PBS Wisconsin Originals

clock ticking

funky pop with sharp guitar

chik-chik-cha- chika-cha-chik

How ya doin'? My name's Mike Perry. Wisconsin born and raised. Cheesehead from day one.

pitchfork clangs

Grew up on the wooden end of a pitchfork. Educated by farmers, loggers, and public-school teachers. Owner of one nursing degree, two broke-down pickup trucks, and, occasionally, some pigs. I've written some books, sung some songs, and told some stories. Outside my duties as a father and a husband, the most meaningful thing I've ever done is serve beside my neighbors as a volunteer firefighter and emergency medical responder. But through it all, I've been a clodhopper. The term is part euphemism for "flat-footed roughneck "who can't even polka and who could never pull off fancy,"

sassy, sinuous crooning

Ooh, ooh, oh, ya, ya Ah, ah, ah ow But it's also true I grew up hopping from dirt clod to dirt clod in my father's farm fields; sometimes in shoes, sometimes not. So, a few years back, when Wisconsin Public Television asked me to file some reports from my part of Wisconsin... How ya doin'? You're not from around here, are ya?...it just seemed natural to call it the Clodhopper Report.

ax thwacks

There you go. It's called a 'four-banger'. Now that's

chicks peeping

what I call a Twitter message. We did a bunch of 'em.

metal clinks

Some in my backyard, some in the swamps, some in the trees, and at least one from the back of a manure spreader. We're gonna take a little time now and look back at a few of those old Clodhopper Reports. See what you still recognize, see what I still recognize. From back when this beard wasn't so white, and this hair... Well, you'll see.

man singing

Woot, ooh, ya, ya Ah, ah, ah, ow

happy, bouncy, quirky acoustic guitar

Funding for Michael Perry

How Ya doin'? was provided by Ron and Colleen Weyers, Stanley J. Cottrill Fund, Focus Fund for Wisconsin Programming, and Friends of Wisconsin Public Television.

Free-spirited indie folk

Funding for Michael Perry

From the get-go, I hoped the Clodhopper Report would reflect the people and part of the state that shaped me-- mainly the area north of Highway 64. But I also wanted to weave in things that any Wisconsinite-- be they from the city, the cornfields, or coasts-- would recognize. For instance, many of our warm-state friends think that snow equals cold, whereas us ear-flappered Cheddarheads know that the worst cold is cold without snow. And whenever possible, I wanted to work in a little humor. Humor is a form of self-deprecation. And where I come from, if you don't self-deprecate, somebody's gonna do it for you. One of the self-imposed forms of self-deprecation is comparing the old you to the... even older you. So, let's go back in time

wrestling with mailbox

Funding for Michael Perry

and get this over with.

chik-chik-cha- chika-cha-chik

Funding for Michael Perry

earthy wavering Blues

Funding for Michael Perry

How ya doin'? Oh, it's been cold up here north of 64! It's cold and brown. Cold and brown is a whole different deal than cold and white. Cold and Brown makes a guy kinda wanna grouse.

guitar slide twangs

Funding for Michael Perry

Grousing's like-- It's like whining, only with coffee and donuts. You can kinda' hang out and grouse. The expert grouser never plays the first card. It's a high-stakes game. And he who goes first, gets trumped.

Stormy Kromer hat

So, is it cold by you?

Packers cap

Ah, yeah, it's 22 degrees below.

Stormy Kromer hat

Ah, well, it was 24 below up by us.

gulps

Stormy Kromer hat

'Course that was on the milk house thermometer, and that always reads about 3 degrees high.

resentful breath

Stormy Kromer hat

Yeah, froze the manure spreader up, broke the worm gear. How much you figure a little chunk of steel like that'd run ya? -

Packers cap groans audibly

Stormy Kromer hat

Tangible evidence of tragedy. 127 bucks.

Packers cap

Mmm, out-groused!

Stormy Kromer hat

Well, that's farming.

