Recurve Bows & Curry Combs

With an active mind you never know what might pop into your head. Today I was driving along in my old pickup with the radio tuned to an AM station and heard an advertisement from a farm supply store that took me back to my youth. They wanted to sell me things like curry combs, shears, halters, etc. It's been a long time since I held a curry comb in my hand. I always liked using one in the spring when animals were shedding winter coats. Gypsy, the dog, looked especially good with her thick, matted fur combed away. I was probably too energetic while pulling it through those clumps since she'd turn around to snap at me whenever I pulled too hard. She always looked so much better, though, when I'd hurry her shedding process along.

An image of our silage pile popped up, too. And it wasn't the act of feeding cattle from it that came to me. It was me hanging one of Dad's empty red tin Velvet tobacco cans on the pile and shooting arrows into it. Rollie Sandvig sold me his 45 # aluminim recurve bow for a few dollars, and then I was Robin Hood shooting apples from somebody's head or maybe it was Fred Bear shooting grizzlies in Alaska. Memories of whom I became have dimmed.

The aluminum bow wasn't very accurate since it didn't pull evenly, but with some luck and minor windage adjustment, I could hit the can enough to satisfy my marksmanship. It took awhile before I concluded that my sore forearm resulted from the bowstring twanging against my skin, but when I started wearing buttoned, long sleeve shirts I solved that mystery. Target arrows weren't particularly expensive, neither was the waxed string, both of which I could buy in Enderlin at Bjerke & Nygaard's. I spent a good deal of time shooting arrows at cans, but somewhere along the line I decided to be done with archery. I don't remember who bought the bow from me, but I hope he had enjoyment with it, too.

Just Another Day

Today I took my regular swing through town, first to Barnes and Noble to look for something I might buy with the Christmas gift card I received as a present from Brandon and to the Bismarck Public Library to return books. While in the library I checked out the Montana writer Ivan Doig's Heart Earth, A Memoir. I've read several things by him and find he speaks in a very down-to-earth style. I read an article about him in one of the recent Montana magazines. He lives on Puget Sound near Seattle, and a picture of him shows him outlined against the enviable view from his large office window. His goal is to write 400 words each day.

So often I have heard it said that if you want to be a writer, you have to write every day. Part of my goal in writing this web log each day is to get back into practice. I write to meet a self-imposed schedule. My grammar suffers from disuse, and my copies of Strunk and White's The Elements of Style and the Harbrace College Handbook get a regular workout.

After leaving the library I drove up to the North Dakota Heritage Center to wander through an art show. Much of what is called art is actually a form of craftsmanship, but there were several exhibitors present who create true art. I admire that quality in artists. They conceive and render something in an original format that no one else has thought of or does. In effect they become the models for the rest of us to copy.

Gerald Ford 1913-2006

I'd fallen asleep with the earphones of a Sony Walkman radio in my ears last night and awoke at 11:00 PM with the words that President Ford had died. My thoughts before falling asleep for the night were of his association with Richard Nixon. This morning's television is full of the news of his passing, and I am able to recall my admiration for this man. He was this country's only non-elected President. After Spiro Agnew, under pressure, left the office of Vice President vacant, Nixon eventually appointed Ford to the position, and Congress approved which set the pieces in place for Ford's ascendency.

Ford pardoned Nixon from any criminal action which I remember created a bit of a furor, but everyone got over it. A cynic would probably think that an agreement to do just that had been set in place prior to Nixon's appointment of him. I think the legacy of Ford is that he was a very decent man. He'd had many years of legislative experience as a Representative and as minority leader had learned the valuable art of compromise.

Comedians had a great time with the clumsy mishaps of Ford: hitting errant golf balls into a crowd, stumbling down stairs, falling off stages, and whatever else struck them as humorous. All in all, it will be hard to find much fault with the man. May he rest in peace.

The End of the World

Another year, another Christmas, only a few days left of 2006. It seems like yesterday when everyone was uptight about the Y2K scare which if it came to fruition would bring chaos to the computerized business world we are all a part of. Now there is a concern about the Mayan calendar that ends with the year 2012. Centuries ago the Maya culture devised their own calendar system and scholars have determined it ends with 2012; therefore doomsayers think the implication is that since they saw nothing beyond that year, it constitues their prediction of the end of the world. Hang on for lots of flotsam and jetsam as we draw nearer to that day.

