My grandparents were criminals. By Wisconsin standards, they committed the highest form of treason. That’s right: My grandparents were margarine smugglers.

For those who are not as well-versed in backdoor butter substitute dealings, allow me to figuratively blow your mind with an expos? of a Wisconsin subculture you probably never knew existed.

Back in 1895, Wisconsin passed a law to forbid the sale of margarine as a way to protect the dairy industry. Margarine lost its controlled substance status somewhat in 1967 when the “butter only” policy was restricted to schools, hospitals and prisons. Now, Rep. Dale Kooyenga, R-Brookfield, is pushing to repeal the 1967 restrictions as a way to reduce budgets across the state.

Now that this issue has come to light, I figure it is time to come forward with a dark chapter in the Hartung family history book. Perhaps hearing this tale will comfort my fellow Wisconsinites who have had to spend the holidays with swindlers and crooks – swindlers and crooks who didn’t have the decency to make their cut-out cookies with real butter despite being residents of the Dairy State!

And so, dear readers, submitted for your approval: the first of many (non-weekly) columns in which I will explore various aspects of Wisconsin culture. Welcome to the Dairyland Down-Low.

First, let me begin by assuring you that Hartungs don’t do badass things. We just don’t. We make sarcastic comments. We watch the biannual Twilight Zone marathon. Our cats “give” people presents and “sign” Christmas cards. We are not badass.

The exception to this is my older brother, who insists on running 10k races that force him to crawl through mud, under barbed wire and run over the tops of cars. Sadly, he suffers from both Forgotten Middle Child Syndrome and a severe case of Sisters Who Never Shut Up Disease, so his acts of badassery often go unacknowledged.

While not intrinsically badass, we Hartungs are, however, extremely motivated by the prospect of saving cash. This is especially true of the older generations, which explains how my grandparents became margarine bandits in the first place. I think it traces back to our German heritage.

Vee can buy so much more margarine zan butter for fewer Deutsche Mark! Yay, efficiency! Wir m?ssen Geld sparen!

While basement prices may have been the motivating factor rather than rebellion for rebellion’s sake, that doesn’t mean Herb and Marge did not think like con artists in their acts of butter banditry. Their scheme of choice was the old “family trip to Canada” con so as not to attract attention from border control. As true champions of efficiency, my grandparents bought margarine by the case to ensure they had an adequate supply for several months.

I do not know how many times Ma and Pa Hartung got away with this shady deal, but I do know they never got caught. I bet they saved at least $20 over the years, so the cross-country trek was totes worth it.

They even dragged the kids into their world of discount-fueled misdeeds. My dad got the worst end of it. He had to sit in the rear-facing seat of the station wagon and guard the margarine.

I grew up in the minivan generation, so I do not know the gastrointestinal horrors induced by sitting in the backseat of a station wagon. My dad says his parents gave him plenty of Dramamine to help with the nausea, but I suspect they had an ulterior motive. They wanted to keep Wolfgang* doped up so he would not spill their dirty secret should his Catholic guilt override his German obedience.

Perhaps the guilt follows him to this day. And yet, old habits die hard.

Growing up, we almost never had butter in my household. I lived in the Dairy State for years before I knew what real butter tasted like. And before tears start to well up in your eyes, let me tell you that I turned out alright. Not great, but alright. Right? Right?! Someone tell me it will be okay!

Yes, I am somewhat scarred, but talking about it helps.

You know what else helped? Coming to college. Forget saving money by switching to margarine. This campus is full of places to score all kinds of butter … fo’ free! No one ever said I should just take one packet from the condiment table in the dining halls.

You’ve taught me well, grandparents.

*Name changed to preserve Bob’s innocence.

Holly Hartung([email protected]) is a senior majoring in journalism and communication arts. If ya have ideas for future Dairyland Down-Low columns about Wiscaaansin culture, send ’em her way.