Just A Bird on a Branch

When I sit at this keyboard I sometimes think the output only amounts to a bunch of doggerel and drivel, but I’m heartened and encouraged to go on when I read thoughts like the following: “If only the most gifted bird in the forest sang, the forest would be a very quiet place.” The world resounds with the voices of billions of birds, so I’m claiming a perch on a crowded branch, too.

I still enjoy going back to read old journals that I have kept at certain times in my life. Alaska used to hold a magnetic draw for me, and I had to go up there to look around. Here are some entries I made at that time.

“. . . being so far north, the natives of the area made their own entertainment, and I think I must have stayed overnight in one of their inns where almost anything goes. I believe it was at Watson Lake, the location of the well-known signposts, that I spent the night hearing all kinds of funny noises such as footsteps up and down the wooden stairs at all hours plus laughing and giggling behind flimsy walls. Earlier in the evening I had sat in the bar listening to an Indian singing and playing guitar, not well, but with as much emotion as I’ve ever heard.”

Later, closer to Anchorage I wrote “A man — a native — walking along the road catches my attention. He is what I call a typical Eskimo, and he has in his hand what my stereotypical mind should think he would be carrying — a pail full of fish, which he had evidently just caught in the nearby river. He smiles proudly lifting his bucket just a bit to show off.”

“I drive further and see something that is beautiful! The Matanuska Valley Glacier stands shimmering in the distance, and, at first, because it is so striking, I am not sure what I am seeing... The weather is fairly clear now and the sun is shining off the ice...The day is passing and I intend to make Anchorage by evening. So once again I get in my trusty Impala and proceed to drive.”

So, I get into Anchorage late that day and tour around the city and area for a couple of days. “The port area was large and expansive. A large lake on the outskirts was the scene of a busy pontoon plane airport. So the day went. Another night, another morning brought me to the employment office. Long lines met me as I walked in the door. ‘Sir, you’ll need a permanent address before we can process your application.’ Oh, oh. What a shock! ‘Won’t my motel address do?’ I ask. ‘I’m sorry.’ Reflecting on that experience now I realize that I was really a babe in the woods. If nothing else I could have fibbed and made like the motel was my permanent address. But how was a sheltered ‘til now young man like myself who was raised to always tell the truth be expected to be resourceful enough to work my way out of that situation? He couldn’t do it and was shattered. Maybe Alaska isn’t Valhalla, after all. The cost of living up here is frightful and with winter coming I could see my supply of money dwindling rapidly. There was only one thing to do — get out of here as fast as I can to avoid being stranded. I load the car and take off. Somewhere I had heard about the inland waterway where I could load my car on a boat as well as myself and ship straight south...”

More to follow . . .

A Potpourri

Winter has set in here along the Missouri River. I enjoyed watching the river freeze up in stages, i.e. a light skin along the banks, then a few floes bobbing in the current, next those same floes piling up into a solid mass, and finally, the complete freeze-up.
. . .
A year ago we stood under the “Survivor Tree” at the federal building bombing site in Oklahoma City. It was sad to see it yesterday on the news heavily coated with ice and in danger of breaking down. Workmen were trying to get the ice knocked off its branches in hopes of saving it.
. . .
Various voices in the media have accused the Bush administration of not knowing their history, a deficiency that affects decision-making! A glaring example recently occurred regarding the recent usage of “World War III” verbiage. Dana Perino, Bush’s press secretary, under questioning, admittedly did not know anything about the Cuban Missile Crisis. Well, I do! I still remember watching President Kennedy speaking to the nation about the seriousness of the situation. It did not take long to interpret his message that nuclear missiles could soon be exchanged between us and Russia if the situation did not cool down and fast! A heavy cloud of anxiety and fearfulness settled on me that night as well as throughout the country until it was resolved. Even if she’d use the defense that she is too young to remember it, history turned on that event. Ms. Perino certainly is history-challenged!
. . .
I’m going to go back to reminiscing in my journals again, but some of these other things have been on my mind. Christmas fast approaches, and we enjoy enjoying reading the messages that people are sending. Unfortunately, few exchanges of letters take place at other times of the year anymore.
. . .
I’m listening to a CD that just played the line, “...string around my finger, but I don’t know why anymore.” I’m glad I’m not the only one with that problem. Now, if I could just remember what it was that I was going to say next ... I’m reminded of the grizzled old timer who with his lifetime of experience says, “There are two kinds of people — those who have to say something and those who have something to say.”

Journals-2

Thinking about my old journals got me interested in going back to read more of the old thoughts regarding experiences I’ve had. Rummaging around my flotsam and jetsam stored here and there, I ran across my Alaska journal. I traveled up the Alaska Highway in the fall of 1968 because Alaska held an inexplicable draw to which I had to respond, a journey which I have never regretted.

After passing through Calgary and staying overnight in Edmonton, Alberta, I set out on the interesting part of the area, and I wrote: "The miles now carried me into an increasingly north country setting. Farms became less frequently seen, and forests were rapidly taking their place. Yet the highway was still busy, showing the heavy traffic of the vehicles needed to carry on the business activities..." Several hours down the highway the drudgery of driving turned again to some excitement: "Not until I came to Dawson Creek did I become excited again. It was here that Mile 0 of the Alaska Highway was situated. Finally, I thought to myself, I’m almost there. Little did I realize at the time that the hardest and most lonely part of the trip was ahead of me...Now the real journey began. The smooth paved highways I’d become accustomed to turned into the rough gravel surface...To compound the inconvenience, it had been raining quite heavily and, of course, the road’s surface became quite muddy."

I wanted to see new and different sights and I wrote about this scene: "A fantastic sight causes me to stop near Kluane Lake. A break in the weather that day permits me to look about a bit more, and I see beautiful white spots arrayed on a distant hill. I study them and conclude that they are Dall Sheep...I snap pictures with my Kodak and find only tiny white dots with no sense of perspective on the developed film. It is a picture I still carry in my head, though."

This trip was before the days of cassette tapes or CD’s or even FM radios for that matter. I enjoyed listening to my AM radio for company and recorded this: "The radio having been my constant companion is not very effective at certain points. The broadcasting stations are too few and far between so I am forced into solitary periods. No sound but the noise of the road gets very monotonous, and I drive on and on averaging 30, maybe 40 miles an hour because of the poor driving conditions. When I do get radio reception, I am subjected to an entirely different perspective than I have ever experienced. Messages between inhabitants were frequently relayed by the announcers, such as ‘Fred Johnson, meet John Olson at the river crossing at noon Saturday to pick up your groceries.’"

"The miles pass by. Inches are gained on the map. Place names are now behind me — Dawson Creek, Fort St. John, Fort Nelson, Watson Lake, Minto, Pelly Crossing, Stewart Crossing, Whitehorse, Haines Junction. I started out in North Dakota,crossed into Montana, then into Albertan, British Columbia, Yukon Territory, and now I am ready to enter Alaska. Milepost 1221.3...My car is loaded with mud clinging onto, under, inside, and all over. I promise myself a wash job as soon as I get to Anchorage."

I’ll have to return to this memory trip next week. Most of the good stuff is still to come.

Journals

Today I checked a new book out of the Bismarck library: The Journals of Joyce Carol Oates. It caught my eye since I’ve done some journaling, and, indeed, this web log is essentially a journal, best described by Ms. Oates herself as "... a place for stray impressions and thoughts of the kind that sift through our heads constantly, like maple leaves giddily blown in the wind..." While this web log was never intended to be a literary masterpiece, I’ve always welcomed any reader who chooses to look at it. Since beginning it over a year ago, I have found it to be a satisfying venture and have received a bit of positive feedback from readers. My writing skills had become very rusty, but these weekly musings give me the forum to improve. At any rate, I went back to some old journal entries I had made to see what ran through my mind at that time.

Today in Mandan it is very cold and windy, and my eye fastened on this entry from January 2, 1973. I was heading back to Dunseith after spending Christmas break at home and got caught in a snowstorm and ran in the ditch south of Alice: "I stepped from the car and was struck by the fierce gale which drove the snow like so many hundred needles searching out the pin cushion that was my exposed face."

I remember being pretty upset at the time I wrote this on September 21, 1982: "Today I dropped Clinton off at the daycare center for the last time. We walked in hand in hand and weren’t received by anybody. A dozen or so kids sat in the television room staring at a black and white picture of some x@&?! and three adults in the room working there had not the time to look or say howdy-do or anything else. So it will be the last time he needs suffer through that torment and intellectual wasteland. At his regular baby-sitter, he bounds up the stairs as carefree and happy as can be, and sometimes doesn’t even bother to say good-bye to me as I depart."

I worked at custom combining in Kansas and Nebraska in 1965 and still retain strong memories of the following entry: "His son had committed suicide. The plan was for him to take over the farm operation from his parents, but burdens too heavy for him to bear had led him to take his own life. Mr. Lake lost his future along with his son’s. His zest for living died there in the ditch with the gunshot. He just went through the motions of putting in a crop and harvesting it. Now the lackluster look in his eyes could be explained. He suffered despair. Another factor compounded his problem. His wife had lost her mind. On one occasion we drove into his yard and saw a once magnificent home needing paint and carpentry repair. The lawn was unkempt and scraggly trees needed trimming. The interior of the house showed some neglect. I felt very sorry for him and what his life had come to."

In a letter dated November 24, 1969 to my folks which Ma saved and gave back to me I have this memory preserved much like a journal entry: "Got the package of lefse today and already ate a couple of pieces — really enjoyed it. The past three weekends I’ve been hunting in these mts. — really enjoyed going out but haven’t gotten anything yet. The 1st weekend we went up north of Dubois. I didn’t see any deer that day but got stuck packing out a quarter of elk that my hunting partner shot the day before. It was really tough going climbing up and down the mt. sides with it on my back but I’m going to get an elk supper out of it tomorrow night for my work. He had a donkey that we were using to pack out the elk with, but she went so slow & could only carry ½ elk at a time. There were 2 elk to carry out so 3 of us each took a quarter."

