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.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, February 23, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Presidents' Day
The birthdays of Presidents Lincoln and Washington used to be red letter days on the calendar, but for reasons I've forgotten they have been combined into one Presidents' Day, a holiday when some of us celebrate with a day off from work while the rest of us don't give a darn. I can't make fun of these two men, though, since they are true icons of this country. Every day we're reminded of them whenever we jingle the change in our pockets with Washington's visage stamped on our quarters and Lincoln's on our pennies. Almost every city has landmarks where streets, schools, or other public sites bear the name of one of them. A year ago a trip we took to the northeastern U. S. put us closer to their historical roots.
Mount Vernon stands prominent on the banks of the Potomac River and walking through his house and grounds gives a person a broader perspective on Washington's life. Visiting the Washington Monument in Washington, D. C. still remains an interesting experience for me. It stands tall, slender, and inviting in the city landscape. A popular visitor destination, we had to wait in line for a time before riding an elevator to the top. I noticed riflemen standing on the rooftops of a couple of buildings, but with increased security being the new normal, I wasn't particularly intrugued by it. When we reached the visitors' deck in the monument, I looked northward to the White House. Soon I discovered the reason for the presence of the riflemen. A flight of three helicopters approached the White House, then two of them, decoys, abruptly veered off and a third one settled on the lawn. Sure enough, after a minute or two, out steps the President and First Lady Laura. The next time I looked the riflement no longer stood on the rooftops.
A visit to the Gettysburg Battlefield took us a bit closer to the spirit of Lincoln. Here he delivered his famous Gettysburg Address, something most of us were made to memorize in grade school. After walking on this killing field, I found his words taking on greater meaning. It would be hard to stand beside those cannons on the battlefield and not feel saddened by thoughts of the huge loss of life they caused. Monuments and plaques are plentiful, and they tell a big story that one could spend a great deal of time studying. For a souvenir I bent down to pick up an acorn. I've since thought maybe the roots of those trees have been nourished by the blood spilled on that ground. I'm reminded of that every time I hold it in my hand.
Mount Vernon stands prominent on the banks of the Potomac River and walking through his house and grounds gives a person a broader perspective on Washington's life. Visiting the Washington Monument in Washington, D. C. still remains an interesting experience for me. It stands tall, slender, and inviting in the city landscape. A popular visitor destination, we had to wait in line for a time before riding an elevator to the top. I noticed riflemen standing on the rooftops of a couple of buildings, but with increased security being the new normal, I wasn't particularly intrugued by it. When we reached the visitors' deck in the monument, I looked northward to the White House. Soon I discovered the reason for the presence of the riflemen. A flight of three helicopters approached the White House, then two of them, decoys, abruptly veered off and a third one settled on the lawn. Sure enough, after a minute or two, out steps the President and First Lady Laura. The next time I looked the riflement no longer stood on the rooftops.
A visit to the Gettysburg Battlefield took us a bit closer to the spirit of Lincoln. Here he delivered his famous Gettysburg Address, something most of us were made to memorize in grade school. After walking on this killing field, I found his words taking on greater meaning. It would be hard to stand beside those cannons on the battlefield and not feel saddened by thoughts of the huge loss of life they caused. Monuments and plaques are plentiful, and they tell a big story that one could spend a great deal of time studying. For a souvenir I bent down to pick up an acorn. I've since thought maybe the roots of those trees have been nourished by the blood spilled on that ground. I'm reminded of that every time I hold it in my hand.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Clouds of Steam
Today I'm one day past my 65th birthday. Yesterday Mother Nature laughed and threw a minus thirty-four degree morning in my honor. It's hard to think of ice water being warm, but the colder air temperature hitting patches of open water on the Missouri River created thick clouds of steam that rose from the riverbed and hung so that traffic on the Grant Marsh Bridge had to slow. Once through it, though, the usual speeding cars whizzed by, many of the drivers pressing their ever-present cell phones to their ears. Severe weather conditions used to be a barrier to easy living. We had respect for nature, a fear of winter storms. The recent snow storms in the eastern part of the country caught people unaware, so much so that a fifty mile traffic jam formed on a freeway that stranded people in their cars for more than a day.
