"My Life as a WAVE" by Aunt Anna

This piece by Aunt Anna Sprick Smith (Oct. 16, 1920-Sept. 16, 2012) appeared in the Memorial Day 2000 issue of Today magazine. An editor's note read: "What a great story Anna wrote. I've heard many good comments, particularly about the role women played in World War II." Anna's WAVE uniform is on display in the military room at the Goodhue County Historical Society Museum in Red Wing, Minn. The military room was established by none other than Uncle Bill Miller and displays his uniform as well. There's some very good information on WAVES at this U.S. Navy history site.

By ANNA SMITH

A young nephew often asks to see my World War II medals. He never asked what I did to receive them. So here's my story.

After the "Day of Infamy" -- the bombing of Pearl Harbor -- war was declared against Japan on Dec. 8. 1941. I heard the news on the radio on Sunday afternoon after returning to my boarding home in Bremen, Minn., where I had my first teaching assignment.

War-related events during two years of teaching there included teaching children how to knit squares for the Red Cross, conducting programs to raise money for the Red Cross and hopefully, preparing children for a world of peace.

In the spring of 1943, a teacher from Winona State Teachers College viisted my school and asked me to consider teaching and supervising new student teachers in the rural lab department at the college. I was 23 then, trying to envision my future and my country's future. I enlisted in the WAVES.

In March 1942, Congress had created the Women's Auxiliary Army Corps, giving women temporary military status that was to last as long as the war continued. By the end of July 1942, The Navy began accepting women into the WAVES -- that is, Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service. The Coast Guard and Marines soon followed suit, and by June 1943, the Women's Auxiliary Army Corps had become the WACS. In 1948, Congress passed a law marking women a permanent part of the military.

On May 29, 1943, I left for boot camp at the Naval Training Center at Hunter College in New York City. I had never before ridden on a train ahd had only been in one other state, Wisconsin. For four weeks, we endured the heat in the Bronx during Navy classes, drills, discipline and bewilderment. Studying "The Bluejacket's Manual" was a far cry from teaching fourth-grade geography. Marching on the streets of the Bronx was totally different from pitching softballs to my students.

After three weeks of study and drilling in New York, we were given a weekend of liberty. We saw the sights in New York City, including the Empire State Building, Staten Island, the Statue of Liberty, Radio City Music Hall, a Toscanini concert, tea dances at the Biltmore and Roosevelt hotels and dining at Longchamps. And we never got lost!

I was assigned to the Hospital Corps, part of the Navy Medical Department. I endured a five-day train trip to San Diego Naval Hospital, arriving there on June 30, 1943. It was on that trip that I discovered how prone I was to motion sickness.

During the first month of school at the hospital, I had classes in basic anatomy, physiology, nursing, medicine, first aid, minor surgery, hygiene and sanitation. After graduating, I was assigned to the men's orthopedic ward, where wounds were dressed, baths were given, beds were changed and medications administered. I recall "specialing" one patient who had lost a leg. Gangrene had set in, and I was assigned to stay with him after he was prescribed penicillin. Eleanor Roosevelt visiting the patients while I was there.

The hospital had a large Dependent Annex with women, children and babies of servicemen. There I did nursing duties for long hours, often working extra shifts when hospital shipts or trains came in with war casualties.

A bout with scarlet fever left me unable to continue ward duty. So next I worked as a clerical technician in the administration building at the survey and navigation offices, where the typing skills I learned at Lake City High School were put to good use.

Later I was transferred to the neuropsychiatric ward, where I typed medical histories from doctors' notes and patient interviews. Doctors don't always have the best handwriting!

WAVES lived in barracks on the hospital base, ate at the mess hall and worked hard, always ready for an extra shift.

Balboa Park, once a lovely international exposition area with a famous botanical garden, theaters and a zoo, was taken over by the Navy and became Balboa Annex. During the war, it housed doctors' offices, patient quarters and rehabilitation facilities.

Eventually I worked for various psychiatrists in their offices at Balboa Annex. The patients were Marines who were being rehabilitated to return to active duty.

Fifty years later, I returned to San Diego to find Balboa Park restored to its status as a great cultural center. I visited the San Diego Zoo and recalled working just beyond the zoo fence.

On Aug. 5, 1945, we learned that the first atomic bomb had fallen on Hiroshima, and soon after that about the one in Nagasaki.

