The Amazing Journey of the Kickapoo Kids

 Sprinkled along a twisting one hundred twenty-mile stream from the northern part of Wisconsin, south to the Wisconsin River, is the world in which I lived during my youth -- the Kickapoo Valley.  Once inhabited by Kickapoo Indians, the land (located about half way between Milwaukee and Minneapolis) has given way to small villages occupied by residents who are almost oblivious to the trials of everyday life evolving around them.  
   Our country was starting to recover from many years of rationing and sacrificing during World War II. Although there still remained a certain amount of nostalgia for the prewar era, wages were rising among young people and emphasis was on having more advanced machinery, appliances and automobiles. Prior to that time these pioneers, who for their families were forced to accept life’s hardships, were the last generation of American sodbusters who literally dug a living out of the earth with a team of horses and their bare hands.
   The older generation, however, did not benefit much from the postwar financial explosion because many had never recovered from the loss of their savings during the Great Depression. The average sixty-five-year-old had nothing but a small Social Security pension for an income.  Some people ate lard sandwiches mixed with salt for lunch, and hot water mixed with bacon grease for soup. They called it “poor man’s soup.” Chicken necks were served wit ...

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