Well, I’ve gotten interested in my old journals again and guess I’ll revisit more of them in the future. Thanks to Joyce Carol Oates for revving up my curiosity.

A Memory

Sunday we drove down to brother-in-law Mike’s place, something we hadn’t done for awhile, with the pretense of seeing the 200 foot wireless tower that had been erected on a high hill in Mike’s pasture. After the visiting and a good meal, we drove to the tower site. By the time we hiked to the top of that hill I was really sucking air but recovered quickly in the cool, brisk wind and was able to stand enjoying the view of the rugged terrain that spread out below that hill. The whole countryside down there emits a beauty that I am fond of. One of the prominent features of the area carries the name of the Dogtooth Hills. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to see the jawbone of a dog filled with teeth drooling out along the horizon. Many of the topographical features of the area carry appealing place names. When you first drive out of Mandan you cross the Heart River, pass by Little Heart Butte, come to a sign indicating Whiskey Butte, see the aforementioned Dogtooth Hills, cross Cannonball River, and then Cedar River.

It is near the place where these Cedar and Cannonball Rivers join that my thoughts took me today. I recently hung on the wall of my study a picture of a man standing in a suspended wool sack who is packing fleeces into it. The man is a relative of Mary’s who lived close to the confluence of these two rivers. I was attracted to the picture because I don’t think I’ve ever seen one depicting this scene which I remember well. Indeed, the only picture I’ve possessed was the one in my mind where I was the one who stood packing wool in the sack. I’ve forgotten some of the particulars, but the wool sacks were 8-10 feet long and held 18-20 fleeces, that is, only if someone climbed in the sack that hung mouth-open on a scaffold and jumped up and down to pack them solidly. I’ve never forgotten how soaked with lanolin my shoes and pant legs got from the natural oil in the wool. Memories of sheep shearing time because of that picture were triggered by Sunday’s drive and remain strong in my mind, and I’ve written this poem to mark those springtime events.

Sheep Shearing Time

A man holding a clattering shears,
straddles an upended ewe,
and bends to strip away
the thick robe of wool
she wore through the cold.

Lambs separated from penned mothers
bleat hungry, lonesome tunes.
Clouds of dust hang
above the milling flock
where a helper
enters to catch and drag
another animal to her clipping.

"Good sheep shearers can do
a hundred head a day,"
goes the dinner table talk,
and this flock of 60
will be shorn by mid-afternoon.

The boy feels drawn to enter
this grown man’s world
and wants to tie and throw fleeces
into the hanging wool sack
and climb in to pack the bundles
so that by the end of the day the boots
he wears, soaked lanolin soft
from the wool’s drenching oil,
bring him another step closer.

The Road Ends

"But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think..."
by Lord Byron in Don Juan, Canto III, Stanza 88
. . . . .

The above quote from Lord Byron's poetry sets my own mind to dropping words on thoughts which, in turn, caused me to write the following verses. I've long been fascinated with the limits a mind runs up against when vocabulary, thought processes, experiences, etc. do not give a person the tools to understand something. A huge number of words flows through my mind each day, but many of them don't arrange themselves meaningfully into anything that amounts to much. If the words that Byron speaks of do not fall within the listener's ability to understand them, little relevant thought develops. At any rate, here is my way to express the limits and ends that I run up against.

The Road Ends

Just as the road concluded
when I drove to Alaska,

Just as harvesting ended
in Kansas and Nebraska,

Just as the pleasures of youth
abate and erode with age,

So, too, I have always come
to the limit that language
sets keeping alien deeds, feats,
and phenomenon unknown,
unexplored, or unfathomed.

The smooth, paved highway becomes
graveled road which reduces
to a rutted prairie trail
and ends at fenced enclosure,
blocking passage. No Trespassing
signs hang nailed to wooden posts.

For some the road stretches on,
letting them travel regions
where this pilgrim's map sprawls blank.

Empty Arguments

Often it just takes a word to get one’s mind working. When I first encountered the word sophism I filed it away in my memory bank for recall, something I’ve done several times. It’s defined in my Webster’s New World dictionary as being "a wise and plausible but fallacious argument or form of reasoning, whether or not intended to deceive." We’re in the political hucksterism season again where it can be easily observed, and in the run-up to the current war the public was subjected to the false argument of weapons of mass destruction being a compulsive cause.

Sophistry brought us to the present state of world affairs and also takes us elsewhere. A recent Newsweek ran a small 50 word article reviewing the book How Toyota Became #1 which caught the attention of my critical gaze. For reasons, some earned, some promoted through sales pitch, Toyota gained a lot of favor with the American public and people seemed to think they were the best. I always thought they were overpriced, but with buyers willing to give more for something they thought was better, sales numbers took Toyota to the top. But they have problems, too. The little article I refer to talks of engine-sludge lawsuits, more recalls than sales, and a top manager leaving to accept the same job at Chrysler.

A whole category of professionals exists to sway and convince people. Advertising agencies do nothing but peddle propaganda for clients who pay them to do so. Maytag claims their repairmen sit around with nothing to do because their product is so good. I doubt it. Gas stations claim to sell the best gas, but whenever I drive by a certain gas terminal on I-94 I see tankers from different companies waiting in line to load. TV preachers sell salvation for those willing to buy. With so many of them proclaiming that they hold the key to heaven, does it mean folks who don’t follow their persuasion will not get there?

When I was a little boy I remember seeing one particular fellow sitting on a bench on main street telling fish stories and stretching his hands wide to illustrate the length of that fish. Each time he told the story the distance between his hands grew bigger. His was the humorous lie.

How Big Is the Cage?

On my latest trip to the library I browsed through a favorite section, the biographies. I never know which book will jump out and beg to be read. This time it was Merle Haggard's Sing Me Back Home: My Life. I opened it and read in its prologue where he spoke of waking up, extremely hungover, in a prison. It was just one of the many brushes he had with the law, and he had to work his way through them all to reach a certain stage of maturity before he could turn his energy into something more creative and positive, in his case, writing songs and performing. The argument can be made, I suppose, that his early life validates the type of songs he writes. Maybe they are a rebellion against the growing constraints of society.

Recently, I had read a magazine article and made notes where Haggard was interviewed. One of the questions he was asked was what he misses about the America of 40 years ago. He replied, "I miss the freedom. I'm crazy about liberty and freedom, and they've taken all our freedoms away. You can't do anything. Everything's illegal ... People don't seem to realize it. People act like this is the way they want it." I recognize that philosophy as a strong theme running through his songs. I can't help but think about recent trends where the U. S. Constitution seems to have slipped in relevancy, and a small, select group of people in the upper echelon of government interpret or ignore it to suit their purposes. When I studied Political Science I learned that was an oligarchy.

Freedom is a notion that I've always considered important, too. It is one of the themes that catches my eye, especially when I see it shrinking away. I read once what the legal eagle Gerry Spence, the one with the cowboy hat and fringed buckskin jacket, said it about it in one of his books, "What if we have been born in a cage like the polar bear at the San Diego Zoo, and having known nothing else, we accept the cage as freedom?" Dad talks about remembering when highway stop signs first got planted at intersections and how there was an uproar from some who felt a freedom was being taken from them. Of course, there is the concept of protecting the greater good, and some laws need to be in place to protect us. But think of all the laws that have been passed since the stop sign law, and further, the interpretation of those laws. Are our grandchildren being born into a cage that they accept as freedom? Will succeeding generations be confined in smaller and smaller cages? Maybe the concept of freedom is being redefined! These are provocative thoughts!

Do Not Go Gentle ...

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
A line from the Dylan Thomas poem

In the not too distant past, whenever I went to the gym for my almost daily workout, I’d often come home and remark to Mary about a couple of the older gentlemen who frequent that place. I’d tell her how well I thought they were doing even though they were older men. It was quite the event when I discovered their true ages: one hadn’t reached 60 yet and the other was 62. The joke was on me with the glaring fact that I was the oldest of the three at 65!

On a wall in my study hangs a picture of a young boy at the age of two standing with his father behind a harnessed team of draft horses. The year would be 1944. Was it taken yesterday or 63 years ago? The answer is the latter and that little boy would be me. Much more time has passed than what remains to me, but I take my philosophy of life from the Dylan Thomas poem "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night," a line from which I used as the epigraph to this piece.

Death has been the subject of many a poet or philosopher through the ages, and I have never forgotten one quote from the historian Arnold Toynbee: "The Greek historian Herodotus reports that the Persian emperor Xerxes wept after he had reviewed his immense expeditionary force because he realized that not a single member of it would still be alive one hundred years later." It gave meaning to a banner that used to be displayed in the lunchroom of Bek Hall at UND when I attended that school: "All is transitory — Keats." At the time the quotation was too lofty and philosophical for me to give much thought. The more I think about it, the more those words hold meaning for me or anyone else who cares to contemplate them. A person can’t do much about the passage of time, so I’ll keep my thoughts in step with the aforementioned Dylan Thomas.

North Dakota Writers

Last Thursday evening I attended a one-hour presentation by the state poet laureate Larry Woiwode. He did not speak of poetry but discussed the writing of a memoir which he has done well and entitled What I Think I Did. He has earned some stature in the national writing community with his works which I always like to read. The program was directed and produced by Prairie Public TV and will be broadcast tomorrow, Thursday, October 11. With him on the same program was a singer-guitarist who I thought was very good. The musician teaches at Minot State University and writes his own songs. Woiwode had named him associate laureate when he was appointed state poet laureate. I’m looking forward to watching the program again.