Some in the early Christian church thought the world would end soon after Christ's crucifixion and many lived their lives accordingly. It must have been hard for them to live very well without making preparations for their worldly future. If crops weren't raised and cattle weren't bred, they may well have gone hungry for awhile. As far as I can tell the end of the world will come with the last breath I take. Too many metaphors get taken literally.

Well, I'm off to join the crowds and exchange something I received as a gift, and it will just be the end of the world if I don't get what I want.

Events of the Day

Sometimes I'm tempted to isolate myself from the daily world so that no "news" reaches my eyes or ears. Events swirl around with or without me. I did receive some good news, however, this week when my urologist informed me that my recent PSA test came out very favorable with a reading of less than 1/10 of one percent. The surgeon told me that men have female hormones that still give off a miniscule reading under normal conditions. Therefore, I understand that I am cancer free and will probably die from something other than prostate cancer.

Most news is not good, however. This week's issue of Newsweek magazine printed a bit of a year-end synopsis and has a collection of memorable political cartoons. One of them sums things up pretty well, I think. George Bush, the Senior, stands very large and distinquished looking and holds a note that says, "Didn't occupy Iraq because I knew what would happen." George Bush, the Junior, stands no higher than his father's belt level, red-faced with jackass ears. Two bystanders, everyday citizens, watch and the woman says, "I'm watching a total eclipse of the son..."

Cartoonists have a way of simplifying things and getting to the heart of the matter. I don't know the name of this particular one, but he has been drawing Junior with those ears for some time. One other cartoon caught my eye. Rumsfeld stands jabbing his finger at a room full of be-medaled generals and lectures them, "Generals, do whatever it takes to win this war..." The second panel shows their reaction. They have picked him up and are heading to an open window to toss him out.

Seven Ages

Yesterday, at my place of employment, I drove for the last time this year. Last week I informed the lady whom I'm driving for that I would do it one more calendar year. It has proven to be good part-time employment for me, but like every other period of my life that has ended, this needs to end, too. I plan to enter a stage of life called full retirement where I carry along all the baggage, mental and physical, I've accumulated plus all the future plans and dreams I hold.

When I was earning my college degree with the English major, I had to memorize a poem in one of those classes that came to mind when I started writing this: Shakespeare's All the World's a Stage. It never meant much to me at the time, but now it's taken on a great deal of meaning.

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like a snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

People of Influence

From time to time I purchase a copy of The Atlantic magazine because of some high interest article they promote on their cover. I was broke when in Barnes and Noble bookstore this morning, but Mary came along and loaned me a little cash so I could lay out the $5.95 plus tax and buy one. The article I want to read carries the title "The 100 Most Influential Americans of All Time." Now, I can't think of a topic that can be more subjective than that, but they gathered together a panel of ten important historians to make their pronouncements of their choices. One thing I like about these kinds of lists is they foster a debate and make one think of whom he thinks should or shouldn't have been on the list. In fact the magazine invites readers to add names that they think have been left off and will print a compiled top ten list in the next issue.

The top five Americans of influence listed in order of appearance are Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and Alexander Hamilton. The list ends at #100 with the author Herman Melville who the magazine terms as the American Shakespeare. After I read the lengthy article I'll have more thoughts regarding the choices, but a quick glance tells me one thing: very few contemporary, still living people find themselves listed. In fact, I find only one at number 54, Bill Gates, who is called here the Rockefeller of the Information Age.

I suppose the question goes begging, but does it mean that we need to stand back with the perspective of time's passing to determine a person's influence, or does it mean that few people today match up?

My Stuff

Many pictures of artifacts and old people (mostly ancestors) hang on wall or sit on shelves in our house. I prefer objects of that nature over glitzy home decorator items. In my study hangs my favorite - "Found" - a picture of an English Shepherd dog standing by a young lamb and howling into a blizzard wind for his master to come. I grew up with that picture since my parents had purchased that scene when they first married, and I can remember as a very young boy looking up at it and into it.

On another spot on my study walls is a crucifix of San Damiano that Mary brought back per my request from Italy. The ancient artist painted so many images on its surface that I couldn't begin to list them. Just below it hangs a relief scene of Jesus kneeling and praying in the garden. It's something I'd given my mother years ago, and when they moved from their large house to the smaller apartment she let me have it again.

Several black and white photos hang, one of which shows my Grandpa Bueling as a young man standing with a team of horses in Plum City, Wisconsin. He worked with horses all his life, and it seems fitting to honor that legacy with this picture. Below it is one of my dad holding the reins of a team, too, but this one includes me, and I'm all of two years of age. Thankfully, I didn't have to sweat working behind teams of them.