It's funny what clouds of steam can do to a 65 year old brain since they took me back to my youth. Clouds of steam rose, too, from the silage pile when the fork tore into it to fill feed pails, steam rolled out of the warm barn when the door opened, steam hung over the water tank after a drinking hole had been chopped into the ice, and when a herd of cows relieved themselves, columns of steam climbed skyward from their puddles and pies.
For whatever happened earlier in the day, one scene stood out the strongest. Driving in the country south of Menoken, a bald eagle flew low across the road, its white head and tail feathers glowing bright white against the gray sky. Eagles could hardly be found in years past, but with their comeback in this area, I still marvel at their beauty.
It's funny what clouds of steam can do to a 65 year old brain since they took me back to my youth. Clouds of steam rose, too, from the silage pile when the fork tore into it to fill feed pails, steam rolled out of the warm barn when the door opened, steam hung over the water tank after a drinking hole had been chopped into the ice, and when a herd of cows relieved themselves, columns of steam climbed skyward from their puddles and pies.
For whatever happened earlier in the day, one scene stood out the strongest. Driving in the country south of Menoken, a bald eagle flew low across the road, its white head and tail feathers glowing bright white against the gray sky. Eagles could hardly be found in years past, but with their comeback in this area, I still marvel at their beauty.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
North to Alaska
This past weekend one of the movie channels on TV played North to Alaska, a fact that does not cause the earth to tremble or even set a slight breeze to blowing. But it took me back, back to the time when I watched it at least four or five times. For reasons that lurk somewhere in my psyche that movie, coupled with Johnny Horton's catchy song by the same name, appealed to me. Alaska was being proclaimed in the media as the last frontier and the allure proved too much for me to resist, so in the fall of 1968, almost 39 years ago, I gassed and loaded my Impala to head out for the great adventure.
A lot of country lay ahead of me on that long road so I won't even begin to recount it here, even if I was inclined to. It took me seven days to reach Anchorage after driving through Montana, Alberta, British Columbia, Yukon Territory, and Alaska. The Alaskan Highway still consisted of several hundred miles of gravel surface. It rained steadily, reducing stretches of it to slippery muck. Literature is filled with wanderers, and I had become one. My previous employment had proven stifling. I wanted to get out and see the sea, climb some mountains, cross fast running rivers, and drive until I reached the horizon and then drive some more.
The story ended with my arrival in Greeley, Colorado where I enrolled in graduate school. There's lots of story between Anchorage and Greeley, but that can come another time.
A lot of country lay ahead of me on that long road so I won't even begin to recount it here, even if I was inclined to. It took me seven days to reach Anchorage after driving through Montana, Alberta, British Columbia, Yukon Territory, and Alaska. The Alaskan Highway still consisted of several hundred miles of gravel surface. It rained steadily, reducing stretches of it to slippery muck. Literature is filled with wanderers, and I had become one. My previous employment had proven stifling. I wanted to get out and see the sea, climb some mountains, cross fast running rivers, and drive until I reached the horizon and then drive some more.