I was working on a Marine patient ward in Balboa Annex when word came that the war was officially over. What a wonderful feeling!

My world became broader during my 29 months as a WAVE. Guadalcanal, Bougainville, Tarawa, Saipan, Guam, Iwo Jima, New Guinea, Corregidor, Midway and Okinawa became familiar names.

In late November 1945, my brother Edward Sprick, an Army sergeant, received his discharge after several years in the infantry in Germany. He fought on Omaha Beach and in the Battle of the Bulge.

Now a Pharmacist Mate 2/c, I was separated from the Navy on Nov. 20, 1945, in Great Lakes, Ill. I returned to Winona State Teachers College to obtain a four-year degree in elementary education. I also earned a master's degree from the University of Michigan. Both times I was able to take advantage of the GI Bill.

Entertainers, musicians and show people flocked to the hospital to entertain the patients and staff. Bob Hope, Frances Langford, Adolph Menjou, Kay Kyser, Bing Crosby, Eddie Cantor, Eddie Bracken, Rubinoff, the Andrews Sisters, Jose Iturbi, Harpo Marx, Jimmy Durante, Mickey Rooney, Hoagie Carmichael, Xavier Cugat, Joan Blondell, Cary Grant, Danny Kaye and Horace Heidt were among some I saw there.

But when young Frank Sinatra came to entertain the WAVES, I declined because I had heard of all the young girls screaming, fainting and idolizing the skinny kid from New Jersey.

Fifty years later I regretted not going to that show.

I never regretted the decision to join the WAVES.

Great friendships were made during the Navy years. Regardless of background, education, wealth, status, sex or color, we were friends, united in purpose and dedication.

Women's place in society greatly changed during this period in history. Women worked in factories and in the armed forces, doing work that previously had been only in men's domain.

I learned to treasure our freedoms in America. I saw all around me what those freedoms had cost. People united in the common goal of fighting for and working for America can accomplish great things.

The Millers in Monterey: A gallery of snapshots

A gallery of photos of the Millers during their year or so in Monterey, Calif., in the early 1960s. Uncle Bill was stationed at Fort Ord, where he attended Army language school and learned Czech. Whenever possible, the Millers went to the beach, which was windy, cold and gorgeous. We especially like the photo of the Army fort neighborhood birthday party where the boy cutting up is NOT cousin Chris, for once. To make the Miller kids terrifyingly large, click on each photo.

All together now: "Ach, Du Lieber Augustin"

The old German drinking song “Ach, Du Lieber Augustin” is a perfect theme song for the Sprick cousins, and not just because Grandma Sprick’s maiden name was Augustin. The lyrics, which remind us faintly of Warren Zevon’s “Poor, Poor Pitiful Me,” are perfectly morbid and hilarious.That is so Sprick-like! Here they are, in German and English:

Opening and refrain:
Ach, du lieber Augustin, Augustin, Augustin, Ach, du lieber Augustin, Alles ist hin! Geld ist hin, Mädl ist hin, Alles ist hin, Augustin! Ach, du lieber Augustin, Alles ist hin!

(refrain)

Rock ist weg, Stock ist weg, Augustin liegt im Dreck. Ach, du lieber Augustin, Alles ist hin!

(refrain)

Und selbst das reiche Wien, Hin ist's wie Augustin; Weint mit mir im gleichen Sinn, Alles ist hin!

(refrain)

Jeder Tag war ein Fest, Jetzt haben wir die Pest! Nur ein großes Leichenfest, Das ist der Rest.
(refrain)

Augustin, Augustin, Leg' nur ins Grab dich hin! Ach, du lieber Augustin, Alles ist hin!

Translation:

Opening and refrain:
O, my dear friend Augustin, Augustin, Augustin, O, my dear friend Augustin, I just can't win!

Money's gone, girlfriend's gone, I just can't win, Augustin! O, my dear friend Augustin, I just can't win!

(refrain)

Coat is gone, staff is gone, Augustin's on his bum. O, my dear friend Augustin, I just can't win!

(refrain)

Even that rich town Wien [Vienna], Is broke like Augustin; Shed tears with thoughts akin, I just can't win!

(refrain)

Every day was a fest, Now we just have the pest! Now all the corpses rest, That is the rest.

(refrain)

Augustin, Augustin, Lay down in your coffin! O, my dear friend Augustin, I just can't win!

This immortal piece’s melody was co-opted by the Canadian children’s singer Raffi, who rewrote it like this:

The more we get together, Together, together, The more we get together, The happier we'll be.