In the foyer of the Heritage Center stood a table cleverly laden with copies of Woiwode’s book. Even though I had read it a few years ago, I decided to support this member of the arts community by buying a copy for my library. I stood in line for Woiwode to autograph it and exchanged comments with him. I knew he had collaborated with the poet Tom McGrath earlier in his career on one project and mentioned that I was from the same hometown as McGrath. Woiwode quickly told me to check out the NDSU Magazine, spring, 2003 (on SU’s website) where he had written a complimentary article about McGrath. Here he replicated the acceptance speech for the poet laureate that he gave before the governor, and he said something that shows his admiration for McGrath: "The great poet of our state, the one who should have been its laureate for decades, is Tom McGrath." In fact, he went on to fill the bulk of that speech with reference to McGrath and his work.

Those of us who know and appreciate McGrath and his work know why he never received the honors due to him: his politics precluded him from any positive acceptance by the "honorable" members of the community. I’ve read where McGrath called himself a communist with a small "c". My dictionary defines that as anyone advocating ideas thought of as leftist or subversive. That definition in and of itself can be interpreted very broadly as well as hotly argued. My interpretation of where he stood was that of being against the abuses of ownership who did not show any concern or compassion for those who worked for them. When I first read his book length poem Letter to an Imaginary Friend I was immediately struck by the early passage I've remembered which probably explains the beginnings of his political bent. A harvest hand for the family, Cal, a bundle teamster, befriended Tom, but because he became a labor spokesman for the crew. he received a severe beating from the boss, Tom’s uncle. A passage reads: "Cal spoke for the men and my uncle cursed him./ I remember that ugly sound, like some animal cry touching me/ Deep and cold, and I ran toward them/ And the fighting started./ My uncle punched him. I heard the breaking crunch/ Of his teeth going and the blood leaped out of his mouth..."

Once Around the Circle

Tomorrow, Wednesday, October 3 will be the last day of working as I have for the past six years driving a state employee around this 10 county area since she has accepted a promotion from her regional position to a state administrative position. I no longer will drive on a regular basis but have happily agreed to stand by on an on-call basis and take only an occasional trip. At the beginning of this year I told her I did not care to drive anymore after the end of the year, but this changes things and I might just hang around for awhile. We used to call these little jobs "beer money." Even though I no longer have need of beer money, I can always use a little extra spending money.
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Thursday marks one of my favorite days around here; the Bismarck Public Library starts its three day used book sale. It opens at 7:00 am, and I’ll be leaving here by 6:45 to get there. Prices are right: $20 or less buys a whole bag full. Then, that evening, our premier state writer Larry Woiwode makes a presentation at the Heritage Center regarding the writing of memoirs. For a little culture, what the heck, I’m going to go.
.....
Yesterday a couple lines of poetry popped into my head; something I had to memorize in college: "The world is too much with us; late and soon,/Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;/ Little we see in Nature that is ours..." I know I’m conservative (my wife calls me cheap), but when I drive around and see all the junk sitting in people’s driveways, I can’t help but think they’ve overspent and are hard-pressed to make payments on that little-used, unimportant stuff. I wonder how many of them have a library card.

Honyocker & Jehu

When I attended the Teddy Roosevelt Symposium at Dickinson State University, I studied some of the pictures hanging in the hallway that depicted old time North Dakota. The one that most interested me was titled "The Honyocker," a scene where a man walks behind a one-bottom plow pulled by a team of four horses. I had often wondered the etymology of that word but couldn't find it in the 1,700-some pages of my usually adequate dictionary to find its meaning and origin. A good, ole Google search gave me satisfaction. Obviously,its meaning is fast disappearing from the language through disuse, but some lady at www.honyocker.org wondered about it, too, and researched it some. In Standard German the word "Huhn-jager" means hen-hunter; in the Czech language a honyocker is "hunyak" and means a shaggy fellow; in the Hungarian dictionary it is spelled "hunyag and hanyak" and means negligent, careless, sloppy or forgetful; in North Dakota and surrounding states honyocker is often taken to mean a backward, old-fashioned type of rural person; and in the early 1900's the ranchers did not like the homesteaders who broke up the native prairie and called them honyockers, which gave the title to the plowman's portrait I saw.

When I was quite young I can remember hearing that word used occasionally; it stll had carried over to that period --- the 1950's. I can still hear someone using it in a conversation. I knew it to be derogatory but can now be at ease knowing I found its meaning and derivation.

While contemplating this, another word from the past popped into my head --- Jehu, pronounced yay-hoo, as I've heard it. Its meaning still has some use, and I have heard it used occasionally: a fast, reckless driver. Its primary usage is Biblical and comes from the name of a king of Israel in the 9th century, B.C., described as a furious charioteer. I find it fascinating the things a person thinks about on any given day. So much for the 25th of September.

The Old Hometown

Last week I attended a part of the interesting Teddy Roosevelt Symposium in Dickinson and listened to several historians speak on various aspects of TR. It got me anxious to start reading more history of that period and thought the best place to start was with my hometown newspapers on file with the North Dakota archives. The Sheldon Enterprise’s on file go back to early 1885 and that’s where I started. Once I got into reading them it was hard to stop. I wondered if Sheldon’s paper would make any mention of TR, and sure enough, I quickly found this reference in the May 19, 1886 edition: " Theodore Roosevelt, the prominent New York politician, has arrived at his ranch on the Elkhorn in the western part of Dakota where he expects to spend the summer." Other news that interested me in the first few issues I read were notices of General U. S. Grant’s illness and death and the vote of the Senate affirming the dividing Dakota into two states.

The local news, though, was the most entertaining. Some good examples from 1885-86 follow:

"Last Saturday was a lively day in Sheldon. Thirty or forty teams could be counted on Front Street at almost any hour of the day.

After four or five revolver shots, Mr. Creswell’s favorite dog gave up the ghost in front of the drug store last Wednesday evening. He had been poisoned.

Long lines of moving wagons are to be seen passing every day destined to new homes in the west.

Mr. Creswell and hired man were seeding all day last Saturday in their bare feet. Too warm to wear boots or shoes. How’s that for the 4th of April in Dakota.

Five Indians, well armed and carrying two canoes were seen making a beeline northward yesterday. Going to join Riel?

A lady passed through Jamestown, on a train, bound for Oregon, with a revolver stuck in her belt.

K. E. Rudd is setting up a sample McCormick binder, across the street from our office, this morning.

When ordering a pail of beer, be sure and instruct your clerk to see that he gets it fresh from the convenient slop tub, otherwise it might be too strong and make you sick.

Fourth of July to be celebrated at Sheldon in a grand style. A cornet band to be here on that day. Good speakers. Exciting races and games. Processions, etc., etc. and a prominent feature of the day - two balloon assentions (sp) and grand fireworks in the evening. All to wind up with a grand ball in the evening at the new skating rink.

Sheldon shipped the first car load new wheat this year from the field of P. P. Goodman that was shipped on any of the lines of the Northern Pacific Railroad.

Herman Schultz was in town Saturday and marketed a wagon load of extra nice cabbage.

Deputy Sheriff Tom Eastman has been having his hands full of wood thieves during the past week. He had four of them on his hands at once. Two paid their fines and the other two landed in the Fargo jail for 10 days.

Dr. Henning sports a new fancy cutter. Tell you what, it’s a daisy.

A team of mules, attached to a cutter, took a glorious tumble in the street, opposite our office, yesterday. The mules were not shod sharp and being driven on the smooth ice in the street, one of them went down and the other rolled clear over him. No damage except considerable scare and a broken cutter tongue.

(And my favorite) A Ransom County lawyer was found dead in his sleigh one day last week. Just how he happened to be sleigh riding, instead of having his hands in a client’s pockets, is unknown, but it is surmised that was because the client had had his pockets emptied by having previously called on another lawyer. His death was doubtless caused by attempting to tell the truth to a jury and then going out in the cold while he was still sweating."

I intend to keep mining those veins of entertaining news and gossip from the old home town papers. It makes for fascinating reading and maybe a poem or two will come from it.

September Miscellany

The weather moderated here on our hill in Mandan. The cool weather feels good. There was a light frost on the rooftops in our neighborhood early Sunday morning, but I don’t think any plants suffered because of it. The weatherman threatens it again in a couple of days. The beautiful alfalfa field below us produced a third cutting. It’s probably the nicest hayfield I’ve ever seen.
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Saturday, September 8 marked the 49th anniversary of the life-changing accident I suffered. I told Mary if there were one thing I could change in my life it would have been to avoid that incident. Often times veterans will not talk of their wartime experiences. In my own way I understand what their silence means, and I will have no more to say of it.
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I’m looking forward to tomorrow when I’m going to Dickinson to attend symposium at Dickinson State University: "Theodore Roosevelt and America’s Place in the World Arena." Dickinson is positioning themselves as a center of TR studies and is developing a digitalized base connected to the Library of Congress for research purposes. They are bringing in nationally prominent people to conduct the meetings, and I sent my money in to participate.

Pride, Empire, etc.

The sermon in church this week was based on the scripture reading of Luke 14: 7-14. It dealt with the teachings of Jesus on humility with the 11th verse holding the key idea where He is quoted as saying "For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted." At the start the priest related this story: Once there was a frog who wanted to go South and asked two geese on their migratory flight to help. The frog strung a string between his two new friends and clamped on tightly with his strong jaws. As they were flying along a hunter spotted them and shouted up, "Whose idea was that?" The proud frog opened his mouth to boast that it was he, and the hunter ate frog legs that evening. The story ended with a quote from Aesop’s Fables, "Pride goeth before the fall."