Packers cap

Ooh, out-martyred. Grousing martyrdom, a favorite Wisconsin winter pastime playing now at a caf near you. Man, it's cold! Is it cold by you?

playful Dobro slide twangs

Packers cap

fun guitar-picking blues

Packers cap

O, sweet innocent youth. You know, I still have two of those three hats. The hair? Well, I don't mean to grouse, but let's just say there's a reason I keep all that extra headgear on hand. Around here, staying warm is a way of life.

chik-chik-cha- chika-cha-chik

driving banjo-pickin' folk

breathing heavy, brushing snow

Packers cap

How ya doin'? It's wintertime and we're splitting wood like mad. I don't know, splittin' wood's kind of a multi-disciplinary activity. It's kind of your tai chi, your yoga, your Pilates all rolled into one. Not for this winter. A little late for that. No, this is firewood for next winter. I know there's been a lot of talk of climatic creep and global changes. I ain't no meteorologist, but I'm betting that the winter of 2010 is going to be cold. There you go.

exhaling vigorously

Packers cap

It's called a 'four-banger'. Oh, I like splitting wood. My wife wants me to have a wood splitting bee where we get in an automatic splitter and have a bunch of family and friends over and she'll make some chili and she says we can get it all done in one day. But where's the fun in that? No, I like to get out here and chop and feel the bones and muscles do the work. Get a little bit sweaty out here in the cold. That's alright. Kind of a peaceful thing. Kind of rhythmic. And I like to take a break and just kind of gaze off over the territory like I'm some kind of hardy woodsman on the frontier. Just another Abe Lincoln, albeit a little shorter and a little dumber. And unlikely to change the course of human events. A lot of you firewood snobs are probably wondering what I'm doin' splitting box elder, which basically burns like a bad cigar. But what happened is we had a whole bunch of these growing up against the barn and they were rubbing the shingles off. So, I cut them down and now we're going to burn them. Get over it. Of course, I spend most my time splitting big manly chunks of oak. By the way, if you've got yourself a problem teenager, here's what you need. You need to get yourself a great big gigantic splitting maul, send 'em out in the backyard with a huge round chunk' a elm. You won't hear from him for a week. A lot of reasons people split their own firewood. I split my own firewood because I'm a man and with every stroke of the ax I'm providing for my family. Our first year on this place, I'd be out here splitting wood and my wife would come out and she'd say, "We're not going to have enough firewood." I just kept splitting. She'd say, "We're not going to have enough firewood." I just kept splitting. Of course, we didn't have enough firewood. Had to have a man come with a load of firewood. It's a humiliating thing for a man to have to stand beside his wife in the middle of 37 acres of woodlot and write a check to another man for wood he didn't split.

guitar plays resigned tone

Packers cap

dreamy, optimistic folk rock

Packers cap

My belief in firewood as a parenting tool has only deepened since the day we filmed that piece. Having now raised one child into adulthood, I can't tell you the number of times we started stacking in steam and silence... and by the time the wood was neatly arranged, so were our feelings. I still run this thing. Split a truckload with it last winter. Ain't gonna lie to ya though. There are easier ways...

log splitter's engine sputters and chugs

Packers cap

One of the things the Clodhopper Reports-- silly as they are--

have caused me to consider is

What do we fight to preserve, and what do we graciously let go?

chik-chik-cha- chika-cha-chik

have caused me to consider is

Fifty-eight!