Cuz your friends are my friends, And my friends are your friends. The more we get together, The happier we'll be.

Clearly, Raffi is not a Sprick.

Those who came before us

Obituaries and cemeteries hold a lot of family history. Here are some from the Sprick family. The top two photos are of Sprick family graves (Maria, Claus, Ed, Clarence) at the St. John's Lutheran Church cemetery in Lake City, Minn. (LeRoy, who was Catholic, is buried in the adjacent Catholic cemetery.) The next one is of Aunt Marion's grave at Fort Snelling National Cemetery; Marion was a U.S. Army nurse in World War II. (Uncle Wally is buried next to her.)

Next, a couple of newspaper obits that marked the passing of significant Spricks.

A reminder that clicking on an item will make it bigger and easier to read.

A debacle in the Old Frontenac forest

You know something very, very bad has happened when we are moved to say, "It's a good thing Alverna isn't here to see this." That's what cousins Pam and Dan and Uncle Joe said to each other as they tromped through the ravaged woods of Old Frontenac this weekend. We were shocked by what we saw, which was clearly the result of unscrupulous loggers aiming to make a buck -- many bucks -- off of trees that should never have been harvested. Taking a historical perspective, Uncle Joe, our own wise forester, wrote this account of what led to this debacle.

By ELMER (JOE) SPRICK

In the 1800s, the Garrards, an aristocratic family from Kentucky, spent summers on the shores of Lake Pepin. One of its sons, Israel Garrard, a Northern Army general in the Civil War, loved the area and acquired several hundred acres of forested land along the lake. He named it Frontenac.

In the 1880s, Israel donated several acres of forest to Florence Township with restrictions in the deed that precluded commercial development. Accordingly, a major highway and the railroad were developed farther west in what became New Frontenac.

The forestland contained mixed hardwoods, predominantly red oak, basswood, cherry, elm and maple. It was largely unmanaged. Hunting and firewood cutting (of dead trees) were permitted. Within the forest is a well-maintained cemetery where Gen. Garrard and his family lie buried, along with many citizens who loved this quiet area.

In the 1980s, the Frontenac Historical Preservation Commission was established, made up of eight civic-minded village dwellers. Their mission statement: "To protect and preserve the natural beauty, cultural heritage and historic features of the Frontenac Historic District." They succeeded in preserving a number of historic buildings and served as a watchdog group that prevented major highway construction and commercial development in the village.

In recent years, the commission recognized that management of the park timber had been neglected and that some of the trees up to 200 years old were deteriorating. Its choices: leaving the parklands as a natural area, cutting only dead trees for firewood as had been past practice; removing the culls and high-risk overmature trees, or hiring a consultant forester to advise and supervise a timber sale.

The commission members, who had no experience in managing or selling timber, could not have known the terms "logger's choice," "commercial clear-cut," "diameter limit" and "gypo logger" -- all dirty words to a forester.

They contacted a local sawmill operator who helped them designate the dead and high-risk trees. Unfortunately, stumps were not marked, which might have headed off the cutting of unmarked trees. A contract was let to a local tree service for the cutting of designated trees. That tree service subcontracted the cutting to an unscrupulous logger.

Sawyers came in a day before the contract starting date. Disregarding the markings, they cut nearly all of the big, sound, healthy and valuable trees. The cutting went on for a day and a half before township officials discovered the contract violations and the severe damage the skidder had inflicted on the remaining small trees.

The cutting resulted in newspaper headlines and a lot of angry citizens, especially those who love big trees and who own land bordering the parklands.

In a recent press interview, the commission chairman said: "We now know that the best approach is to work through a knowledgeable forestry consultant. The fee of 14 percent would be cheap, since he will get much more revenue from the harvest than an unknowledgeable woodlot owner and, more important, only the designated timber would be removed."

Ironically, the commission has unwittingly destroyed the very thing it had hoped to care for and protect.

Although cleanup is underway and new trees are being planted, inquiring minds may someday want to know what happened to Wakondiota Park in Old Frontenac in March 2007. Only time will tell if a stand of buckthorn will occupy the site for the next century. Will the ash saplings being planted survive the recently resurgent emerald ash borer? Will the oak saplings survive oak wilt infection? Or will the remaining stand of cull trees and buckthorn stand as a monument to the Frontenac Historic Preservation Commission?

