ 1915

Asbjorn Torkelson Hammersmark was born on the Hammersmark farm in Sirdal, Vest Agder, Norway, on October 6, 1848. He married Else Kristine Jonasdatter Indre Sanstøl who was born in Bjerkreim on October 21, 1859. They were married in their native Norway on June 18,1879. Realizing that in order to own their own farm they must leave their beloved Norway, they immigrated with Elsie’s sister Lettie to the “land of opportunity”late spring 1880. In order to assimilate as quickly as possible, Asbjorn assumed his American name, Oskar Thompson. It was a derivative of Tomson. (Tom was the English form of Torkel.) Oskar, Else, and Lettie made their way west to the prairies of Illinois where he found work for the first winter. By spring they found it necessary to move west to Strand in Adams County, Iowa, to get work. The family settled there temporarily to make enough money to help them head further west to the newly opening Dakota Territory. At the age of 21 Elsie bore their first son, Thomas, on July 3, 1880. During the pregnancy she had endured the sea voyage, traveled to Illinois, and then to Iowa. Lettie married Andrew Thompson in Strand. In the fall of 1881 Oskar and Andrew traveled by team and wagon to settle and stake claims in Aurora County, Dakota Territory. The two brothers-in-law used their overturned wagon for shelter while they secured materials and built suitable housing for their families. They returned to Iowa for them in the winter of 1881 and moved them west the following spring. Anna, called Annie by her family, was born the following fall. Oskar and Elsie had five more children on their farm in the NW 1/4 of Section 14 of Belford Township: Lottie, born in 1883, died in infancy; John on July 10, 1887; Lewis on April 7, 1890; Peter on June 10, 1892; Lisa on January 26, 1895; and Ella on November 18, 1897. The family moved to the adjoining quarter (SW 1/4 of section 14) where Alida (Letha) was born on June 3, 1901.

Oskar Thompson Farm ~ 1920

This glaciated prairie land was rich in black topsoil. Because it was located near the margin between farmland and ranch land and because of the extremes in winter and summer temperatures, farming was sometimes challenging. Oskar raised grain and cattle. He also built and ran a community granary on his farm.

Threshing ~1920


Threshing ~1930

Threshing into Barn ~1930