Other things sit around: a shadowbox frame filled with arrowheads, a 1/12 scale model of a farm wagon I built, some 3-D carvings of mine, an unfinished desk clock on which I've carved the head of a draft horse, and lots of books and miscellaneous that makes my life complete. This room is a nightmare for someone as neat and orderly as wife Mary is, but what the heck, it's what brings me pleasure and verifies the old saying that opposites attract.

Imagine a Barnyard Scene

I've submitted another poem to the international contest from which I won a bronze medal two years ago. Maybe they'll respond favorably about this one, too. Sometimes poems come easily, and then, sometimes I struggle for a long time to write another. Since this is copyrighted by me, I think I'll print it here:

Imagine a Barnyard Scene
where a boy straddles the neck
of a calf and dunks her head
deep into a silver pail
filled with sudsy milk. The calf,
hesitant, sucks on fingers.
Expectation of soft teats
gives way to resignation.
She is an opportunist
making the best of her fate.
She will grow, give birth to calves,
and see them taken from her.
Then, one day, chewing her cud
in thoughtful contemplation,
she will see the fence and think
the other side looks greener.

Frontierless

Being interested in history I remember well the writings of Frederick Jackson Turner and his themes of westward migration into the frontier. One of his major points centered around the idea of the West being a relief valve for undesirable characters to go to who did not fit well into law-abiding communities.

Another historian, Theodore H. White, states a similar theme, even though it's a different class of people he refers to. White's Jewish ancestors suffered in the ghettos of eastern Europe for generations and prayed to God for deliverance from their travails. As news of American opportunities reached them, they saw they might be able to save themselves by their own efforts. Therefore, many of them saw the relief valve and came here.

Today, lands are taken up and controlled by someone and a topographical frontier no longer exists. Unfit or dissatisfied people can't keep moving westward. We reached the western shoreline some time ago. Frontiers of space and the oceans exist, but they are reserved for the educated team players to explore. Misfits cannot move into these areas. They will just have to self-medicate, clog the social service systems, or inhabit the prisons.

Shibboleth or Sibboleth?

I'm sensitive to word usage, pronunciation, and semantics and have always been fascinated by a story in the Bible's Old Testament. The reference is to Judges 12:6 and a war between Gilead and Ephraim. To quote from the New International Version, "The Gileadites captured the fords of the Jordan leading to Ephraim, and whenever a survivor of Ephraim said, 'Let me cross over,' the men of Gilead asked him 'Are you an Ephraimite?' If he replied 'No,' they said, 'All right, say Shibboleth,' If he said Sibboleth, because he could not pronounce the word correctly, they seized him and killed him at the fords of the Jordan. Forty-two thousand Ephraimites were killed at that time."

I don't think this is too much of a stretch, but isn't something approximating that occurring in Iraq? Shias and Sunnis slaughter each other on a daily basis, enemies because they accuse each other of not knowing the proper interpretation of something Mohammed said centuries before. Apparently it is an offense worth killing for because they go at it vigorously.

The clever use of semantic "spin" in the political world can and does catch many people unawares. Thankfully, the loyal opposition and media reporters are quick to point it out, that is if they recognize it. Differing meanings have been applied to current terms such as "Cut and run," "Stay the course," and "A new beginning." They have become head-scratchers.

Hog Man

One summer, I think it was 1966, I raised a crop of pigs. In the back of my mind I still thought of myself as a farmer and got the inclination to do something like this. Allen Wall from Owego Township and I had gone to high school for a year, and I knew him fairly well. He advertised bred sows for sale so I drove down to the sandhills to look at them.

He had no barn for them, and they ran foraging for acorns or whatever else they could find in the woods around his farmyard. Some of the sows had started farrowing, and I remember him saying, "They're just full of pigs." He had a truck to haul them, so I picked out 15 of them at $100 apiece.

I had no experience with this but was full of the energy of youth. Dad let me use a 5 acre patch of fenced ground, and, after unloading them, I had become a hog farmer. I let the sows roam freely, too, in that patch, but I did buy some black plastic from Newton's Feed Store and set up a shaded shelter.

It did not take many days before they started in giving birth to their litters. I soon had pigs all over the place. Allen told it like it was, they were full of pigs. Because conditions weren't the best, some of the little pigs didn't survive, but when finished they still averaged eight per litter. They nursed well and the sows quickly brought their litters to weaning weight. I sold the sows and then had to buy commercial feed for the young ones. I needed to feed them until they could be sold as feeder pigs, about 35 pounds. The summer passed by and each night I listened through the open window to the growing sounds of pigs grunting and squealing. It took many sacks of feed before I could sell them, but when I did, I made a few hundred dollars for my effort. Thus ended my experience with hogs.