It takes a true optimist to find something positive in the destruction of a stand of 150-year-old hardwoods, but one astute landowner whose lot borders the park had his taxes lowered because the big trees bordering it had been destroyed. (That landowner also compared what happened to the destruction of a herd of elephants to harvest their tusks. It's that ugly.)

A salty old forestry professor once warned a class I was in: "Trees are a long-term crop. The way you manage a stand of timber may have a great impact for 100 years or more. Consider the cutting practice carefully."

In the meantime, we can only hope that the general is sleeping peacefully in his grave.

Burnt Wienie worthy: Maybe this is why we wear name tags at family reunions??

Nominee: Annette Sprick Kulseth
Nominator: Alverna Sprick Miller
Year: About 1999

That's right, folks. She has done it again.

Do you remember quite a few years back when we had a family reunion on the North Shore? During a walk, Annette was telling a person she thought to be a stranger on the road all about our family reunion, as only she can do.

The "stranger" turned out to be her sister, Anna, and all of us were convulsed with laughter before she caught on.

Well, the other day at our house, Annette picked up a snapshot of a woman holding Nathan Pepin. After scrutinizing it a while, she commented, "My, but that woman looks a lot like Anna." You guessed it -- it was Anna!

So Annette should get the Burnt Wienie Award for not being able to recognize her own sister, after lo these many years!

Burnt Wienie worthy: A fish story

Nominee: Sam Broberg
Nominator: Marion Sprick Broberg
Year: Unknown

There was a young man from the city
who was handsome, determined and witty.
But he wanted to go fishing
instead of just wishing --
to stay home was such a great pity.

One night his uncle said,
"How early can you get out of bed?"
To which Sam replied,
"Any time you decide.
Where will we meet, Uncle Ed?"

Samuel rose at the crack of dawn
and came down the stairs with a yawn.
He had breakfast with Joe
and said, "Now let's go;
Uncle Ed's waiting out on the lawn."

They rowed the boat out to the spot
where the fishing had really been hot.
Uncle Joe gave Sam a rig
with a spinner and jig
and said, "See if they're biting, or not."

Now Samuel caught 17 bass.
As a fisherman he really had class.
But Uncle Ed bet a dime
he could catch two at a time,
and the boat was filling up fast.

The fish basket was full to the top,
but Sam didn't want to stop.
Uncle Ed said, "That's all,
or we'll be breaking the law
and we don't want to get caught by a cop."

Now when Sam was first granted his wish,
he had promised to carry the fish.
but when he reached for the packet,
he just couldn't hack it,
and cleaning them wasn't his dish.

Sam's boo-boo is that he wasn't wary
of catching more than he could carry.
So a picture was taken
of Sam visibly shaken
as he tried to lift them and look merry.

Burnt Wienie worthy: An Uncle Gus special

Nominee: Gus Krociel
Nominator: Sandy Kirkwood
Year: 1975

Under a weeping willow tree
the '58 Chevy stood.
The car, as mighty as it was,
had Joe's recharged battery under the hood
and for the past several years
was parked at Kirkwoods' on blocks of wood.

The owner came one balmy Sunday afternoon
to take it to St. Paul.
He chained it on behind a van
and prepared it for the haul,
being fearful that without being towed,
there was danger of a stall.

Merrily it proceeded down the road,
its master at the wheel,
who was smiling at all they met,
hardly able to control his zeal
at having his treasure home at last.
His happiness was real.

Suddenly sirens could be heard
from somewhere in the rear,
and in a few seconds,
a patrol car did appear.
"I don't know what's happening!" Gus exclaimed,
"but I sure could use a beer!"

"Whose car is this, that's been weaving
back and forth across the center line?"
Without a moment's hesitation,
Gus replied, "It's mine, it's mine!"
And he promptly was presented
with a $50 fine.

"I'm afraid your little journey
will have to be delayed
until you get some no-fault
and your license fee is paid."
So Gus stopped at Millers'
and the message was relayed.

He asked for a drink of water,
which some of you may doubt,
and as he ran to Kulseths',
Alverna heard him shout,
"I'm sure glad I had in-laws
all along the route!"

I hope this little rhyme
hasn't left you bored.
Please consider our brother-in-law
nominated for the Burnt Wienie Award.
After all is said and done,
just think, he could have had a Ford.