The story ended with my arrival in Greeley, Colorado where I enrolled in graduate school. There's lots of story between Anchorage and Greeley, but that can come another time.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Citing Poetry
Op-Ed writers have started dipping into vats of poetry when trying to make sense of our present state of affairs. The New York Times makes available their headlines through a free on-line subscription. If something catches your eye you can download the article and read away. That is something I did yesterday when I read "What W. B. Yeats' 'Second Coming' Really Says About the Iraq War." The first stanza of that poem furnishes many quotable bits that writers are seizing on in their arguments. That stanza goes like this:
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
This op-ed writer argues that Yeats did not intend the poem to a scenario like the Iraq War. Little matter. The poem is fertile ground for writers to steal well-turned phrases from, and it takes only a little imagination to make appropriate connections. Then, in yesterday's local paper a local writer pointed to the beauty of language in poems like Wallace Stevens' "Peter Quince at the Clavier," T. S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," and W. E. Henley's "Invictus." These references sent me scrambling to my poetry anthologies to refresh my memory of them. In abrupt counterpoint, our local pundit said we will have to leave the "gentleness of pleasant
thoughts" and choose words with "the weight of blunt instruments, the keenness of Toledo steel" to fight the dangers that confront us. I know that attention to poetry rises and falls. It looks like the poets are being noticed again.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
This op-ed writer argues that Yeats did not intend the poem to a scenario like the Iraq War. Little matter. The poem is fertile ground for writers to steal well-turned phrases from, and it takes only a little imagination to make appropriate connections. Then, in yesterday's local paper a local writer pointed to the beauty of language in poems like Wallace Stevens' "Peter Quince at the Clavier," T. S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," and W. E. Henley's "Invictus." These references sent me scrambling to my poetry anthologies to refresh my memory of them. In abrupt counterpoint, our local pundit said we will have to leave the "gentleness of pleasant
thoughts" and choose words with "the weight of blunt instruments, the keenness of Toledo steel" to fight the dangers that confront us. I know that attention to poetry rises and falls. It looks like the poets are being noticed again.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Happiness
The clergyman at the church I attended Sunday asked the question "What is happiness?" He went on to read several examples proffered by various individuals, and in conclusion he defined happiness in accord with religious principles, something which I don't even remember now. But it is a provocative question and makes me try to define what I think happiness is. After debating this with myself for awhile I can verbalize what makes me happy. Happiness is possessing the emotional freedom to enjoy the moment. Everyone desires nirvana, and I'm probably closer to it now than at any other time in my life.
Happiness is a mighty elusive animal. It prowls around dark corners and hides in caves daring us to bag it in the always-open hunting season. When on the hunt I sometimes spotted it slinking along the far hill named Weekend, often times camouflaged on the one called Next Summer, and always well-hidden on the cloudy summit of Retirement. Wishing my life away by always looking to the future never provided the intended results. Now I've climbed Tomorrow. I'm a senior citizen. As of the first of this month I became a card-carrying Medicare recipient, and on the fifteenth I will turn 65 years old. Luckily, I have been freed from many fetters, and the view from this hilltop is great!
...
Slogan seen on a t-shirt: Lutefisk - the piece of cod that passeth all understanding.
Happiness is a mighty elusive animal. It prowls around dark corners and hides in caves daring us to bag it in the always-open hunting season. When on the hunt I sometimes spotted it slinking along the far hill named Weekend, often times camouflaged on the one called Next Summer, and always well-hidden on the cloudy summit of Retirement. Wishing my life away by always looking to the future never provided the intended results. Now I've climbed Tomorrow. I'm a senior citizen. As of the first of this month I became a card-carrying Medicare recipient, and on the fifteenth I will turn 65 years old. Luckily, I have been freed from many fetters, and the view from this hilltop is great!
...
Slogan seen on a t-shirt: Lutefisk - the piece of cod that passeth all understanding.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Unicameral System
An animal born and raised in a cage thinks of its world in terms of that space. If the keepers provide its basic needs of food and shelter, it is probably satisfied that that is all there is. I know lots of people who'd resent being compared to a caged animal, but I see little difference because we, too, get used to living within the confines of our space as defined by church, government, social class, etc.
A talk show host from this area loves to rattle cages. North Dakota's money surplus bulges with about six hundred million dollars, and he rails against our conservative state legislature since they spend a lot of time talking about establishing "rainy day funds" instead of returning the money to the taxpayers. His solution to making the state house and senate more responsive to the citizens' wishes would be to operate the state with a unicameral system of government, much like Nebraska's. I remember studying the unicameral system in a university political science class over forty-five years ago, so he is not plowing new ground here, but it's good we are reminded that something different exists out there.