auctioneer chants quickly in rhythmic monotone

have caused me to consider is

Fifty-eight dollar, fifty-eight now-now! Fifty-nine dollars! Sixty, y'abletabid Sixty-one dollars, sixty two, how about three, raised to four? How about five dollars, sixty- two, how about three, four? Sixty-five, somebody on the end, seventy! How ya doin'? I don't want to brag, but I picked up a couple of bargains last week, didn't have to go anywhere near the mall. Got them the old-fashioned way. Went to an auction. Try and find yourself one of these at The Sharper Image. If you're going to go to an auction around these parts you got to work on your nod. You know, a lot of folks think ya got a wave, wave your little paddle, but you just gotta give him the nod. My buddy Mills goes to a lot of auctions and he says about 12-degree tilt is about right, just go... That's a bid right there. Saw these babies on the hay wagon and this is the first object that I bought. These are logging tongs. These are for hauling your, ah, your log outta the woods. And, boy, you know, I started bidding on it and I realized once the bidding started I really didn't know how much one was worth so I just kept bidding and I think I got it for about 30 bucks. Of course, as soon as I won it, I walked away carrying it proudly, and this guy comes up me, goes "Whaddya pay for that?" And I looked him right in the eye and I said, "Twenty dollars" because when someone asks you what you paid for something at an auction, you lie to 'em. I ain't telling how much I paid 'cause if you tell them how much you paid, sure enough, he goes, "Aw, cripes, you can get those for eighteen dollars brand new down to the Farm & Fleet." I don't want to know that. Don't tell me that. That's not helpful. Then I was-- They had one of them deals where they just kind of-- They hold up a bunch of junk and you bid on 'em and I've been looking for a corn knife and I saw a corn knife in this mess of stuff here. And they held it up. Two bucks for this whole assortment and I want to tell you something I scored. This right here is an aluminum case for putting notebooks in and kind of like what we use on the ambulance. I always wanted one around the farm here to put my notebooks in 'cause... 'Cause I'm not sure why, but I always wanted to have my own. And I had my eye on these. They were on a big pile of stuff on a hay wagon. And I wandered off somewhere and when I came back, they had already sold that pile. And I was looking at the pile and the guy who bought it, he looked at me and he saw my long face and he said, "Did you have your eye on something in there?" And I said, "Yeah, I was kind of looking at them, them aluminum folders there." And he said "Well, what will you give me for it?" I said, "I'll give you two bucks." And he said, "All right." He paid five bucks for the whole pile and I paid two bucks for these aluminum folders. But he said, "You gotta take the computer." So, I got a computer. The other thing I wanted was a mattock and they had one there and a mattock is a pickaxe. It's got a flat blade on one end and several of the old timers said, "You know how to run that thing, son?" and my standard joke of the day was, "Well, I keep looking and I can't find the starter on it." And I said that joke about four or five times, got a nice laugh. About the sixth time, I met somebody funnier than me and I said, "Well I can't find the starter on this thing" and he looked at me and he said, "She's at home." It was cold and rainy at the auction that day. Perfect weather because the farmers couldn't get into the fields, so they all came to the sale. They had a great turnout. But the mood sort of matched the weather. I've been having a good time talking about auctions here and I, I like going to the auction, I like bidding for stuff, I like giving them the old nod. But the truth was we were participating in the end of the line for a long-time hometown family business. This was the place where my dad bought his first tractor. I'll try to keep that in mind when I use that corn knife.

auctioneer announcing in background

have caused me to consider is

peaceful guitar music

have caused me to consider is

Time rolls on. We try to preserve some of it by buying old things and even using old things. When the beloved old white pine that sheltered our family's farmyard for generations came down, I used these to haul off the chunks. Made me feel good to know that they were still doing the work for which they were intended. You know what would have been really cool, though? Is if I'd had an old tractor to match.

chik-chik-cha- chika-cha-chik

have caused me to consider is

How ya doin'?

upbeat gentle country pop

have caused me to consider is

Up here north of 64, the past has become the future. The local implement dealer sells more used tractors than new tractors. Did I say "used"? Vintage! The farmers who bought these tractors new, they're not buying tractors anymore. These days, your average tractor buyer is looking for something that will go nice with the gazebo. They get a little patch of land up north. Pretty soon, they get the tractor bug. I understand. Tractors are time machines of the heart. First tractor I ever drove was a John Deere B. Johnny Popper. My dad let me take it through the gate. Man, I pushed that hand clutch forward and I was the captain of the Queen Mary. First tractor my dad ever bought new was a Massey Ferguson 135. A little smaller than this tractor. Same beautiful color, same excellent logo. Man, I spent a lot of hours on that thing. Cutting hay, plowing, pulling a drag, thinking about love. I even wrote a poem once. "And that tractor would be a plunging white charger, "in plowing daydreams "where you waited to be rescued at the end of every row." Yeah, everybody wants to be the knight on a shining Massey Ferguson, or an old Ford, or a Minneapolis Moline. The old ways are going, going, gone. They always are. But on an old tractor, you can go back for another round. Why didn't I ever write a poem about manure spreaders?

