For a city kid, visiting the great green (or white, depending on the season) state, the number of trees along the side of the road made the initial incursion into Douglas county an experience that would not soon be forgotten. The people I would meet made certain that the trees would be the least of the bafflements I would be exposed to over the next several years. The Wisconsin Method of doing, well anything, would put my limbs at risk, my life in danger, and my mental health a thing of the past.

The training I received in the early years of my life, school, street, and military, always suggested that before undertaking any action, particularly those that could pose some danger to bodily parts or peace of mind, one should always carefully assess the odds that things would turn out OK.

"Not so", sayeth the sages of the snow country.

It seems that however long a job takes, it will always take longer if you think too much about how to do it. It is always smarter, conserves time and energy, or if it involves an output of money to complete, the best way to go is to grab a chain and to crank up the ever-present tractor and have at it.

My initial exposure to this philosophy... rational, (to some), and occasionally dangerous to the unwary... of handling mundane projects came when Floyd, my father in law, decided to move an old collector's item of an outhouse from one side of the road to the other.

To explain why this had to be done is one of frequent instances of how the Wisconsin Method came into existence. There was a method to his madness. It seems that when my wife and I visited the in-laws, first with one child, then with two, and eventually four nice but noisy kids, the serene atmosphere that surrounded the "farm" just disappeared. So, to keep peace with both sides of the family, Floyd took it upon himself to construct a pleasant little cabin on the other side of County Rd. L, just a stone's throw from the main house. It worked fine for Floyd, but my peace of mind had to undergo some slight alterations.

A big challenge in adjusting to cabin living was to figure out how to achieve the physical comforts that were necessary for a family of six, only one of whom had any experience with anything but a faucet and/or other indoor plumbing equipment. I had heard of the house outside the house, but had never been privy to using one.

As we approached the first stage of Operation Relocation of said outhouse, I expected a discussion on the potential problems a move of this magnitude might create. Little did I realize the quickness of the northern Wisconsin mind or the unwillingness to compromise in making final decisions. As we walked toward the garage, Floyd turned to me and said, "This is the way we are going to do it". And we did. He climbed aboard his tractor, and from his perch, looked down upon me as if I was Tonto and he was the Lone Ranger. I can still hear his voice calling out in masterful tones, "Son, pick up that 2X4 over there and bring it down behind the house. I'll meet you there in about five minutes."

True to his word he appeared with his magic moving machine and with it a small wagon hanging on behind it. My head was filled with strange thoughts. I could figure out the use of the tractor and the little wagon, but what in the world were we going to do with the 2X4. He told me soon enough, but I still wasn't sure I got the drift of my part in the process. Like a dutiful son-in-law, I said nothing, and we undertook the mission. I just hoped that he knew what he was doing.

With some difficulty, we loaded the small square shaped convenience utility structure on the wagon. Obviously, even with my city mentality, either the building or the wagon was miscast for the role that was it was assigned to do. While I stood there pondering the problem, the Lone Ranger commanded, "Pick up the 'ba four', we're moving out". As I picked up the eight foot long piece of wood, the thought went through my brain that if I wasn't Tonto material, this guy would lave to find a 'localā' to help him finish the task. My son-in-law training took over and once again proved that blood was thicker than water. Thicker, but not necessarily smarter.

"I want you to hold the 'ba four' under the eave of the outhouse and if it starts to tilt, push up on it so it doesn't tumble." Those were my instructions from the guy sitting astride the tractor. They were pretty simple and even a city kid like myself could handle that. My self-confidence lasted until we reached the first grade going out of the yard behind the house.

Now if you have ever had an outhouse tilting so precipitously as to blacken the sky, and your mind starts to review all the evil things that you have done in your entire life, you quickly get the idea that all is not well. Adding to that impression would be your mind's eye seeing a copy of the Manney's Shopper where the bold headlines that compete with a local sale scream "CITY KID'S PLUMBING VENTURE ENDS BADLY."

Fortunately, the 2X4 didn't break, the house didn't crumble and we finally got the O H to the desired location, where it worked well and often. As a matter of fact, it can still be seen in the woods along County Road L in Bennett. It stands as a symbol of Wisconsin ingenuity and big city folks' lack of understanding of the way small town people operate and their willingness to do anything with a tractor and a length of chain.

I sometimes reminisce about the foregoing. Most of my family are or were plumbers and I grew up in a town called Flushing. I wonder if my hometown newspaper would have treated me any better or worse than Manney's Shopper. I think perhaps I think too much.