A Memory of Kassendahl

Morning sun glistened over the gentle hills of the east field of Matt Miller’s farm and illuminated the tips of every stalk of wheat as they slowly danced in the gentle breeze.  To most it would seem calm, but summer mornings were warm and welcoming to the birds, insects and every other living thing.  If you studied the earth closely enough, within arm’s reach you could witness an abundant bustling of life.   

It was June 13,1944, and U.S. Troops had just landed at Normandy a week earlier.  The world was at war - a world far from this field.  It wasn’t a war that Matt Miller had started or knew much about, but he had a son over there and this made it his war as well.  Matt Miller’s other son was here at home on the farm where he could see him every day - work with him, and teach him the things he would need to know in order to achieve something of meaning and value in this world.  As much as he needed his son’s help, he placed greater value on being able to watch his son become a man and take on a character of his own.

Two men were now preparing an early start on what remained of the two-strand fence work. Previous days of work were productive and this day would be the last that they could devote before haying began.  When completed, the cattle would be able to graze in a field farther east and near the edge of the woods and swamp where it was too shady and low for crops, but rich for grass.  The McCormick tractor had been filled with gas the night before.  It was good practice to prepare the tractor before it was put away in the shed each night.  The cedar posts, sledge hammer and metal tool box were on the farm cart glistening with dew that was quickly drying from the morning heat.  A small cart that held a large spool of barbed wire was still hitched behind the tractor.  The screen door swung open and slammed shut behind the two men clothed in denim jeans, sleeveless t-shirts, plaid cotton shirts with sleeves rolled up and straw hats. 

Steeg was the hired hand, a Swedish immigrant who had moved down from the forest country of northern Wisconsin.  He was tall blonde-haired man with a solemn expression, high cheek bones and a long blonde moustache.  The name “Steeg” seemed to fit this man like the brim of his well-worn hat.  It was still early in the morning and already the brims of their hats were wet with the first sweat of the day. 

Matt’s son John was a strong, and good-looking young man who had just turned eighteen on the first day of June, and, having registered for the draft, expected to be called at any time.  Throughout the days, he would sometimes strain to hear if Ma were calling from the house or ringing the dinner bell at a time other than the ceremonial noon.  He was waiting for his call to duty.

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