As I listened, my mind trailed back to the Newsweek article of last week that dealt with the unsuccessful hunt for bin Laden. The matter of pride seems to enter into the military’s efforts in this hunt, too. It would probably make the most sense to send in special operation units to hunt him down, units (termed "snake-eaters") that could live off the land for a long period of time and poke around the hills and caves of Afghanistan. The author says that military brass, though, doesn’t like "snake-eaters" because they don’t always follow rules or maintain spit-and-polish discipline. Instead, they would like to fight in the open and show off their firepower and new weapons. Therefore, they chose to fight in Iraq instead of Afghanistan. It’s unfortunate the military leadership hadn’t listened to the same sermon I just had.

I’ve never forgotten outgoing President Eisenhower’s warning that we should beware of the military-industrial complex. To further give a person food for thought our public television station last night on their America at a Crossroads series ran a show titled "Inside America’s Empire." It was indicated that the U.S. has a military presence in dozens of countries. The countries of Colombia, Georgia, Philippines, and another in Africa were featured and described to varying degrees our country’s involvement there. Whenever I see or hear the word empire I can’t help thinking of the Roman Empire and its fate.

Blank Spot

The countryside I drove through today brought to mind something I’d read several years ago in Eric Sevareid’s autobiography. A native North Dakotan, he wrote a passage to the effect that most people in this country think of North Dakota being a large, blank spot in the middle of the nation. The road heading north of Sterling, through Wing, past the ghost town of Denhoff and on to our destination twelve miles north of there seems at least as sparsely populated as anyplace I’ve encountered in Montana, Wyoming or Nevada. It shows on the map as a blank spot.

Mostly comprised of hilly pastureland and white-rimmed alkaline sloughs, I thought it was a big event to see something move besides grazing cows or flying birds: a farmer mowed hay in a long stretch of highway ditch, a baler worked in a field rolling large round bales, a couple of semi-trucks roared by, and a tractor with a mounted auger stood ready to dig yet another fencepost hole.

That part of the state would suit Michael Martin Murphey, the western singer and cowboy culture lover who told his Medora concert crowd last Wednesday evening that he thought the plains should be allowed to revert to grasslands. "It would take only three years," he told us. While that’s not a very practical, sure-to-happen proposition, he said something about the "foolishness" of all these ethanol plants being built that I had to agree with somewhat. When driving west to Medora one passes the town of Richardton and its brand new ethanol plant. While I commend community development and job creation, seeing that plant erected where no corn grows makes one wonder a bit. I venture to guess 95% of the corn they process will be trucked or hauled by rail, thus adding high-priced transportation costs.

Times change and maps forget old place names which adds to the blank spot. I looked on a new North Dakota map and could not find Venlo, a place my parents still talk about. It’s still clear in their memories. Anselm and Raleigh still show up, but their names, population and map co-ordinates do not since they are not incorporated. Sometime in the future they, too, will disappear into memories.

Instruments

While attending a wedding in Grand Forks about a week and a half ago, I listened closely to a musical instrument that I thought was remarkable in its tone. Mary and I sat close to the front for babysitting duties with Grandson Lucas when his mother, a bridesmaid, handed him, a ring bearer, over to us during the ceremony. The two musicians played a violin and a piano, and I thought the violin had an exceptionally mellow, rich tone. After the ceremony, I returned to our pew to fetch something left behind and stopped to visit with the musicians and remarked to the violinist how good I thought his instrument sounded. He did not act out with any sense of false modesty since he really was proud of it. He knew its history - crafted in Italy, its maker - whom I promptly forgot, and its year of birth - 1718. Almost 300 years old, I was quite impressed with it. It both looked and sounded great!

We attended the bluegrass music festival in Bismarck this past Saturday. Great musicianship was the rule. All the performing groups knew a thing or two about playing those strings: guitars, fiddles, banjos, mandolins, and upright basses. These groups are always great with their vocal harmonies, too.

More entertainment is on our calendar. Tomorrow we're heading to Medora for a Michael Martin Murphy concert and will stay over to take in the Medora musical the following evening. If that's not enough, we plan to go to the Czech Hall located in the hills south of Mandan and listen to some local musicians. To top it off, I'll probably go to my favorite coffee shop Saturday morning where a couple good local guitarists hold regular jam sessions. I'll even take my guitar to that one, but I will have little to offer. It's all learning for me!

Birthday

Yesterday, August marked the anniversary of Japan’s surrender in World War II, thus ending the war. War weary, the people in this country, so says history, didn’t say, "We won!" but instead "The war is over!"

Wife Mary related an interesting anecdote in regards to the timing. She was born today, August 15, 1945, sixty-two years ago. I was 3 ½ years old and don’t remember this, but apparently there was much celebrating starting on the 14th. When it came time for her to be born they had to search for the doctor who was out celebrating himself. Details are a bit hazy after that, but they must have found him since she got delivered.

To commemorate her birthday, I wrote this poem:

I guess you can say the years really flew.
Here you are already at sixty-two,
but won’t you agree,
it’ll sure be nice to collect Social Security!!!

Borders

I read recently how a country’s borders, state lines, property lines, etc. define us as being an American, a North Dakotan, a Mandan resident, or what have you. It reminded me of a passage I’d read years ago in Elwyn B. Robinson’s book History of North Dakota where he described the splitting of Dakota Territory into the north and south designations we live with. As I brought that book down from my shelf a newspaper clipping from the May 2, 1983 edition of the Fargo Forum fell out. The headline was "Alex McKenzie was brawny, master manipulator." Robinson and the author of the Forum article probably borrowed from the same sources to write their stories, and they certainly agree as to the politics played to divide the territory and establish each one’s state capital site. Both sources plus others I have read agree that McKenzie was the "Boss."

McKenzie was an agent of the railroads who held their choking hold on commerce in this region. He allied with the corrupt territorial governor Nehemiah G. Ordway who held some grudge with people in the territory’s capital of Yankton. These two men succeeded in moving the capital to Bismarck because the NP railroad wanted the capital on its main line there. Political wrangling and maneuvering continued with some favoring statehood and others opposing it. But it all boiled down to an economic issue with the railroads and the wheat millers deciding the outcome.
Obviously the democratic process of decision making was a sham with only a few powerful people doing the manipulating.

We had reason to drive through the oldest cemetery in Bismarck one time, and the largest, most ornate tombstone begged our attention. The name carved in the stone: Alexander McKenzie.

Cliches

Reading the Newsweek magazine is high on my weekly must-do list. One interesting feature is the "My Turn" column where this week’s topic is "Let’s Think Outside the Box of Bad Cliches." The author works as a college professor who finds that students use too many cliches in their written work which the professor thinks leads to sloppy thinking. He gives examples such as the criminal being caught in broad daylight, as if there is such a thing to contrast it to narrow daylight.

Rather than re-using his other examples, I can recall many from my own supply. It’s easy to accuse someone of being a slow or shallow thinker by saying he (or she) has the IQ of a fencepost, runs a quart low, is a bubble head, or is as dumb as an ox. When someone dies it’s easy to say he’s gone to a better place, breathed his last, gone on to his reward, bought the farm, or made his last pit stop. Politics uses many cliches: he’s a visionary, a man of character, a dark horse in this race, or people will vote with their hearts. The sports world uses an abundance of them: he’s a franchise player, it’s a nail-biter, gut-check time, he always gives 110%, he has a rifle for an arm, or he’s a future hall-of-famer.

In the last couple of days I’ve heard these used. Regarding Sen. Ted Stevens of Alaska who’s being investigated, one TV commentator said that the chickens were coming home to roost. Another announcer talked of the Pat Tillman shooting in Afghanistan as a perfect storm of mistakes. How about AG Gonzales facing a firestorm of controversy? A favorite of mine deals with a person who tries to portray somebody he’s not: all hat, no cattle.

Going back to the accusation that overuse of cliches makes for sloppy thinking, I would have to agree with the professor. It’s not often that we can read an author or listen to a speaker who uses proper English grammar for the bulk of his presentation. Most of the time they run around like a chicken with its head cut off. You know that a chain is only as strong as its weakest link and he has bats in his belfry. He brandishes his smoking gun and puts everyone on the same page as he goes for extra yardage. Oops, I just threw up an airball.

Memories

Last evening I was surprised with a phone call from someone out of the past. It’s always a good feeling to visit with someone like him and share memories. I have had other phone calls like that; not enough perhaps, but then some are better than none. As soon as they hang up my mind conjures up old times that I wish I would have mentioned, but there is always the promise of a future visit.

I’m always amazed how a memory can lay dormant in my head and how it can be dredged up from the muck with a simple reminder. It makes me wish, too, that I had read more when I was younger instead of following my errant ways which were a waste of time. Honest literary or historical allusions written by authors who knew what they were writing about greatly enrich the thought process. (Unfortunately, the GIGO principle might apply which simply translates to "garbage in, garbage out.")

I can’t help but think of our president who has stated in a less than glib manner that he’s never been much of a reader. I believe his ignorance, naivete, and inability to speak in complete sentences can be directly related in part to that. Dave Letterman’s humorous clips on Great Moments in Presidential Speeches show FDR uttering his "... only thing we have to fear is fear itself," JFK in his "Ask not what your country can do for you..." and Bush the Junior muttering duncelike syllables. I do hope the next president will dignify the office a bit better.

Happenings Around Here

Happenings Around Here

Things were hopping around here Tuesday night! Our yard was one of the featured gardens for tours in the month of July, an event sponsored by the Bis-Man Garden Club. Mary belongs to that club; I’ve seen the membership list which has about 250 names on it. The evening started off slowly with one or two people coming through, but as time went on the numbers grew to a sizable crowd which also included neighbors not belonging to the club who dropped in to find what the commotion was all about. We found out from more than one source that word started circulating among the membership that Mary’s yard was one that could not be missed. The word was "Be sure to see Mary Bueling’s in Mandan if you don’t go to any others." She modestly accepted all the compliments that were handed to her as if there was nothing to it. It seems to me she raised the standard. I refused to take any credit for the beauty she has created. I only admitted to mowing the grass. And, of course, more flower beds being planned for next season means I’ll have even less grass to mow.
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Ever since I hooked up with my wife over 33 years ago I’ve been driving by a site just south of Mandan on Highway 6 that I have been curious about: the Northern Great Plains Research Laboratory, USDA. They held an open house yesterday called "Friends and Neighbors Day," so we went on over, lured somewhat by their promise of free supper and entertainment. I was somewhat surprised by the enormous undertaking it represents. I thought maybe three or four people ran the place. Nope, there are 34 full-time employees plus many who work part-time or seasonally. Crops, livestock, tree plantings, landscaping, etc. make up part of their studies. This emplacement is one of three in North Dakota. I hope they do some good. There is a tremendous payroll out there. Your tax dollars at work.