My thesis in all this is that we become so comfortable in our cages that we feel uncomfortable in stepping out of the boundaries to try something different. At any rate, the debate would be invigorating. There are many other areas that could be scrutinized and updated such as our presidential electoral system, tax system, foreign trade issues, health care, social security, border issues, etc., but they will be fodder for another day.
A talk show host from this area loves to rattle cages. North Dakota's money surplus bulges with about six hundred million dollars, and he rails against our conservative state legislature since they spend a lot of time talking about establishing "rainy day funds" instead of returning the money to the taxpayers. His solution to making the state house and senate more responsive to the citizens' wishes would be to operate the state with a unicameral system of government, much like Nebraska's. I remember studying the unicameral system in a university political science class over forty-five years ago, so he is not plowing new ground here, but it's good we are reminded that something different exists out there.
My thesis in all this is that we become so comfortable in our cages that we feel uncomfortable in stepping out of the boundaries to try something different. At any rate, the debate would be invigorating. There are many other areas that could be scrutinized and updated such as our presidential electoral system, tax system, foreign trade issues, health care, social security, border issues, etc., but they will be fodder for another day.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Last Story from Texas
A mural in the capitol building in Austin depicts the five flags of different countries that owned or controlled the area of Texas at various times in its history: U.S., Republic of Texas, Mexico, Spain, and France. The early Spanish ownership with their language, in conjunction with the influence of the Catholic church missionaries, lent a lot of names and identity to places in that region. The city of Corpus Christi translates as the Body of Christ. San Antonio comes from St. Anthony. A creek named Santa Gertrudis gave its name to the breed of cattle developed on the King Ranch, the creek in turn named for St. Gertrude. (The fact that the parish church we were married in shares its name with this breed of cattle seems a bit humorous.) The Mexican dictator who led the onslaught and slaughter at the Alamo had the unlikely surname Santa Anna. Saint Anne was the mother of Mary, who in turn was the mother of Jesus.
The Brazos River ran through Waco. While walking over a suspension bridge there, I learned the full name of the river was Brazos de Dios, or the Arms of God. Our Waco guide told me that when this bridge got built, Waco earned the nickname of Six-Shooter Junction because of the increased lawlessness that came with more access across this bridge. The bridge was the prototype for the Brooklyn Bridge. Its designer did his practicing here.
With that I'm going to end my Texas stories. Texas is a big place and has many things to experience. I could go on and recall the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum, the aircraft carrier Lexington docked in Corpus Christi and converted to a museum, Dirty Al's on South Padre Island where I ate the best seafood ever, our day trip across the border to Metamoros, Tex-Mex cooking, walking on the sands of the Gulf of Mexico, the unseasonably cold weather down there, etc. But that trip has to end. I want to think about other things now.
The Brazos River ran through Waco. While walking over a suspension bridge there, I learned the full name of the river was Brazos de Dios, or the Arms of God. Our Waco guide told me that when this bridge got built, Waco earned the nickname of Six-Shooter Junction because of the increased lawlessness that came with more access across this bridge. The bridge was the prototype for the Brooklyn Bridge. Its designer did his practicing here.
With that I'm going to end my Texas stories. Texas is a big place and has many things to experience. I could go on and recall the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum, the aircraft carrier Lexington docked in Corpus Christi and converted to a museum, Dirty Al's on South Padre Island where I ate the best seafood ever, our day trip across the border to Metamoros, Tex-Mex cooking, walking on the sands of the Gulf of Mexico, the unseasonably cold weather down there, etc. But that trip has to end. I want to think about other things now.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Texas Story, # 5
One time I thought I would like to see the presidential libraries and/or memorial sites of each of the U. S. Presidents. I know now that will probably not occur, but I have been able to see some of them including the ones for Washington, Jefferson, Kennedy, Truman, Eisenhower, Coolidge, and now with this trip, LBJ. It would be hard to go to Texas and ignore LBJ's historical presence, and fortunately our tour included it.
