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.