Bad Dreams?

Bad Dreams?

Sometimes I think this is all just a bad dream and that I will wake up to a world filled with political harmony and peaceful international relations. But no, day after day the nightmares continue. It’s hard to accept the "gut feelings" and beliefs of the few in the administrative branch who go against the will of the electorate. I quote one of the writers from today’s Huffington Post: "We know you believe in a Higher Power, Mr. Bush, but why should any American mother or dad let you put their son in harm’s way just because you ‘strongly believe’ that his being wasted by a roadside IED in an Islamic civil war makes the world more peaceful and the U.S. more secure."

Every time someone tries to bring some major change in society the opposition marches out some slick talker to take issue. Michael Moore’s latest offering in film argues for a national health care system. Here comes Dr. Sanjay Gupta telling us he’s all wrong.
Senator Vitter from Louisiana got caught with his name showing up on the call girl list. I can just see Larry Flynt of Hustler magazine revel in this accomplishment. This not to excuse Vitter nor compliment Flynt; it’s just to further illustrate my point.

Mr. Libby received the commutation of his prison sentence, and more than likely will receive a full pardon on Bush’s exit from office. We’re constantly reminded of the sins of Bill Clinton in this case and others. If he did bad things, I guess it’s okay for them.

Maybe I’m not sleeping and this isn’t a bad dream. It’s seems to be reality. Well, a guy can dream about decency, can’t he?

Powder River, Let 'er Buck

Powder River, Let ‘er Buck

I’ve always liked to read and think about history and just borrowed a copy of a Theodore Roosevelt biography - Theodore Rex - by Edmund Morris. Those first few pages really pull at me to keep reading, and I’ll be spending a lot of time with it. Sometimes the measure of a man can be glorified through a clever, propagandistic style of writing, but I believe Roosevelt’s public life is well-documented enough that Morris didn’t get away with anything less than a truthful, objective assessment.

Another little history project of mine deals with a group of men who fought in the first world war. The 91st infantry division had as its battle cry or slogan, "Powder River, let ‘er buck." Most of the men in that division were from western states, some from Wyoming where the Powder River flows. The saying originated with some cowboys who were celebrating something in a drunken revelry. When I made that connection I started thinking there’s a good piece of poetry to be written regarding it, especially since my Grandpa Andrew Sandvig marched and fought in France with that outfit in the Meuse-Argonne offensive of 1918.

Grandpa carried a small New Testament with him (olive drab cover, probably government issue), and in it he made diary notations up to and including the wound he received. Unfortunately, the pencil notations are fading, but they have spoken volumes to me across these eighty-nine years. History texts further expand on the battle, and I’m in the process of reading all I can about it. It’s a small bit of history I plan to preserve.

Quotations

Folks who read a lot probably notice many authors quote the words of witty or pertinent sayings uttered by persons of renown. They try to make the quote validate, support, maybe confirm the point they are trying to make with their own thoughts and writing. In some cases it's the jumping off place for their thinking to develop. There's one quote I've found appropriate to my thoughts and actions that has stuck with me ever since I first saw it:

"It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worth cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat." - Theodore Roosevelt

This quote is known as the "man in the arena" quote came from a speech - Citizenship in a Republic - he gave in Paris, France in 1910. How does it apply to me? If I were to give myself credit for anything, it would be that I have not been afraid to try things that were above me. If I had not I would have always wondered how I could rise without the effort. I did not want to be one of those timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat. So easy would it have been to sit back and watch the world go by in some easy job. I never wanted to be the one in old age wishing that he should have tried.

Natural Disasters

I’m old enough to remember significant events that occurred fifty years ago: the tornado that destroyed a part of Fargo being a case in point. Today marks its 50th anniversary. That day from my vantage point fifty miles away, I stood in our farmyard and saw that godawful mound of clouds stacking up and stalling over Fargo. Weather reports at that time never warned of the immediacy of impending storms, and only after the carnage occurred did news begin to trickle out through media outlets.

With that I’m reminded of the tornado that snaked along a rural road near Walcott and destroyed a few lives and several farmsteads. That time, too, I saw those low, churning clouds passing overhead and listening to that rumbling freight train sound.

Natural disasters cut everyone down to size. Our world of cell phones pressed to ears, laptop computers, or any other highly technological gadgets can’t undo or control Mother Nature’s intentions. Floods, hurricanes, mud slides, blizzards, droughts, hail, etc. come and go in a steady progression. Occasionally a religious fanatic selling salvation on his television show says God’s wrath for sinful behavior brings on these events. I’ve never forgotten one voice of reason made by a sensible churchman. The Rev. Schuller of Crystal Cathedral fame was interviewed by Larry King at the time when some California homes were being destroyed in mud slides after heavy rains. When asked if God was responsible for causing the mud to slide, he responded, "I think they built in a place they shouldn’t have." With much of New Orleans built below sea level and expensive vacation homes lining the hurricane-prone Atlantic coastline, I can’t help but think of his words.

The Wind

I was sitting in a quiet farmstead south of Tappen yesterday while my rider went in the house to call on one of her clients. The squeaking and groaning of an old wooden windmill caught my attention, an enjoyable background noise while I sat waiting. Someone said once the only time around here that you notice the wind is when it isn’t blowing. Moving air is invisible in and of itself, but it’s not hard to see its effect on whatever it touches.

Last week Wednesday I drove into a strong north wind on my way to the town of Garrison. While crossing the causeway dividing Lake Sacajawea and Lake Audubon, I couldn’t help but notice the wild wind-whipped waves with their white-capped tips and the deep troughs between them as they broke on the south shore.

On Monday and Tuesday of this week I cut hay in large fields and watched gentle breezes wave the grasses just like the surface of water. Scandinavian immigrants thought this vast, rolling, treeless plain they settled on reminded them of the sea, and literature reflects that. A book named Sea of Grass, the song phrase "Amber waves of grain," plus many other examples bear testimony to the sense these settlers had of the plains.

As I drove home from Tappen my reverie of thoughtful literary contemplation burst like a bubble when I came on a damn turkey buzzard feasting on a dead crow on the highway. The car was almost on him before he decided to get out of the way by unfolding his six foot wingspan and flap away. A large bird, he would have put a nice dent into my state-owned car.

Growing Old (er)

Edgar Lee Masters has his character Samuel Gardner speak from his grave in the Spoon River Anthology, "And how shall the soul of a man/ Be larger than the life he has lived?" All the poems in this volume are written in the voice of the deceased residents of the mythical community of Spoon River. Each time I read from this volume I find scenarios that fit well with contemporary life. There are heroes, cowards, town gossips, unfaithful spouses, community leaders, outlaws, in-laws, youths, elders, etc. The one thing they share is their end - the graveyard in Spoon River.

No matter who we are or think we are, one thing we share in real life is growing older, day by day, each time the world spins on its axis or circles the sun. It probably doesn’t matter if we call ourselves young, middle aged, or old since it’s such a gradual process. I sometimes wonder where I am on this continuum. The age of 65 used to be considered quite old and not much more life could be expected. Now it seems as if the term middle-aged fits better and old age lies somewhere off in the future.

Dylan Thomas in his famous villanelle Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night has probably written of aging and death the best: "Do not go gentle into that good night,/ Old age should burn and rave at close of day;/ Rage, rage against the dying of the light." In other words, give it hell, there will be the eternity to sleep.

Good Times

Good Times
We spent the weekend in Medora attending and participating in the 21st Annual Dakota Poetry Gathering. It’s an event I hope to keep on my schedule. I took a turn on stage both Saturday and Sunday afternoons and got good audience response. The main thing that needs improvement is my guitar playing, but when I talk loud enough it drowns out the wrong notes. When you look out across the crowd that’s in attendance you see mostly an older crowd. I hope that younger performers get interested so that it continues on.
The term Cowboy Poetry doesn’t fit all that well, since only a few of the participants hold strictly to that point of view. A good deal of the work uses a more contemporary approach to rural life, myself included. I’m already thinking about future pieces and will enjoy writing them. One guy from a small South Dakota town that is celebrating a reunion this summer came asking if he could use the pieces that I performed on Sunday. I gave him copies provided he doesn’t forget who wrote them.
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The rain keeps falling here. It’s as green as I remember seeing this part of the country. Listening to radio reports tells us that crop conditions are nearly ideal. Crops, pastures and hay ground look good, stock ponds have risen, and everyone is in a pretty good mood because of it.
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The flap about competing restaurant chains shows a cheap shot. Some chain that’s not in this part of the country accuses Hardee’s in their commercials that Hardee’s does not use good parts of the Angus in their burgers, something like if you take the "g" out of Angus what’s left. I think Hardee’s was trying to get it stopped.