The library and museum are located on the sprawling University of Texas campus. A very friendly and talkative volunteer met us when we entered. I asked her if she had known LBJ. "No," she answered, "but I feel like I did." In some ways I feel like I did, too. The museum is much like other presidential museums and includes a duplicate of the oval office he sat in at the White House. The building stands several stories tall to hold all the documents and memorabilia from his Presidency. Our stay was too short but informative.
The following day our guide directed us westward to the LBJ National Historical Park located fifty miles or more from Austin. I can still hear him as if it were yesterday when he spoke of the beloved hill country where he was born and raised. The park ranger drove us through this site in their own bus and showed us his humble beginnings. The buildings of his youth looked much like any other buildings where people need to work hard for a living, nothing fancy. Even the summer White House was rather plain. I came away most impressed with the family burial plot, his resting place, where we stood in the rain to see his tombstone set amidst the rest of his family's. It was a simple marker identical to the other grave stones except it dimensions measured only a bit larger.
The always present gift shop awaited, and we made our obligatory stop. I'm glad we did since I bought a copy of the book he had written, The Vantage Point, after leaving office. I believe he was a well-intentioned man but was drug down and out by the Vietnam War. I know he was strong on civil rights, and I enjoyed reading an anecdote he wrote that I believe illustrated his compassion for minorities. He wrote, "When I was in the Senate, we had an extra car to take back to Texas at the close of each congressional session. Usually my Negro employees ... drove the car to the ranch for us ... On one of those trips I asked Gene if he would take my beagle dog with them in the car." The employee did not act very willing to do so. Upon questioning, he told LBJ that the trip took three days, blacks had a hard time finding a place to eat and sleep in the segregated South, and their dog-sitting the Beagle would make it just that much harder. Here Johnson said, "I knew that such discrimination existed throughout the South. We all knew it. But somehow we had deluded ourselves into believing that the black people around us were happy and satisfied; into thinking that the bad and ugly things were going on somewhere else, happening to other people."
The library and museum are located on the sprawling University of Texas campus. A very friendly and talkative volunteer met us when we entered. I asked her if she had known LBJ. "No," she answered, "but I feel like I did." In some ways I feel like I did, too. The museum is much like other presidential museums and includes a duplicate of the oval office he sat in at the White House. The building stands several stories tall to hold all the documents and memorabilia from his Presidency. Our stay was too short but informative.
The following day our guide directed us westward to the LBJ National Historical Park located fifty miles or more from Austin. I can still hear him as if it were yesterday when he spoke of the beloved hill country where he was born and raised. The park ranger drove us through this site in their own bus and showed us his humble beginnings. The buildings of his youth looked much like any other buildings where people need to work hard for a living, nothing fancy. Even the summer White House was rather plain. I came away most impressed with the family burial plot, his resting place, where we stood in the rain to see his tombstone set amidst the rest of his family's. It was a simple marker identical to the other grave stones except it dimensions measured only a bit larger.
The always present gift shop awaited, and we made our obligatory stop. I'm glad we did since I bought a copy of the book he had written, The Vantage Point, after leaving office. I believe he was a well-intentioned man but was drug down and out by the Vietnam War. I know he was strong on civil rights, and I enjoyed reading an anecdote he wrote that I believe illustrated his compassion for minorities. He wrote, "When I was in the Senate, we had an extra car to take back to Texas at the close of each congressional session. Usually my Negro employees ... drove the car to the ranch for us ... On one of those trips I asked Gene if he would take my beagle dog with them in the car." The employee did not act very willing to do so. Upon questioning, he told LBJ that the trip took three days, blacks had a hard time finding a place to eat and sleep in the segregated South, and their dog-sitting the Beagle would make it just that much harder. Here Johnson said, "I knew that such discrimination existed throughout the South. We all knew it. But somehow we had deluded ourselves into believing that the black people around us were happy and satisfied; into thinking that the bad and ugly things were going on somewhere else, happening to other people."