Burnt Wienie worthy: The cold facts about hot peppers

Nominee: Bill Miller
Nominator: "An impartial observer"
Year: 1974

On this early spring day, William Miller, raconteur, in-law, man about Old Frontenac-town and gardener, was inspired to plant among his tomatoes and carrots and cabbages a row of peppers, aiming to outdo another in-law whose talent for gardening excelled in the potato field.

William went to town and bought his Burpee seeds while Alfie stood sentinel over the spot in the garden destined for these championship peppers. They planted the peppers in what they considered a straight row.

Under the Frontenac sun and with Alfie to chase away rabbits and moles and gophers and stray porcupines, the pepper plants flourished until that day in August when William, sighing with satisfaction, thought, "Now I will enjoy the fruits of my labors."

While Alverna was sunbathing, he went into the garden, not to pick a peck of pickling peppers, but to make a lovely bell-pepper sandwich.

At his first bite of pepper on rye, William leaped into the air, saying, "Gott in Himmel! These are hot peppers!"

Thereupon, Alfie morosely scratched up the pepper plants, and if there was collusion, Alfie has remained silent to this day.

A Holocaust survivor speaks in Lake City

Editor's note: This essay is from Uncle Joe's book "Lake Pepin Pot-pour-i." We think it offers a good opportunity to post the old slides we found of Alverna and Marion's 1952 trip to Dachau, still a raw and terrible place.

By ELMER (JOE) SPRICK

Not everyone watches the History Channel. Not everyone reads nonfiction. Not everyone will travel to see the sites where it occurred. Most of those who survived the event are now deceased. And there will always be those who say, The Holocaust never happened.

On Sept. 13, 1995, an elderly man named Henry Oertelt from St. Paul came to Lake City. He was on the speaking circuit, not for money, but to tell his story to the world, lest we forget. Henry, a survivor of Auschwitz, showed us the numbers tattooed on his arm. This is his story.

He was born in 1921 in Berlin. By 1933, Hitler had risen to power and implemented his plan of activating factories to make weapons of war. A hate campaign was started against Jews. Every two weeks, the newspaper carried stories of crime supposedly committed by Jews. Their rights and property were systematically taken away.

Euthanasia was carried out against the handicapped and mentally ill. The Catholic Church was able to stop it in 1938, but by then, 80 percent of Germany's handicapped and mentally ill people had been killed. Hitler's goal was to produce a "master race" by eliminating them, Jews, Gypsies and Poles.

Hitler's army invaded Poland in 1939. The first concentration camps were built in Poland and Czechoslovakia. By 1943, only 10 percent of the original Jewish population still existed. That May, Henry and his family were taken by the SS to a concentration camp in Czechoslovakia [Theresienstadt]. Of the 15,000 children sent to that camp, only 100 survived!

Henry's worst memories were when all children under 13 and anyone who needed medical treatment were trucked to the crematoriums, gassed and burned. Those who remained were tattooed and forced to work. They were not permitted to use their names, only their numbers.

As the Russian army advanced into Poland, concentration camp inmates were loaded into cattle cars with standing room only, and no food or sanitary facilities for two and a half days. One-third of them died en route to Auschwitz.

As the Russian army approached Auschwitz, a forced death march began. Those who stumbled and fell were shot.

Eventually, the survivors met up with the American Army, which gave them boxes of concentrated food. The prisoners couldn't handle concentrated or solid food, and many died after eating it. Henry was put on a menu of broth and remained in bed for a week before he could eat solid food.

Christians who risked death by hiding them saved the lives of some Jews. Denmark shipped 10,000 Jews to Sweden, a neutral country, in fishing boats. Some Jews also survived in France.

Henry's message emphasized that we should all respect each other's religious beliefs. But unfortunately, there are some who still preach hate. It is our responsibility as members of a free society to speak out against those who would abuse the rights of others. If we don't, "ethnic cleansing" will continue throughout the world.