The Buffalo Sale

The North Dakota Buffalo Association held their annual fall consignment sale Saturday in Mandan. I drove past the Kist sale barn on Memorial Highway and decided to stop in for a little auction atmosphere. I've always enjoyed being around livestock sales and wanted to check one out again. A line from a western song sings "the auctioneer's gavel, how it raps and it rattles." The untrained ear might think the lingo coming out of an auctioneer's mouth is pure jibberish, but with a little concentration, it's pretty easy to understand him. I didn't stay long but watched a few yearling and two-year old bulls sell. A board above the sales ring listed their weights, and I could easily see from the fact that the selling price per head was about equal to their weight so that they sold at about one dollar a pound.

Buffalo need extra investment to maintain as a ranch animal. They require a double-high fence to contain them in a pasture, and fencing costs run expensive. Breeding animals a few years back reached very high price levels, and ranchers wanting to get into the business really extended themselves financially. Therefore, I don't think a dollar a pound stretches very far. Buffalo meat always runs higher priced per pound in a meat counter so we've never bought very much of it.

Nevertheless, there they were having their annual sale. The sale catalog promised consignments of over 700 head, and I paged through it finding animals from the four states of North Dakota, South Dakota, Montana and Minnesota. Wild and predictably unpredictable,
they carry about them an air of wanting to be free. They look clumsy but are very athletic and fast. A couple of years back I saw one try to jump out of the sales ring when he made an unbelievable vertical leap against the iron railings. When they leave the ring to return to the stockyard pens, you can hear the staccato beat and pounding of their hooves on the floor. I wouldn't want to work around those beasts, but it's enjoyable to watch them as a bystander.

Chinook Wind

We've often heard in this part of the country that if you don't like the weather, just be patient and it'll change. The past two days were cold and windy. Now we're experiencing a warm-up; temperatures are comfortable again. A NWS meteorologist was quoted today in the paper, "It's coming from a nice flow of air over the Rocky Mountains off of the Pacific Ocean. We call that a chinook. It's a classic chinook flow."

The most famous example of yearning for a chinook to bring an improvement in the weather was in the artwork of the Western artist Charlie Russell. In the winter of 1886-87 he drew a picture of an emaciated, hunch-backed, u-necked steer and titled it Waiting for a Chinook. He had been asked for his assessment of the conditions on the rangeland by somebody, and this picture was his wordless response.

A couple of years ago we were on a tour bus in the Rocky Mountains of Alberta. I had noticed something that looked like a wavy jet trail hanging just above the peaks. Our step-on guide called everyone's attention to it and said it was called a chinook arch. It was a phenomenon I'd never seen before. My favorite western singer, Ian Tyson, named his backup groupd The Chinook Arch Riders. I had always thought they were named after some rock formation. My dictionary etymology of the word chinook states it is a Salish name for the Chinook tribe in the Columbia River Valley. It doesn't say how it got associated with this warming wind, but we will go on enjoying it anyway.

The Big Dig

Today I was on the road again, the first stop being McClusky. About one mile west of the town the highway crosses a government project, seemingly abandoned, called the McClusky Canal. Each time I cross over, I can't help but think of the waste of money that has been dumped into it. I've forgotten most of the specs for it such as length in miles, length of construction time, cost, etc., but the ditch is enormous, deep, wide, and long. As the Great Wall of China can be seen from outer space, I think there's a chance this canal could be seen, too.

When it was under construction news articles kept us abreast of its progress and its purpose, but now it has passed from public interest and scrutiny and is mostly forgotten about. Water never flowed down its length, and who knows how much money would be needed to make it operational today.

Much was made of the Alaskan senator who recently tried to get federal funding for a bridge that came to be known as the "Bridge to Nowhere." I wonder how many projects have sneaked by without any public outcry. The McClusky Canal never got enough. We have one other boondoggle - the Garrison Dam. Lake Sacajawea, formed by the dam, is mostly a huge fishery and recreational facility. Its turbines do generate some electricity, but on a cost basis I doubt that it is very efficient.