Friday, February 02, 2007
Texas Story, # 4
The King Ranch in Texas spreads large on the prairie, about 825,000 acres large. A local down there told us ranchers don't usually speak in terms of acres, instead they talk about sections. Given that yardstick, the King Ranch contains about 1290 sections. Townships are a meaningful measurement to me with their standard area of 36 sections and with simple division I find the ranch is almost 36 townships big! Counties vary a lot in size but that must be about two or three North Dakota counties.
Our guide for the day, a longtime King Ranch employee, talked some about the profitability of their various animals and told us the surprising rank order of most profitable to least: 1. Bobwhite quail, 2. deer, 3. cattle, and 4. horses. They lease out huge tracts of land to large corporations for the hunting rights.
Water is the limiting factor in this part of the country. It took about 400 wells to fill their needs. They don't irrigate anything and don't even try to control cactus growth because cactus with the spines singed off serves as cattle feed in drought conditions.
To find a breed of cattle that did well they developed them with their own breeding program. Their Santa Gertrudis cattle (named from the nearby creek) consists of a cross of 5/8 Shorthorn blood and 3/8 Brahma. They have developed another breed, Santa Cruz, with 1/2 Santa Gertrudis genes and 1/4 each of Red Angus and Gelbvieh. All their cattle wear the desirable red color they say because it's more compatible with the climate. Their quarter horses, too, are sorrel colored for the same reason.
I wondered it they took credit for things they didn't do. Woven wire fenced their pasture land, and the guide said they on the ranch developed it in the early 20th century. Barbed wire scratched the animals and insects attacked the wounds. Woven wire was something I had always worked with, and I never would have dreamed it was developed down there. We used it to keep small pigs in the fence.
Sixty thousand cattle, 300 quarter horses, a huge farming operation with fields blackened as far as we could see, plus citrus groves in Florida, and other ventures they dabble in started to boggle my mind. Family members want more income, and they cast about looking for ways to get it. The ranch is in the hands of the sixth generation, and they intend to keep it viable.
Our guide for the day, a longtime King Ranch employee, talked some about the profitability of their various animals and told us the surprising rank order of most profitable to least: 1. Bobwhite quail, 2. deer, 3. cattle, and 4. horses. They lease out huge tracts of land to large corporations for the hunting rights.
Water is the limiting factor in this part of the country. It took about 400 wells to fill their needs. They don't irrigate anything and don't even try to control cactus growth because cactus with the spines singed off serves as cattle feed in drought conditions.
To find a breed of cattle that did well they developed them with their own breeding program. Their Santa Gertrudis cattle (named from the nearby creek) consists of a cross of 5/8 Shorthorn blood and 3/8 Brahma. They have developed another breed, Santa Cruz, with 1/2 Santa Gertrudis genes and 1/4 each of Red Angus and Gelbvieh. All their cattle wear the desirable red color they say because it's more compatible with the climate. Their quarter horses, too, are sorrel colored for the same reason.
I wondered it they took credit for things they didn't do. Woven wire fenced their pasture land, and the guide said they on the ranch developed it in the early 20th century. Barbed wire scratched the animals and insects attacked the wounds. Woven wire was something I had always worked with, and I never would have dreamed it was developed down there. We used it to keep small pigs in the fence.
Sixty thousand cattle, 300 quarter horses, a huge farming operation with fields blackened as far as we could see, plus citrus groves in Florida, and other ventures they dabble in started to boggle my mind. Family members want more income, and they cast about looking for ways to get it. The ranch is in the hands of the sixth generation, and they intend to keep it viable.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)