On My Mind

I have trouble with terminology that smacks of extreme power. Why they use the term czar in our federal government troubles me greatly. We have had a drug czar and an energy czar in recent years, but the latest - war czar - brings too much comparison to a Russia that experienced a bloody revolution. I think it is an ill-advised use of a term that can be substituted with a word that befits a democracy.
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We ate our noon lunch today in the Grizzly's Restaurant in the mall, and I could see through the tables to a television set hanging in the bar area. The headline I read spoke of another explosion in Iraq. We've become so used to these repeated events that most people don't give second thought to it. Our death toll there keeps rising, and I wish someone could explain to me what good we've done.
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I'm giving my attention of late to preparing for the Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Medora this weekend. I told Mary that I hope I don't make a fool of myself up there on that stage. To prevent that I've been doing lots of practicing. The three pieces I've written for it deal with the severe winter of 1886-87, Teddy Roosevelt's experience in North Dakota, and an auction sale. A fourth piece is by Chris LeDoux - The Bull Rider, a comic piece. LeDoux was one heck of a performer but was felled by cancer a couple of years ago.

Forty Shades of Green

Timely rains have fallen this spring, and the many shades of green shine in the sunlight. Johnny Cash wrote a song he named Forty Shades of Green about his impressions of the countryside in Ireland. I think there must be 37 or 38 right here in North Dakota.
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It's a bit sad to read and hear what's happening in my old home town. The school is closing and they're having an auction sale to clear out the building. The building is on the market, too, and a group in the community meets trying to come up with a plan to save it to use as a community center. Its future will depend on someone putting up the money to buy it; the school board stipulates $2000 must be deposited before a bidder can be eligible. If someone does buy it, it will cost plenty to maintain it as a viable structure when you consider insurance, utilities, maintenance, etc.

The city hall fell to a wrecking crew a couple of years ago because it was deemed unsuitable for further maintenance. It left one big, blank spot at the end of main street. For many years it served as the destination for ball games, dances, carnivals, plays, meetings, etc. If the school building disappears, it, too, will leave a big empty spot.

During its heyday Sheldon was a busy place. Many farmsteads surrounded it, and viable businesses were supported with their wants and needs. I have a picture on the wall of my study taken of the main street sometime early in the 20th century. There stands a solid, long line of storefronts; in front teams of horses hitched to buggies and wagons line the walk. That scene disappeared, and now another scene is about to.

Lovin' Spring

The week has come and almost gone; I'd better get this little laptop of mine typing away and write at least one blog. I've been spending a lot of time riding a tractor pulling a disk. It is the most beautiful time of the year in the countryside. Spring green contrasts with the black tilled soil in the fields. Cattle, mostly the black variety, stand likewise in the greening pastures. The rolling hills, buttes, and valleys paint their shades and shadows everywhere on the horizon, and weeds have not yet begun to show themselves. Somehow flowery language seems a bit incongruous with my style, but that is the way I see springtime in the countryside.
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I have to make sure to mention a workshop I attended last Saturday at the Med Center One hospital. Ric Masten has made a name for himself as a poet and entertainer, but his latest gig is battling prostate cancer. According to him he should have been dead some years ago, but with his aggressive response to the disease he survives. When he discovered his illness, it had already spread from the prostate gland into various locations within his body. His message this day was that he did not sit and wait to die from the disease but began studying it and how to combat it. One thing I found especially interesting is that he's discovered only a handful of doctors in this country who specialize in prostate cancer. Most doctors who treat it are general oncologists; therefore many of them do not have the time to know everything there is to know about the disease.

He set out to learn what knowledg there is out there and inform his doctor, an oncologist, how he then wanted to be treated. He calls himself the "captain of his own ship." Whatever, he's lived beyond expectations. I'd heard Masten interviewed on our public radio station a few days prior to his visit and knew then I wanted to hear him speak in person. Before the meeting commenced, I shard this with him. He asked when he started how many had heard the interview. My hand was the only one that went up. He and I had connected in some elemental way, probably because I told him I, too, had interest in poetry. When the meeting ended he brought a copy on one of his books and gave to me as a gift. I've read it; he is a good poet.

Dreaming

Dreaming is a good pastime. Some favorite moments are spent dreaming. It doesn't matter much if they come while asleep or awake; they're all about as meaningful, which is to say they don't amount to much. The other night I dreamt I was running around with TV personalities Al Roker and Matt Lauer on some sort of driving trip. Now this really gets wierd: someone in their crowd of admirers dropped over from a heart attack, and Lauer cut him open and operated on him right there. He just happened to be carrying a heart monitor machine in the trunk of his car and was able to pull this guy through in fine shape. The last thing I remember of the dream was when I said I will get a good blog out of this.

Daydreams aren't much more substantive, although they have caused me to try different things which have certainly added lots of spice to my life. I dreamt big things about Alaska and what I could and would do up there. Well, I drove up the Alaskan Highway to satisfy this dream, only to turn tail and come back after about a week. Of course, I detoured through Colorado, stayed there a year in Greeley, and earned a master's degree. This was not part of the dream but came about as an indirect result.

In many cases the indirect result, or unintended consequences, of a dream is what we can expect. In the first case, I shared that improbable scenario with a small group and got a laugh from it, plus the idea for this blog. In the second case, it set me on the path I followed for the rest of my working years. Dreams still come and go, often something like the bubbles in a bathtub: they form, float awhile, and then pop, never to be thought of again. I think a person never gets to old to dream. Just maybe one of those dreams will hang around awhile to come to fruition.

Blather?

I thought spring arrived several weeks ago but got fooled when winter set in again. Now, however, I think it really came to stay. Yesterday we finished power raking the yard, and Mary is rarin' to go with her yard work. She's got dozens of plants started in the house. This morning I couldn't sit at the breakfast table where she sat eating and reading the paper. The rest of the table was covered with trays of plants. After a slight dust-up between her and me that resulted in her getting up and setting them on the floor, I was able to sit and eat my own cereal.

Media people throw around the term "news cycle." I am always perturbed when the foolishness in Iraq resulting in needless American deaths gets displaced off the front page by events that should be buried deeper in the paper or on television news programs. The attention given to someone like Anna Nicole Smith reeks of simple-mindedness. The lawlessness of Washington politicos dominates our waking hours. The Imus blowout receives attention leading us to think this is one of the worst things that has ever occurred.

The recent slaughter of college staff and students at Virginia Tech deservedly dominates media coverage now, but something of insignificance will arrive to displace it pretty soon. Maybe one of the British Royals will do something juvenile again or a movie star will be picked up for DUI. I often wonder what a person should do to counteract the influencing hailstorm of crap that's thrown at us most days. Turn it off, get a hobby, read classic literature, go on a solitary trek in the desert, get shipwrecked on an uninhabited tropical island, . . . ?

Anything Goes

Winter finally arrived in North Dakota. We've had more winter snows the last few days than we had when we expected it. Christmas was brown. April is white. It is good moisture, though, and I don't hear anyone complain about it. Of course, it will thaw all at once and run off into the river.
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Mary, her sisters, and sister-in-law will head to Minneapolis Friday for a girls' weekend. Knowing them, they will have fun. Dinner theatre, tours, shopping, etc. As for me, heh-heh.
. . . . . .

We attended a funeral south of Carson on Monday at a small country church. I felt a lonely wind blowing at that cemetery. That country down there is big with very few families living there anymore. We even crossed some cattle guards on an open range area. The people that do live down there need to drive many miles for anything, except solitude.
. . . . . .

My favorite radio-tv man got in trouble lately: Don Imus. He is a rough talker and deserved reprimanding. Many are calling for his firing instead of the two week suspension he did receive. All I can say is they would lose a good man if he was taken off permanently. That man has raised over $100 million for a variety of charities, all of which are important. Besides, he raises public attention and interest in many areas of governmental abuse and omission.

The Crash

Who understands why an image or a memory pops into view again after being burined in there for a few years. That happened to me a couple days ago. I remembered a bus tour we took to the Northwest where we experienced an unpleasant scene. We had pulled into our motel in Kalispell, Montana and were preparing to get off the bus and go to our rooms. In front of us stood a few people, and one of the girls was sobbing uncontrollably on the shoulder of a bearded man who I later learned was her father. Word trickled through our group that some sort of plane accident had occurred. The next day a newspaper account explained it more fully. The girl's sister had been a passenger on that plane, and a flyover by another plane determined that all four passengers were dead. Tragic! Then, a few days later another news report added a turn to the story: two of the passengers were alive, and since they'd been given up for dead, they had to walk out for help by themselves, a happy ending for a couple families involved. That story made an impression on me and I wrote a poem about it, even though I took some poetic license with the facts.

The Crash

Headed north to Kalispell
I pass crows
picking and bickering
over this savory prize:
the ribcage of a road-killed cub.

Ignorant of an obvious portent,
I drive on to the Flathead.
Autumn surrounds me -
gold leaves of mountain ash and poplar
dance with evergreen needles of the fir.

Woods and rocks climb above the road
and beyond: wilderness
where the Forest Service spends
its energy and dispenses
self-proclaimed wisdom.

At my cabin, heavy sky shrouds
treetops and rare patches of blue
open, then flow closed in the fluid
clouds. A plane flies across
one opening in a clear instant.

A government plane, I think,
then all that remains of this fleet
moment is the drone of the prop
screwing through the heavy air.
I hesitate to hear its pitch change.

My ears know that sound of overload,
the loss of power when an engine
fights to gain altitude. Inevitable,
I await the impact of plane and trees,
then the eerie, immediate absence of sound.

100th Blog

I've been lazy or short of time or inclination or something lately regarding this blog. Spring has hit Mandan and I've been working in the yard. I bought a power-rake blade for my lawn mower and have been raking out old dead grass. Yesterday a dust cloud followed me and my mower. It was dry and worked well. This morning there is too much moisture in the grass. I told Mary it was "tough." She hadn't heard that term used this way before. The culture I was raised in used that word frequently when working with hay or swathed grain when the moisture was too high to work well. I suppose the words damp, wet, high moisture, etc. would have worked too, but "tough" comes automatically, and that's why I came in to write. Trying to write daily has become a chore, so I'm going to enter a blog at this site once a week.

