Treasure hunting

Every boy dreams of discovering buried treasure. Finding gold doubloons and muttering “Yar” are among its chief benefits.

I recently voyaged out to where the rotting hulk has rested for the past 60 years. It was shocking to see how much she had deteriorated. The unsightly sags were even saggier; the overall impression was of accelerating decline.

Yep, Charlie’s old house isn’t much longer for this world.

My great-grandfather, Charlie, built the house that now molders out in my grove. Grandpa Nelson bought this farm from his father-in-law, so that house is where Dad and his siblings grew up.

It’s hard to believe that nine people lived in such a tiny space. Nowadays, that same number of square feet wouldn’t qualify as a walk-in closet.

Entering Charlie’s old house is risky. The elements have ravaged her; what was once a kitchen is now a heap of decayed lumber.

Braving the obvious dangers, I clambered upstairs. Squatters have left their calling cards in the form of coon doots.

I sifted through the detritus Grandpa and Grandma left behind. I find this endlessly fascinating, as if I’m an archaeologist reconstructing long-ago lives, lives that eventually gave rise to me.

A canceled check from May 1952 establishes that Grandpa and Grandma’s electric bill was $4.08. The fact that this same sum was paid month after month indicates that their usage was below the minimum.

A yellowed envelope held a First National Bank promissory note Grandpa signed. Dated March 1925, it’s a loan for $150, quite a wad at that time. It took a while, but I was finally able to discern the “paid in full” stamp. I hate to think how much interest I would owe after a century.

A tattered newsletter from Batcheller’s Feeds is dated June 1950. The front page gives advice about controlling corn borers with DDT and gushes about Niatox, a new and improved formulation of that particular pesticide. The flipside of the newsletter features recipes for homemade goodies from area farmwives.

Another envelope yielded evidence that the “good old days” weren’t all that good. The document is from 1943 and is titled, “Instructions for Form 1040, United States Individual Income and Victory Tax Return”. Its language is as dense as anything excreted by any modern bureaucrat.

The tax tables are quite educational. If you made $2,000 or less, you were taxed at the rate of 13%. Tax rates rapidly increased up the income scale using a formula similar to that for calculating terminal velocity. Should you land in the top tax bracket —  $200,000 or more of annual income — you would owe $139,140 in taxes – plus 82% of everything in excess of $200,000.

I guess Congress figured that with a World War raging, no one should profit unduly from such a dire national emergency. Wonder how that would wash with the modern Wall Streeters who habitually award themselves multi-million-dollar bonuses?

It seems that Grandpa had little to fear from the uppermost tax brackets. A 1950 farm record book — compliments of Sioux Falls Rendering Company — contains such staggering earnings as “black mare, $25” and “sold eggs, $166.94.”

Other income streams include hogs and cattle and grain. Some quick mental math comes up with a total of about $3,000. Much of this was offset by expenses, the biggest of which was a mysteriously large entry for $109 listed under the “trucking, freight, welding, blacksmithing” column.

Making lots of money was never among Grandpa and Grandma’s top priorities. But this was before farming came to be known as agribusiness.

A small envelope held a “just thinking of you” card that Grandma bought but never sent. In the corner of a bedroom was one of Grandma’s Sunday hats, tattered from raccoon roughhousing. A lone high-heeled shoe sat atop a jumble of Christmas cards that Grandma had received over the years.

An uncle’s fifth-grade geography test was interesting in that he was able to correctly identify which countries the Danube and Rhone rivers traversed. I don’t think I ever knew that.

Grandma had written some names on the back of a 1959 church bulletin. Each is listed as “Mr. and Mrs. --- and family” and constitutes a virtual roll call of my aunts and uncles. She probably made this list so she could quickly recall who her Sunday visitors had been when our local news lady called Grandma to ask if she had anything to report.

Going strictly by the numbers, a reconstruction would paint a picture that was harsh and austere. But dig beneath the surface — and have access to insider information — and you’ll uncover lives that contained a treasure trove of family and friends.

Jerry Nelson is a recovering dairy farmer from Volga, South Dakota. He and his wife, Julie, have two sons and live on the farm where Jerry’s great-grandfather homesteaded over 110 years ago. Feel free to email him at [email protected].