loud diesel passes

speaking breathily

have caused me to consider is

Wow! You catch that last part? I have made a lot of mistakes in my life, but the one I will take to my grave is allowing some fancy-pants television producer talk me into pronouncing it "mah-noo-ure" spreader. Every clodhopper knows it's "mah-NERRR". That's a signifier is what that is. A word or words deployed in order to connect with a sub-segment of folks. Like, for instance, the phrase "pickin' rock."

chik-chik-cha- chika-cha-chik

have caused me to consider is

rockin' country jam

have caused me to consider is

How ya doin'? Hey, if you're running around north of Highway 64 this summer, keep an eye out alongside the roads or out in the farm fields for big old piles of rocks. The Welsh and the Irish refer to them as cairns. Who built these symbolic stacks of stones? What vanished tribe? Who were these mysterious people? Polish farm kids mainly. These piles represent a tradition that a lot of farm kids would probably just as soon forget. Every spring they were sent out into the field to clear away the stone so that the farmer didn't tear up his machinery during plowing season. And when you look at these piles, keep in mind that every rock

has probably been handled at least twice

once when some poor kid picked it up and tossed it on the hay wagon, and the second time when he picked it up and threw it in the pile. We call it "picking rock." You might think that if you pick all the rocks off a field once you'd never have to do it again. But every spring the frost heaves up a new crop. The rocks just keep coming. Year after year after year. Some of the old timers will tell you that rocky ground made good farming ground 'cause it held water. Not sure what the kids loading the wagons full of rocks would have said about that. It wasn't just the country kids who got to pick rock where I came from either. When I was in grade school, they put in a new football field and they marched all of us little grade-schoolers out there into the hot sun to pick rock and whoever had the biggest pile at the end of the day got a prize. It was like a Slo Poke or something. Can you imagine if they sent little grade schoolers out into the hot sun to pick rock today? This isn't picking rock. This... IS picking rock. I'll get that one later.

rowdy party bluegrass rock

has probably been handled at least twice

Here's the beautiful part of this story

Farmers tell me that lately people from Minnesota have been showing up looking for these rocks. They put them on their patios or decorate their gardens with 'em. They're willing to pay money for these rocks. I think we can work something out.

high-octane bluegrass rock

Here's the beautiful part of this story

mellow acoustic guitar

Here's the beautiful part of this story

I got no idea of the state of the decorative stone industry these days. But when I watch that piece I remember how my neighbor Barry cackled when he told me about those folks from Minnesota willing to pay him cash for the bane of his existence.

chuckles

Here's the beautiful part of this story

Barry's gone now, but his story plays on. That's why we tell stories. To draw threads of the past into the present.

country outlaw blues rock

Here's the beautiful part of this story

How ya doin'?

birdsong

Here's the beautiful part of this story

sweet, gentle country pop

Here's the beautiful part of this story

I not only love being from Wisconsin, I love being of Wisconsin. I feel the same about my hometown. But I'm not as susceptible to romanticized reminiscence as I used to be. When I watched this next video all these years after filming it, I smiled in recognition, but I was also braced by all the things that no longer apply, or perhaps never did apply.

But one thing hasn't changed

I'm still grateful to be from around here.

chik-chik-cha- chika-cha-chik

But one thing hasn't changed

How ya doin'?

sassy mid-tempo blues rock

But one thing hasn't changed

We're in the midst of a kind of a 'back to the land' movement up here north of 64. And this time, it's not just hippies. Well, we do get some hippies. They're on their second go around. This time, they've got retirement plans. If you come up here to live or even just to visit, at some point, somebody is going to look you over and then they're going to say, "You're not from around here, are you?" Did you ever wonder how we know? Perhaps you used your turn signal on Main Street. No need. Could be you keep calling the town hall to see how long it'll be before the snowplow comes by. Or maybe somebody asks you how Boober Olson's corn was doing, and you said you hadn't noticed.