We had a fun weekend. On Saturday I attended an acoustic guitar workshop at the Heritage Center. I still enjoy picking up my guitar daily and want to improve, so this was the real deal for me. I'm amazed at the level of proficiency some of these guys have with their instruments. They make it look so easy, and there I sit struggling. I've read that a good way to forestall Alzheimer's is to learn something new. Well, that's what I'm doing. I do improve, but it goes mighty slow. I've committed to going on stage at the Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Medora on the Memorial Day weekend, and I might just take that old dreadnought up there with me and bang out a few chords.

Sunday, we enjoyed another event at the Heritage Center: a bluegrass concert by a local band named Cotton Wood. Bluegrass music, when done well, is a great audience pleaser, and this group filled the 3oo seat auditorium. The price for admission was good - free. We couldn't go wrong on that. Bluegrass seems to be gaining in popularity around this area. Anytime there is a concert, it is well attended. Well, that's all until next week.

Springtime

Signs of spring pop up all over the place. Mary has been itching to get out for some time and yesterday she hit it big time. Yard and garden stores advertise just the things we need and all we need is a few more days of sun and warm temperatures and things will turn green. I remember that turnover on the farm from winter to spring, and especially relished the time when I took off the heavy overshoes to walk around the yard and how light my feet felt. Calves and lambs were being born and machinery was being readied for the field. Here's a poem I wrote when I thought back on those days.

Seeds

The wheeling seasons turned spring
commencing with the sprouting
of the seeds. Dad would wrap oat
grains in a damp cloth and say,
"This is how to test percent
of germination," as he
set them in a south window.
Days later the March sun teased
pale tendrils from those inspired
kernels that proved their virtue.

It is easy to forget
such a humble act when we
sow our seeds of thought. They, too,
can be set in south windows.

Springtime

Signs of spring pop up all over the place. Mary has been itching to get out for some time and yesterday she hit it big time. Yard and garden stores advertise just the things we need and all we need is a few more days of sun and warm temperatures and things will turn green. I remember that turnover on the farm from winter to spring, and especially relished the time when I took off the heavy overshoes to walk around the yard and how light my feet felt. Calves and lambs were being born and machinery was being readied for the field. Here's a poem I wrote when I thought back on those days.

Seeds

The wheeling seasons turned spring
commencing with the sprouting
of the seeds. Dad would wrap oat
grains in a damp cloth and say,
"This is how to test percent
of germination," as he
set them in a south window.
Days later the March sun teased
pale tendrils from those inspired
kernels that proved their virtue.

It is easy to forget
such a humble act when we
sow our seeds of thought. They, too,
can be set in south windows.

Billions

The way the federal government does business causes dollar numbers to soar to astronomical heights. The words billions gets thrown around with little thought. I was curious if there were any way I could relate something in my personal life with the term billions, so I multiplied my age times the number of seconds I have lived on this earth and arrived at a paltry number, indeed. Now seconds of time don't seem like much, in fact it took quite a few to write this last sentence. My total comes to less than two billion.

Time does go faster the older you get. When a child three years old waits for his fourth birthday party he has to wait for a quarter of his life, so that year really drags by, but someone who is 65 that looks toward his 66th birthday only has to wait 1/66 of his life, and it's gone just like that.

For whatever it's worth, I had a hard time coming up with something in my life equal to the use of the word billion. Cells in my body are uncountable, so I wouldn't try to use that. Billions are spent each year on the war, billions are spent servicing the country's debt, billions a year are spent on pork barrel projects like Alaska's "bridge to nowhere." It won't be too long and we'll have to get used to trillions.

Dissent or Disloyalty

I'm sitting here today listening to news of Valerie Plame's testimony regarding her being identified as a CIA agent for "payback" reasons because of an editorial her husband wrote speaking against presidential policy. Earlier today I picked up the recent copy of Vanity Fair magazine where the article "The Night of the Generals" dealt with the six retired generals who spoke out against the war in Iraq. These two instances speak loudly about goings-on behind the scenes in government and politics.

The book I'm currently reading, a biography, All Governments Lie! The Life and Times of Rebel Journalist I. F. Stone gives numerous instances of crap that would not be uncovered if it weren't for good investigative reporting. Here are a few examples Stone uncovered: a connection beween a U.S. company and Nazis to produce gas pellets used to exterminate Jews, profiteering oil companies were still selling oil to Hitler as late as November '41, the American Red Cross segregated blood supplies according to race. Stone was a busy man whose efforts did not earn many friends. He discovered for himself that dissent was equated with disloyalty, and a large file on him was collected by J. Edgar Hoover's FBI. I remember well how people were tagged as disloyal when they didn't support Bush, Jr.'s war venture. How many reporters dared write negative news in the early stages of that war? Finally, an outcry arises.

Bona fide military heroes are not immune from excoriation. The book reminded me of the example of Max Cleland, a Vietnam veteran who lost both legs and an arm in that war and who lost his U.S. Senate seat because his opponent branded him unpatriotic when he opposed the U.S. entry into this war. Maybe the journalists who exposed problems at Walter Reed Hospital are unpatriotic, too.

Tuition

The North Dakota legislature is finally doing something positive, considering a free college tuition bill. The age of North Dakota's population keeps raising. College students heavily in debt cannot find enough high paying jobs to keep them in-state, so they leave to work in places that do offer adequate salaries. A graduate's future must look pretty bleak when he or she realizes just how hard it will be to pay their school loans.

On our recent trip to Texas we learned that that state offers incentives for resident students, so this is nothing new. A plan in Michigan is being used as the model for North Dakota which, if used, makes about 35% of North Dakota's students eligible for the program. Personally I think if should offer assistance to a larger percentage, but it is what it is, better than not doing anything at all.

Education should be the prize that everyone aspires to, and more students would go for it with a little help and encouragement. I hope our legislature decides that spending some of our huge surplus on this program is appropriate and passes this legislation.

Trains

I wonder how many times I cross a set of railroad tracks each day, something we take for granted. The rumble of the diesel engines and the banging of the tightening slack when a train starts to roll carries a long distance, but we think little of it. When I was a young boy steam engines were still in use. My senses became filled with the sights, sounds, and smells that poured from them. Steam whistles shrieked and coal smoke and cinders poured upward from their stacks in dense, smelly clouds each time a train left the station. Sometimes you could see the driver wheels spin and slip as they sought traction on the smooth tracks.

In Sheldon we had occasion to enter the depot whenever an expected piece of freight arrived such as our English Shepherd puppy Dad named Gypsy, a box or two of peeping chicks, or my J.C. Higgins bicycle from Montgomery Ward. The station agent's name was Earl Farnham who dispensed or received freight, sold passenger tickets, fired-up the pot-bellied stove, and kept the ticking Regulator clock wound. The Northern Pacific served the towns on this line from Fargo to Streeter, running one day west, then returning the next.

Enderlin was a Soo Line town and there was always train activity whether it was a switch engine working the yards, or a long freight train struggling against the incline south east of town that was being pushed by a helper engine, or sitting at some rural crossing waiting for a train with "a full head of steam" to pass. The trucking industry had not developed to today's level so the freight train carried most of the commerce plus a lot of passengers. Occasionally you could see a ragged hobo peering through an open car door.

Odds 'n' Ends

Some days are blank pages. There isn't much going on in my mind today. The Bismarck Friends of the Library are holding their used book sale this weekend. I didn't find much except for a couple dozen CD's I bought for 25 cents apiece. I've run through them quickly to see if they are any good, and I think about half of them will be worth keeping.

I found out the meaning of another maxim or saying the other day. Our language is full of them. They get taken for granted and usually we don't even know the actual meaning or origin of them. Making money hand over fist gets used often when someone has the good fortune to make a lot of money. It actually came from Roman times when a craftsman held the handle of an engraved die in his clenched fist, placed it on a blank coin, and struck it to impress the design onto it. He made money with his hand over his fist. It couldn't be any simpler than that.

Warmer weather and thoughts of spring flirt with us now. The calendar already reads March 9th and Mary has started sprouting seeds in her little planters set in the light of our patio door. Can mowing lawn be far behind?

Bloviators

The word bloviate gets thrown around by media gabbers, and I always thought it was some made up slangy thing. I stand corrected. My Webster's New World dictionary defines it: to speak at some length bombastically or rhetorically. At any rate, a lot of bloviating will take place as aftermath to the "Scooter" Libby conviction. Past and present occupants of the White House have been and are all about controlling information so as to make their administrations look good.

One of the bloviators likened the Vice President to the Wizard of Oz who hides behind the curtain. One of the jurors reported the jury wondered why the real culprits weren't on trial. Another said Libby is guilty of "canine loyalty" since he has appeared willing to destroy his future by not truth-talking.

The whole mess relates to the constructed case for getting into Iraq. One of the most appropriate statements made by the past president Eisenhower was when he warned America to beware of the military-industrial complex. What did he mean by that? That war material manufacturers love to make new war machines and try them out in actual battlefield conditions? Cheney worked for Halliburton. They seem to be profiting handsomely in Iraq. That's my conspiracy theory for the day.

A Little Shop

"A man should keep for himself a little back shop, all his own, quite unadulterated, in which he establishes his true freedom and chief place of seclusion and solitude." Montaigne 1533-1592

I was attracted to Montaigne's quotation when I first saw it and have often thought of placing it on a plaque to hang on the wall of my shop. When we built this home I made sure to allow extra space in the garage for a shop, not because of this quotation, but because I had realized years before that I needed space for the very reasons he stated.

The concept of a workshop has been very important to me throughout my life. A small farm shop on our farm proved to be a favorite spot to spend many hours. The building measured only about 12' x 12' and had only one small four-paned window which didn't open plus the door. What it lacked in size and comfort was overshadowed by its boxes, drawers, and shelves full of "stuff": nuts, bolts, nails, scrap iron, hammers, wrenches, chisels, and a whole host of more miscellany. Anvil, vise, and drill press stood ready to use, and a became the blacksmith/mechanic whenever my imagination dreamed up projects.

