One hundred and seventy of the 225 agriculture, commercial and residential buildings were destroyed, over one-third of the residents were injured, and nine were killed. At the time, I was living nine miles down the road in Mount Horeb. We woke up to one of the brightest and loudest lightning displays on record that we later learned had generated 200 lightning strikes per minute.

While many volunteers from Mount Horeb and neighboring towns poured in the next day with trucks, chainsaws, extra clothing and food, one group came by horse-drawn wagons: the Amish and Mennonites. They headed not to the downtown or local residences but instead spread out to the surrounding farms, setting up tents, portable sawmills and, with teams of horses, gathered whatever downed trees and branches they could.

The Amish and Mennonites set out to rebuild every barn, replace all fences and repair shelters for all the farmers whose buildings and fields were damaged. They rounded up cattle and turned chickens, cattle, pigs and sheep that couldn’t be saved into meals, smoking as much as they cooked for future use. They also worked to restore damaged gardens, and when they were done, they left.

Perhaps not surprisingly, they had the farmers able to farm again faster than those working in the town’s commercial and residential center could reopen many businesses.

Another farm-related experience I had out in Wisconsin was an outcome of an initiative started by Agriculture Secretary Earl Butz during the Nixon administration and very much supported by the Regan administration, the creation of mega-farms at the expense of the small family-owned farm. The local grocery store owner would take me to farm auctions where a farmer who had lost his farm to foreclosure was auctioning off his equipment, tools and household items.

The experience was heartbreaking, but heartwarming was the number of neighbors who would bid up items and, once purchased, give many of them back to the farmer so they could retain family heirlooms, furniture and critical tools and hopefully rebuild their lives. A variation on that was how the farming families helped each other through crucial, time-sensitive moments at planting and harvest time.

When I arrived in southern Wisconsin, I was surprised by the lack of trees. I had assumed they were cut down to open up land for farming, but I soon learned that there never were many trees as the region was part of the great American Prairie. There are just a few remnants of unplowed, unfarmed prairie, often found near V’s where railroad tracks come together. A few, though, are near Barneveld, such as the 190-acre Thomas Tract.

I was stunned by how tall the grass was and immediately understood why they called the ox-drawn wagons Prairie Schooners. From a distance, it would be hard to see the oxen and wagons, but the sun-bleached canvas tops would be visible like ships on a horizon rising and disappearing in the rolling sea of grass.

Thus, about a year after the F5 tornado went through Barneveld like a scythe and the town was well on the way to recovery, I decided to create a sculpture that would celebrate the land’s beauty and make it in collaboration with local farmers. I came up with the idea of a one-hundred-foot-tall kinetic gaff-rigged sail sculpture that would have the overall shape of a schooner.

My friend and landlord, Bill Kaschner, had in mind what he thought was a perfect location: a ridge home to several farms and a view of the Blue Mounds in the distance. My challenge was to get permission to install it on one of the farmers’ fields. Bill gave me a name and number, and the farmer asked me to come over at 6:15 the following morning; he’d be in the barn.

It was a test. The smells and sounds inside a large barn filled with cows being milked is something else. But I was so focused I was oblivious. I leaned my large drawing against the cows and made my pitch. After, we got on his tractor and rolled out to the fields, where I showed him my scale model so he could see what it might look like. He said yes, provided his neighbors agreed, as he thought it would attract many tourists for the two weeks it would be on display. They loved the idea, believing they could make a lot of money selling brats and beer at their vegetable stand, which they did.

I borrowed power poles from a local utility, got an Arts Council grant to hire a company to dig the holes and pay for yards and yards of brightly colored rip-stop banner nylon. The local public school allowed me to turn their gym into a sail loft.

Volunteer teachers and many farmer’s wives sewed the cloth into large sails, and about a dozen kids pitched in to help pin it so it could be sewn. A local company that repaired farm equipment manufactured all the steel parts. The key was getting Wisconsin Public Television to create and air a documentary about the creation and unveiling of the sculpture.

Around five hundred people, many area farmers, came out for the unveiling along with Miss Dairyland, who smashed a milk bottle against a steel bar attached to the mast.

I didn’t expect just how many people would come, which they did by the busload from as far away as Toledo, Ohil. Nor did I expect to get a call from the organizers of Operation Sail, the planners of the parade of Tall Ships as part of the 1986 rededication of the Statue of Liberty. Their request: would I bring it to New York City? My response was to propose instead to create another larger version and “sail” it from Portland, Oregon, stopping at nine sites along the way.

It would be called the Prairie Ship Liberty, 120 feet tall, and was covered in three installments by Charles Kuralt’s CBS Sunday Morning.

But that’s another story.