And Then the Train Came

During one of my spontaneous stops to shop at a thrift shop, I came across a Sears catalog-sized book by Bill Moyers. I always enjoyed his thoughtful presentations on public television, so I couldn't resist picking it up. It's titled A World of Ideas and contains 42 interviews, or conversations as he calls them, with accomplished people in a wide variety of fields.

In his introduction I liked the statement when he said ideas can liberate us from prisons we built within ourselves. Just then I felt the urge to find a bathroom while I sat waiting outside a house in Hebron where my rider called on a client. En route to the Cenex station I was delayed at the railroad tracks when the crossing arms came down for an oncoming coal train. Dispensing with the world of ideas, I sat counting the number of cars in that train - 115.

It wasn't ten minutes before, as we entered town, that we met another coal train pulled by three engines running on the track parallel to the highway. Another loaded coal train sat sidelined: three trains, 345 cars loaded with coal, nine diesel engines, all headed eastward. Something happened to the world of ideas. I sat in the real world doing simple math. Twenty trains per day, 2300 coal cars, 60 diesel engines, one big hole somewhere, .............

More Hell Without the Heat

One cannot forget Teddy Roosevelt and his Dakota ranching experience during the Winter of 1886-87. He invested heavily in his Badlands operation (over eighty thousand dollars) and though I don't know how to compare it to today's dollar, it must have been a hefty amount. Apparently he did not have much investing sense but was headstrong and went ahead with his ideas. Beef prices were low and a drought scorched the grasslands, factors precluding any chance for profit.

In an interesting business arrangement, he had a couple of partners who always were a bit skeptical of the cattle venture, but Roosevelt made it attaractive for them. He promised a share of any profits to them and would stand any losses by himself. How could they lose? Luckily for Roosevelt, they were highly principled and wouldn't be a part of spending Roosevelt's inheritance in such a hopeless cause, so they parted with him and returned to their homes in Maine. To compound TR's money problems, his estate in New York required a good deal of financial support, too.

When the heavy winter losses were occurring, Roosevelt was spending his honeymoon with his wife in Europe. When he returned and was able to get out to his ranch, he noted, "The land was a mere barren waste; not a green thing could be seen; the dead grass eaten off till the country looked as if it had been shaved with a razor." The tourism people here in North Dakota have glommed onto Roosevelt's time spent here and are fond of repeating his quote: "If it had not been for my years in North Dakota I never would have become President of the United States." Just maybe he meant, "I lost my ass in North Dakota and had to get out of there."

Hell Without the Heat

A recent interest of mine is reading about the winter of 1886-87. A succession of blizzards raged through the west and resulted in bringing about the freezing and starvation deaths of hundreds of thousands of cattle that were fending for themselves on the open range. No restrictions stopped ranchers from overloading the grasslands which soon became overgrazed. Still, investors kept sending eastern cattle onto the ranges because of the promise of quick, easy profits. The scene was set for what was called by one source as "The Great Die-Up." Another source said that in wintering cattle on the open range without supplemental feed, even in a mild winter, was "nothing less than slow starvation."

Omens were present if anyone wanted to heed them. Summer fires had burned much of the grass, the dry summer did not produce much grass growth, beavers and muskrats built their walls thicker, ducks and geese headed south earlier than usual, and white snowy owls - rarely seen in that area - swooped and flew in great numbers.

Only one hundred and twenty years have passed since this winter event. I say only because it illustrates how sparsely settled this part of the country was at that time. My trip to the Heritage Center at the state capital yielded no news sources west of Bismarck for that time. Much of the reporting had come from east or south of here. In-depth tales of the blizzards came from books written years later by participants in the drama. A poignant depiction of the whole affair said that in the end, the only men who made much money on the northern ranges that spring were scavengers gathering bones to sell to fertilizer companies.

Fresh Views

One of the best ways I know to broaden my thinking whenever I feel the need is to read a foreign author. Much good writing comes from Latin America. Eduardo Galeano resides in Uruguay. For some reason he had lived in exile and returned only after a ten year absence. His absence probably meant he stood on the politically incorrect side of the issue he writes about.

He writes passionately for the need of the masses in Latin America to become literate. But there are obstacles such as if only 5% of them can afford to buy a refrigerator, what percentage of them can buy books. He says the educated ruling elite in these countries recognize this and do little or nothing to correct it so as to maintain their power. He wonders how much potential talent has been lost.

I think one of his most profound points asks if a country's people doesn't know who it is or where it came from "how does it know what it deserves to become?" A country needs writers to exhibit and display its literature and history, and it takes literate readers to understand, appreciate and apply the knowledge to their lives.