speaking in incredulous tone

But one thing hasn't changed

You don't know Suzy Johnson?!? The one who run off with the pastor? You can't back up your boat trailer?!?

laughing

But one thing hasn't changed

You passed a load of hay on a double yellow?!? Slow down! That's why you moved up here. The number one dead giveaway that you're not from around here. Ya keep mooing at the cows. Please, don't moo at the cows. I don't know why they moo at the cows. They don't bark at the dogs. They don't squeak at the muskrats. They don't uff-da at the Norwegians.

thick rock guitars and breezy banjos

But one thing hasn't changed

I make a lotta hay over my "around here" being cow-crossing country, but I try not to be reverse-snooty about it. Wisconsin simply wouldn't be Wisconsin without the vibrancy of its big cities. Big cities defined by a guy like me as any settlement with more than three digits on the population sign. Yeah, I like going to the big city, catchin' some of that energy. Especially if it's the state capital and it's being overrun by vintage trucks and tractors of a certain make...

chik-chik-cha- chika-cha-chik

But one thing hasn't changed

How ya doin'? You know, I woke up at 6 a.m. this morning three-and-a-half-hours south of my chicken coop and I looked out my hotel room window and there on the horizon, I saw a beautiful sight.

rowdy country bar music

But one thing hasn't changed

This is my favorite version of the International Harvester logo. I don't know if I want to touch it. We've got little peanut tractors and great big ole honkin' tractors. We're down here in Madison, Wisconsin for the International Harvester Red Power Roundup. This is the biggest collection of red paint you're going to find in the entire United States of America. It's a long haul from a horse-drawn reaper in 1831 to this in 2009.

engine rumbles

But one thing hasn't changed

This is a farm boy's dream come true here. You know, what'd be really terrific is if someone would take all these beautiful tractors, find a bunch of old International pickup trucks, and have themselves a parade. Did anyone bring a tow strap with 'em? Good, because that means nobody will break down.

crowd laughing

But one thing hasn't changed

When you're offered the opportunity to be the marshal of the International Harvester Red Power Parade, there's really only one answer.

good-humored polka music

But one thing hasn't changed

And away we go! Follow that tractor! - Wrong lane. This isn't just a parade; this is a pilgrimage. We've got folks from all over the U.S. have come to this event. If you like red paint, this is your day of worship. Sometimes you're in the parade and sometimes you're IN the parade!

Bystander

What happened? I think we ran out of gas. All red, all the time. I should mention that I do have friends who have a fondness for agricultural equipment of another color. But today is our day and we'll still be friends tomorrow. There's a self-help group for people who are obsessed with Internationals. It's called the International Harvester Collectors Club and you are looking at member number 429. It's not a tractor show. It's not a truck show. This is an art show. Anybody who says an International isn't beautiful hasn't seen that truck. I'm not much of a gearhead but I'm here today because I love International Trucks. I love 'em so much I wrote a book about one.

It was called Truck

A Love Story. And people ask me sometimes, they say, "Is that a love story about a truck or about a woman?" and I always ask the question in return, "Is there not room enough in a man's heart for both? I mean, look at her." For a farm boy, this is like going to the Loo-vra (Louvre).

guitar-picking country

It was called Truck

Country boy goes to the city to see the country! A show like this is, by definition, about the past. Old trucks, old tractors, old times. But this next episode is unfolding right up into the present. Isn't that right?

buck, bok, bok

chik-chik-cha- chika-cha-chik

bird chirps, door rolls mechanically

It was called Truck

How ya doin'? Feed mill called yesterday and said, "Your chicks are in." Now that's what I call a Twitter message.

sunny, relaxed reggae

It was called Truck

How was your trip?