I remember standing at the drill press in that hot, airless building and turning the ratchety wheel crank with my sweat-soaked arm. I drilled lots of holes, squirting drops of oil on the bit as it turned and cut deeper into the iron. I flattened, bent, and shaped to my specifications on the anvil or clamped in the vise. Even today I still love the sound of the ringing anvil when it is struck by a heavy blacksmith hammer.

Don't Take My Sunrise!

Here on the west side of the Missouri River we sit on a bluff that was most probably a sandy river bank long ago when glaciers melted. It trees weren't in the way we would be able to see that large herd of deer that has been wintering on the large flood plain field just below us. They creep stealthily into our yard to eat tender bark off Mary's bushes, a fact revealed by their tracks in the snow. The wild turkey flock can be likened to a patch of weeds since they always keep sprouting up. Pheasants, squirrels, and birds of many colors roam or flit about, too. There's an event that makes us sit up and look, though: the spectacular sunrises viewed through our patio door. To see such a thing of beauty is a great way to start the day!

Enter the evil developers! River side land, up and down the river, has become a prime target for profit minded activity, and who can blame potential home buyers for wanting a piece of the same thing we have here on our hill? It still rankles a bit, though. Land all over the region is being purchased at high prices for recreational or home site purposes; wide vistas of natural beauty become interrupted with man-made structures or are turned into private hunting estates which the common person cannot access.

Back to the river, I see development taking place all the way up to Washburn. Several houses have taken root on the east side of the river where they enjoy a spectacular view of the river at one of its most beautiful locations. Good for me, the capitalist argues. This is an example of the free market at work. Bad for me, the conservationist laments. I can no longer enjoy such a thing of beauty that all of us should be able to use.

Good Deed Daily

A hefty snowstorm hit us yesterday, then slowly moved off to the east where it dumped an even heavier load. (We're just days short of the ten year anniversary of the snow, ice, and flooding that occurred when we lived in Wahpeton, and a couple days away from the anniversary of the huge Blizzard of '66.) Snow fell the night before last and through the morning hours and piled high enough to make me glad I'd worn my overshoes while driving a state car around town. My rider made a presentation at the Mandan senior center and, while waiting for her, I was able to do the prescribed "good deed daily" that some boy scout cartoon character prompted impressionable young boys to do when I was a young lad.

A lady riding in her motorized wheel chair exited the building to cross the street to her living quarters. The small front wheels of the chair mired in the loose snow ruts formed by car traffic, and there she sat. With gallant intentions I walked over to her in her moment of need and pulled at the chair and got her going again. Score one for the good guy!

Five minutes later another lady came out balanced on her walker. She walked slowly and appeared to wince in pain. Should I offer assistance? Some people do not care to be helped when they can do for themselves. I chose to wait and watch, but I was somewhat embarrassed by not jumping to her aid right away and averted my glance for a bit. She had struggled through the worst of the piled snow, but when I looked in the mirror I saw she had stopped and bent over to reach to the ground. Her keys had fallen from her hand. Should I wait just a little longer to see how she does? I did and finally she retrieved them and proceeded slowly again, reaching the cleared sidewalk. Today I still feel guilty for not offering to help. My score for good deeds - pulling out one wheel chair, plus one; not offering to help the second lady, negative one; score for the day, zero!

Mortal Thoughts

Two Editor's Choice Awards from the International Library of Poetry hang on the wall in my study. Basically, they don't mean much. In fact, I spent quite a little time trying to locate on of them; I had thrown it into some drawer with little thought at the time. What they do, though, is attest to my belief in the worth of poetry. With such a few words I can paint a meaningful picture of my thoughts at the time, and the only way to write poetry, I've found, is to read recognized poets and decipher their styles and intentions.

One whom I'm reading lately is Donald Hall, the present Poet Laureate of the United States. He was married to the late poet Jane Kenyon who died before growing old, leaving him a lonely man. It's not hard to judge his emotions after reading much of his poetry written after her death - "I rise from the carseat and hobble to the grave of a woman who does not age" or "the hour we lived in, two decades by the pond, has transformed into a single unstoppable day."

Last night we attended the prayer service for a lady who at 65 years of age died too young. When it had concluded, I searched out my brother-in-law and said, "She was our age." He nodded and said something to the effect that we'd better hurry and get some good things done. Enough said.

The Movies

The annual Oscar show last night was a yawner for me. At ten o'clock I went to bed as usual even though it ran until eleven o'clock. I hadn't seen any of the movies or actors at work so it all meant little to me. Some years there is a great piece of music in a movie, but I didn't recognize any of that either. There are some great theaters in Bismarck with the new and comfortable style of stadium seating, but we just haven't been going much.

Movies used to be important, especially so when I was growing up. I bought lots of tickets at the Grand Theater in Enderlin, especially on Saturday nights. Westerns or war movies were a favorite, and the preliminaries added spice. Newsreels played events of the outside world, the Three Stooges made everyone laugh, Mister Magoo, blind as a bat, always avoided the pitfalls, and the Road Runner drove the coyote crazy.

The themes of the movies usually showed the good guys winning, sex beyond an occasional kiss never existed, and we felt like a good story got told. The graphic realism filmed today definitely influences many of our population negatively. I'm sure of that. We are what we eat, we are what we read, we are what we watch, etc., etc., etc.

Bill's Weathered Stirrups

We don't need to read fiction to find interesting characters when so many walk among us in real life. Here is a poem I wrote over the course of a few days when I recalled a memory of him.

Bill's Weathered Stirrups
hung on the wall of the shed,
collectibles to cross
the auction block and pass
to new possession.
After life mostly crawled by
and Bill rode horses
only in his mind,
he gave them to Dad
who taped Bill's name on their edge
to save their history.

I often pondered that pair
of bent wood toe holds
Bill used to keep his seat
in the middle of a horse
when he rode
through tan sand hills
and around blue water sloughs.

I first saw him ride in the 50's,
some event Frieda dreamt up
at the Bohnsack ranch,
with his boots planted in those stirrups.
Oh, my, he stood so tall
in the saddle
with his hawk nose
reaching beyond the filmy glass orb
he wore for an eye.

The master of his own perspective,
he lived in a kind of splendid anonymity.
Few sought him out,
an exception being the evil game warden
who targeted Bill's fish traps in the Sheyenne
and his clandestine deer shining.

Bill always prevailed,
at least in legend.
Pursued at night,
wily Bill
took his poached deer
to bed under covers
to foil the probing eyes
of the warden
who so wanted to catch
him with his prey.

Wise in elemental ways,
he could witch a well,
drive a sand point,
or dehorn your cows,
but I often thought
his doing laundry
meant getting caught
in a rain shower.

Celebrated by the poet McGrath
who named him Bill Dee,
he will live on in that mythical sort
of immortality.

He still rides high in my memory,
sometimes in one of those Model A Fords
he kept coaxing into town
or on that horse
where he rooted his boots into those
weathered stirrups.

The Fourth Estate

Thank goodness for the Fourth Estate! I don't know the history of that term when being used to identify the disciplines of print and broadcast journalism, but I'm glad it stands as a watchdog for the other three - the executive, judicial, and legislative branches of government. Sure, some journalists act in concert with "evil doers" in government, but enough of them see things for what they are and are not afraid to make the rest of us aware of the problems.

One of my favorite forums to hear journalists take on a variety of matters is the "Imus in the Morning" show that airs on MSNBC from 5:00 to 8:00 each weekday morning. Imus, an irascible curmudgeon, recognizes good stories and knows where to get answers. A major source for him is a widely diverse pack of wolves known as journalists who regularly visit his studio or call in to hash out topics. This week, Dana Priest, an investigative journalist for the Washington Post, wrote an article exposing the bad living conditions at Walter Reed Hospital's outpatient housing. The outrage here is how these veterans wounded in Iraq are being treated. She called Imus and they discussed it at length. The same show featured Tom Friedman of the New York Times and Jonathan Alter of Newsweek as guests, too. Without these people and their wide-eyed and open-eared postures, there are many things we common, tax paying citizens would never learn.

If we had only the President's view on the Iraq situation, we would be subject to whatever he told us. With journalists on the spot reporting, a different picture is painted. With the Fourth Estate's snooping and editorializing on matters such as the situation at the veteran's facility at Walter Reed, they have really reaffirmed two guaranteed freedoms - speech and press.

Farm Shows

This morning I drove over to Bismarck and wandered around a farm show sponsored by one of the local radio stations. I came away with one impression: the business of agriculture is nothing like I remember. The only reference to livestock on the schedule dealt with "starting a young horse under the saddle" and "equine dental care." Who but a hobby rancher would be interested in these topics? Most of the serious ranchers I know don't even own saddle horses let along work cattle with them. I'd guess the four-wheel ATV interests most of the active ranchers. Financial institutions and leeching insurance agencies abound of the list of exhibitors along with high-tech gadget salesmen. If there are any small farmers left, they wouldn't find much to fit their needs here.

The first agriculture show I attended as a young boy was the Valley City Winter Show. Now, that was a good show that lasted about ten days. Cattle, sheep, hogs, machinery, rodeos, entertainment, numerous display booths, etc. seemed more fun than any carnival midway. Hard times came to that show with the loss of small family farms, and their schedule runs only about half the length as it did previously. Big cattle show can be found still, but I presume it's the high-rollers that everything there caters to. I once attended a rodeo at the Denver Stock Show and remember large crowds roaming around and engaging in serious ag-related discussions in those exhibit areas. Large crowds might still attend, but I'll wager they come for the entertainment. I don't think there's any wisdom in the following statement, but I'll make it anyway: if things never changed, they'd stay the same. Adios.