Burnt Wienie worthy: Lean, mean and spleenless

Nominee: David Sprick
Nominator: Elmer (Joe) Sprick
Year: 1974

Resolution

WHEREAS, on the second day of his vacation, David William Sprick did become involved in an altercation involving one bicycle and one large German shepherd-type dog;

AND WHEREAS, the circumstances resulted in his mother's hair turning from gray to white and the medical bills incurred were of such magnitude that they approximated purchase of the sixth floor of St. Mary's Hospital in Rochester, Minn., and new cabin cruisers for three doctors;

AND WHEREAS, David's impoverished father was required to take over menial household duties during the recovery period while affairs of state suffered;

AND WHEREAS, David's gift money in the sum of $30 was squandered on Steely Dan albums, McDonald's hamburgers and generally riotous living while cousin Alfie suffered the humiliation of one week in solitary confinement with bruised ribs;

AND WHEREAS, David's father, the plaintiff, was required to file a claim against kinsfolk who were graciously bedding and boarding said nominee during the time of the altercation;

NOW THEREFORE BE IT RESOLVED, that the Waldesruh Corporation, a loosely knit, nonprofit organization, does hereby nominated David William Sprick for the Burnt Wienie Award of 1974.

Burnt Wienie worthy: LeRoy makes a splash

Nominee: LeRoy Sprick (winner!)
Nominator: Unknown
Year: 1974

Professional Pride Downfall of Local Contractor

L.F. Sprick, local builder, narrowly escaped injury today while working on the boat docks at the Lake City municipal harbor.

Sprick, age 39 [we think not], was working alone at the end of one of the docks and had just completed a minor repair job when he stepped back to admire his workmanship. Splash! The heavy green slime on the water's surface kept Sprick afloat until help could be summoned.

At an interview at the Sprick home following the incident, Mrs. Sprick noted that if her husband made a practice of this sort of thing, something would have to be done to rectify the harbor pollution problem, as her laundry facilities had been contaminated by the mess.

Burnt Wienie worthy: A berry big jam

Nominee: Ed Sprick (winner!)
Nominator: Anna Sprick Smith
Year: 1975

Berry Pickin' Bachelor Brother Bombs Birdland

What caused a mild-mannered fish-pickling expert, walleye fisherman extraordinaire and sometime bird-watcher to suddenly this summer turn against those featherly flying creatures he so recently had watched and mimicked?

It all started with a poor strawberry season. Then the Millers went East on vacation and the mischief began. Edward began picking their raspberries. Other family members intercepted his activities and tried to distract him with bass fishing -- to no avail.

He soon was spied carrying gallons of buckets of black raspberries to those who would reach out in weakness.

Then he recruited co-conspirators Alverna, Anna and Joe Kirkwood, who did not realize to what extent the passion had progressed. Together at Waldesruh they picked buckets of blueberries for the home freezers.

In mid-August, when the jars and freezers and Sure-Jell and patience and time and desire were all used up, this gentle soul turned tyrant began to disappear into the deep woods near the nursery. Grinning, he would emerge with gallons of blackberries, black caps, huckleberries -- whatever. He would descend on weary sisters, lady friends and his aged mother in hopes that they would prepare the stolen fruit.

Yes, stolen! For our feathered friends preparing themselves for that autumn trek to warmer lands found no berries. They flew from patch to patch. No berries! Occasionally a starving bird would fly too low over a supermarket and with dazed eyes note a "No lids" sign and know the frustration of housewives that summer.

Mother Sprick, attempting to humor the bird-bombing, berry-picking bachelor, turned out pies and passed them on in brown paper bags to less talented members of the family.

Sister Anna realized the seriousness of the berry virus when she overheard Edward, who had just picked 5 gallons of the (whatever) berry, asking, "Tuck, what'll it take to get you to help me pick tomorrow at 7 a.m.?" Innocent Tuck, whose bank account had been depleted by a trip to Washington, D.C., and the Gould strike in Lake City, agreed to this dastardly rendezvous in the berry patch by declaring that he could be bought for 50 cents.

Meanwhile, back in the hot kitchens, recipients of the berries ran from door to door. "What are they?" "What do you do with them?" "Uncle Henry says they are blackberries." "Al says they are boysenberries." "How much sugar do you use?" "Can I borrow a few jars?" "No! They're full of pickled fish." "Sorry, I can't eat anything seedy." "Gosh, Grandma's pie is good!"

Where will it end? said the birds. Enough, already! We are starving! We've been forced to eat the Culex tarsalia mosquito, and we'll surely fall asleep on our journey southward!

Will the birds ever return to Waldesruh, Frontenac and Lake City? Will the family eat anything this winter but berries? Will Edward ever say, "Ich habe mein Nase voll"? Will ulcers be aggravated and will more ulcers develop?

Surely this travesty on nature is worthy of the Burnt Wienie Award. I speak for the birds when I state that all who vote accordingly will be given a sample jar of special blackberry or you-name-it jam.