chick peeps

It was called Truck

A lot of folks don't realize it, but these little chicks, they come in the mail. You'll get a call from the Post Office, or in this case, down at the Feed Mill, and they'll say, "Your chicks are in." It's one of my favorite things. It's kinda like Christmas right in the middle of summer. OK, kids, gonna leave you to it. Put the safety screen over the top. That's intended to prevent varmints and 2-year-olds from getting to the chicks. Weight it down a little bit. And then, put out the heat lamp. Give 'em a little sun to soak under, as it were. And you come back in about 15 minutes and they'll be all together in one little yellow fuzzy cluster right under that heat lamp. The stock tank is just the first stop. That's the crib, that's the nursery. The next stop is the pullet house.

rooster crows

It was called Truck

Hello, ladies. I call it the pullet house, but, actually, it's just our old chicken coop. You may remember this building from the day I remodeled it.

vigorous electric guitar

It was called Truck

That was a long day. Alright, ladies, here you go. These are pullets which means that they're young hens and they should start laying eggs sometime in the fall, at which point they can earn their keep. So, these young ladies will be in this coop for a few more weeks, and then, when we think they're ready to go pro, we'll move 'em to the big house.

Rat Pack big band jazz

It was called Truck

How about this baby? Welcome to the rolling poultry palace! A chicken coop on wheels. This is clearly an upgrade on other properties.

boc-boc-boc-urrrk, bok bagok

It was called Truck

Take special note of the sill-less construction which allows hassle-free by-product extraction. Centralized food distribution center. Detachable porch! Hand-crafted portable gate unit with auto-lock. Fully cleated, detachable ramp. Fully interiorized pocket door componentry-- simply remove, raise, and insert to hold. And how happy are the residents of the Perry Portable Poultry System?

kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh

It was called Truck

Let's ask them. What do you think, ladies-- Oh, look at the joy! You can feel the joy in their wings, you can hear the joy in their voices. Are ya happy?

boc-boc-bawk-buck-bok-bagok

It was called Truck

Do ya like where you live? Are ya happy with that? Are ya satisfied? How about you, sir? Are you happy with your Perry Portable Poultry System?

cluck, cluck, cluck, cock-a-doodle-doo

chicks squeak contentedly

It was called Truck

From the stock tank, to the pullet house, to the big house, it's all about one thing.

sunny, relaxed reggae

It was called Truck

rooster crows

hens clucking

tuk-tuk-kah

cock-a-doodle-doo

It was called Truck

Remember when I said firewood was the perfect parenting tool? Chickens come a close second.

fun, carefree, jaunty music

It was called Truck

boc-boc-boc-urrrk, bok bagok

clucking tuk-tuk-kah

It was called Truck

Chicken chores, sure, but the birds are also instructive regarding entrepreneurship, profit-sharing, government regulation of the free market, and gumption, as it pertains to sticking your hand in the nesting box of the one that pecks.

clucking

assertive clucking buck-bok-ba-gaw!

chik-chik-cha- chika-cha-chik

It was called Truck

romantic, swirling country blues

It was called Truck

crunching underfoot

It was called Truck

How ya doin'? It's been mighty dry up here north of 64 and that's bad news for the farmers but its good news for me because I can go sit in the swamp without getting soggy shorts. It's a great place to hide, a land where no lawnmower ever comes. There's too much mowing in this world. I like it out here, just laying in the grass, looking at the sky. Maybe a cloud comes by, maybe it doesn't. It's kind of like playing hooky. You can muse out here or you can pout. No bill collectors out here. Nobody banging on your door. Nobody calling. No email. I like grass that's taller than I am. Given half a chance, some lawn loony would mow this, I guaran-dang-tee it. Probably stick a gazebo right over there, run some pavers through here. Put a couple of plywood Packer cutouts over there. Probably run the edger up and down Five Mile Road. Believe it or not, they did mow all this at one time. The old timers tell me that during the Depression the drought was so severe that the hayfields all dried up and so they went out into the swamps and cut whatever they could. And I myself can remember back in, I think it was, 1976 we had such a bad drought that dad sent us out into the little swamps that surrounded our farm and we cut the hay there. I remember banging off across the swamp knocking the tops off the saw grass clumps with the hay cutter. You can faintly see where the old road used to run out across the swamp. This wasn't a swamp until they put a dam in and backed up Beaver Creek. And there was a time when there was a farm up there somewhere. You see this old road running out between the cattails. The smell of the swamp is one of my favorite things. I've described it before as salty sweet. Kind of reminds you of decay and life and the ocean. Sometimes, if you're out here at night when the sandhill cranes come in, they'll bugle, and it's a real spooky clotted sound and you can convince yourself that you're living in the time of pterodactyls when they come in to land. Of course, after you spend some time out here collecting yourself, you want to remember that you're also collecting ticks and kind of go over yourself when you get home. Oh, you'll have some bugs out here and a few mosquitoes, but really nothing too severe. The cool thing about Wisconsin is it gets so bitter cold during the winter that all the really nasty animals and insects and little beasties get frozen out... 'cept for snapping turtles... and brown recluse spiders... pine rattlers... black bears.

