Milton Donald Jensen (Don or Donnie, as many knew him) was born on July 15, 1921, to Arthur and Hertha Jensen of Bangor, Wisconsin.
The world moved at a different pace then. Dirt roads wound through farms and orchards. Children walked to one-room schools. Neighbors depended on one another because there was no other choice..
No one could know that the children growing up here would soon face the Great Depression, war, and hardships that would shape an entire generation.
But in this small Wisconsin community, they learned lessons that would carry them through it all: the value of hard work, the importance of neighbors, the strength of family and friendship, and the ability to find joy even in difficult times.
For Don Jensen, those lessons would become the foundation of an extraordinary life.
Donnie knew more hardship than most. He lost his mother at an early age, leaving behind five small children and husband, Arthur. The Great Depression was approaching, and Art was a pool hall owner doing what he could to make ends meet. It wasn’t enough.
The children were separated and found new homes with aunts and uncles. Donnie, being the oldest boy, began working as a farmhand. He was five years old.
At an age when most boys were learning their letters, Donnie was carrying milk pails that seemed almost as big as he was. Before school he helped to milk the cows. After school there were floors to scrub, dishes to wash, wood to carry, and livestock to tend. At night he slept wherever a family had room for him.
The farms changed. The work did not.
The next decade would see him moving from farm to farm and family to family. He worked before and after school, bringing in cows and milking them, scrubbing floors and washing dishes in exchange for a place to sleep and food to eat.
When he remembered those days, he recalled the time he stole a quarter to buy a Mother’s Day gift for a woman who was not his mother. He would shake his head, laugh, and say, “And it ended with a thrashing!”
When he was nine years old, his father remarried. His brothers and sister returned to live at home, but not Donnie. He continued working as a farmhand, visiting his family on weekends. There was a new mother and two new step-siblings. Three babies would arrive in the coming years.
There were many mouths to feed at a time when money was scarce. The Great Depression and Prohibition overlapped.
Then came the raid.
Federal agents descended on Arthur Jensen’s bootlegging operation and smashed bottles of beer against the basement walls. The sharp smell of spilled beer filled the house. The pool hall was shut down. The fines were heavy.
Whatever security the family had vanished overnight.
The family ate what they could catch or trap—turtle, rabbit, deer out of season. They received rations for essentials but were often hungry.
There were still joys, however.
On his twelfth Christmas he received the only gift he ever remembered receiving—a sheepskin coat. That gift from Uncle George meant the world to Donnie. In later years he would seek out children in need and secretly send them toys in memory of Uncle George and that sheepskin coat.