huffing and puffing

It was called Truck

sweet, gentle country pop

It was called Truck

laughs

It was called Truck

Gosh, I run like I was raised by farmers.

My secret weapon is

I may be slow, but I can be slow all all day all day long. That'll get you through life. But that piece was also a testament to the idea of stopping, of the pause, of just sittin' there. And one Wisconsin tradition has allowed me to do just that-- deep in the trees-- for years.

chik-chik-cha- chika-cha-chik

opens door

My secret weapon is

brass band plays sunny, whimsical song

My secret weapon is

closes door

My secret weapon is

How ya doin'? C'mon. Up here north of 64, everybody's getting ready to go deer hunting and I'm going out to check my deer stand. I've been deer hunting since I was a kid. It's part of my culture. I'm not a trophy hunter. I mean, I'll take a crack at the big buck if he runs out, but basically, I'm more interested in putting something in the freezer than on the wall. Of course, before I can put meat in the freezer, I got to put my seat in the stand and this thing has been sitting here for a year, so some safety checks are in order.

shaking and knocking

My secret weapon is

Like a rock.

moody Southern blues

My secret weapon is

By the way, I know you're dying to ask about the hat. It is, after all, highly stylish. This is a very special hunting hat for me. I have a head problem. I have a very huge melon. See what I mean? So, I got this problem. When I go to buy hunting caps they're always too tight. I'll be on the stand for about two hours and then I'll develop this hat rash. And then, for the rest of the week nobody wants to eat beside me. So, I was in this store about two weeks after deer hunting one year and I went past the clearance table and there in the middle of a pile of mittens and hats and everything else was this cap. And I opened it up and I looked inside at the tag and I saw X- X-X- X-X-L. And I thought, "Could it possibly be?" And I raised it above my head, and I let it settle gently down over my ears and I heard angels sing. Alright, I got the three basic ingredients to hunting comfort.

Ingredient number one

collapsible chair.

Ingredient number two

blaze orange heater seater.

And ingredient number three

cheapo sleeping bag.

exhales deeply

old fashioned brass band performs playful melody

And ingredient number three

Well, stand's good to go. Got my shells. Got my rifle cleaned. Wonder what I did with my license?

humph

And ingredient number three

Now, as long as I make sandwiches. Sandwiches are the key to a pleasant hunting experience. That and a couple of granola bars. You want your hunting trip to be a civilized experience.

country music with a Down South rap beat

And ingredient number three

Well, that's a wrap on my Wisconsin. There are plenty of other Wisconsins, and I respectfully commend you to them. As time passes, I am ever more grateful to share my stories, but I also feel it is my duty to help amplify the stories of others. To honor the past while holding the door open for the future. Things change, and for the most part, that's OK. I've changed... I hope! Although I am always and forever... a clodhopper. How ya doin'? Grousing's like whining only with coffee and donuts. Mmm! I like it out here, laying in the grass, looking at the sky. Up here north of 64, the past has become the future. This is a farm boy's dream come true here. How ya doin'?

soft energetic pop-country

And ingredient number three

happy, bouncy, quirky acoustic guitar

And ingredient number three

Funding for Michael Perry

How Ya doin'? was provided by Ron and Colleen Weyers, Stanley J. Cottrill Fund, Focus Fund for Wisconsin Programming, and Friends of Wisconsin Public Television.