McLeod

A few weeks ago a member of the board of the McLeod Museum visited with my folks who gave to the museum their gift of several of Dad's carved farm scenes. Dad has wanted to visit the museum since then, so on Saturday we took them there. The doors were locked, but a quick cell phone call to Clayton Johnson brought him over to gladly open up for us. The membership of that museum has done a great job in collecting and displaying a large variety of historical items in several buildings. Those buildings and the grounds are maintained well, and for such a small community, it is an attractive collection of history. A drizzling rain whipped by a strong northwest wind threatened a rodeo set up on the north side of town, but as we drove by, it looked like those hardy souls intended to go on in spite of it.

I never did go into McLeod much in my running-around years except for an occasional drive through, maybe to hang around their now defunct feeder calf sale or attend the Calf Dance held in a small hall on main street. We passed by where the sale barn still stands and memories came back of those times, including the fresh smells of strong coffee and barbecues on a bun mixed in with the cries of the auctioneer Col. Fahlsing pleading for just a bit more. I've never forgotten one incident when my friend Jens and I went to one of the dances. While he sat in his car, he'd gotten into some sort of altercation with one of the local toughs who punched him with his fist through the open window. Just Jens and I were there, but the other fellow had a small gang hanging with him. Somehow our placid sheriff Ray O. caught word of trouble and slowly strode over to us. As he walked to the scene I fell in behind him. As luck had it the bad guy was right beside me in lockstep behind the sheriff, too. Those were the days when I was haybale haulin' strong, and since I was agitated and wanted retribution, I took advantage of the opportunity and jabbed my elbow into his side, and then, with a muscled shoulder assist, shoved him over so that he stumbled and almost fell. I kept walking nonchalantly along, and the sheriff didn't even know what I had done, but we never had any more trouble for the rest of the evening, either.

Wife Mary had acquired a bit of the McLeod flavor when she worked in Learning Disabilities and called regularly on the small school which had Mrs. Herbranson as its teacher, she being the one who achieved national notoriety as being the lowest paid teacher in the United States. As limited as the school's resources were, Mary always had positive comments about the school and the job that was being done there.
The Sandune Saloon still operates, and I confess to having patronized it a couple of times. A combination store and post office round out the business establishments, but as the town's brochure says, the population of the town is only 23 residents with another 100 residing in the rural area. There are not enough people to support more businesses.

Before we left the museum, I asked one of our hosts, Ken Kensinger, to lay a museum membership on me. They have plans to expand the museum, and I was sure they would welcome the extra money. I always enjoy driving through the hilly grasslands surrounding McLeod and hope to visit again.

On the Edge of Thought

News of the country and the world ride high in the thoughts of many of us. High energy prices probably dominate the headlines. We've gotten used to the deaths and injuries of service people in Iraq and Afghanistan so that doesn't rate much in the way of coverage anymore. What I think will happen with the gas prices is that we will become accustomed to them, too, and some other matter will replace them. I do believe in conspiracy theorists, and I think they know full well that the mindset of the economy will adjust and come to accept big oil's increasingly high prices. I also believe that we are bound by customs, habits, traditions, and dogma, so much so that we cannot break those chains and can only wish for someone to do it for us.

On the edge of thought, knowledge
and insight lie desert-like
beyond that ragged ridge. Years
squandered, deep understanding
sprints ahead, just out of reach.
Limitless hopes get replaced
by limited achievements.

Thoughts fired by a rising sun
dim, then hide under dark clouds
of tradition and dogma.
Wondering years set in late;
then our heading's determined
not by maps of reasoning,
but bee-lines of prejudice.

Desires of materialism
supercede contemplation,
and because we could not stop
it, the shadow of a life's
day has lengthened twice its height.
Who can bring change to a world
that prevents or resents it?

From on High, Part III

I return to my tale of waste and excreta
when I'd sit in the grass and soil my seat-a.
Days are recalled of the shade tree mechanic
who quickly found things could be problematic.

That's mechanic me under that plow with a wrench
feeling a moist spot, accompanied by stench.
I wondered, "Now, what could that be?"
Then I'd hear a gaggle of geese laughing at me.

Or maybe I'd kneel to feed a bottle lamb,
and then, uh oh, too late I felt chicken jam
soak through the knee of my pants,
setting me off on profanity-laced rants.

And there'd be that rooster standing so proud,
cocky, and crowing. Oh, for a thundercloud
to send down a bolt of white lightning
so I could watch his feathers brightening!

A duck and a dozen ducklings enter the scene
eating and spewing like a mindless machine.
But, one thing, they and the others will be able
to get served up, succulent, on the dining table.

This saga's going to have to cease,
I'm tired of talking of the grease
comin' from the rear ends of these creatures.
Tales of a mess found on outdoor bleachers,

the bombarding seagulls while plowing cornstalks,
or sparrow attacks strolling down sidewalks,
they're all just really part of the game,
and I shouldn't he holding helpless critters to blame.

Farewell, good-bye, so long, auf Wiedersehn,
shalom, dosvidanye, see you later, 'til we meet again.

From on High, Part II

After this short one day interlude
I'll conclude there's lots of latitude
to relate this tale of excrement
falling from places as punishment

for being in a place at the wrong time.
I'll continue with the time I earned a dime
for each pile of cow manure I'd load,
then spread like an a la mode

topping which we used to enrich the fields,
increase fertility, therefore improve yields.
I liked this job more than picking potato bugs
at a nickel a hundred that I'd stuff in jugs.

That was Ma's idea of an incentive project.
Fortunately, I had the opportunity to select
one of the two, so if I had a job to do,
I'd take pitching forks full of barnyard pew.

Now, to a farmboy that isn't such a bad job,
except when it's soft, it oozes like blob
right through the tines of your fork,
splatters on your pants, smell like a dork!

The box on our honey wagon was short,
therefore just big enough to transport
lots of loads to earn coins at ten cents per;
To think, I was the King of Hauling Manure!

But problems arose: beaters on the rear
spread the load when I put 'er in gear,
but when the wind's just right, (don't think it queer)
that "stuff" blew ahead to adhere to my ear,

the back of my neck, my cap, and my shirt.
Oh, the things I did to fertilize that dirt!
The wife doesn't much like this storee,
but there's more coming up in Part Number Three.

From on High

On Saturday we drove thirty miles north to the wooded Cross Ranch State Park by the Missouri River and attended the annual Bluegrass Music Festival. That style of music is a favorite of Mary and me, and we occasionally attend functions of that kind. Events of the day coaxed me to write the following versification as well as reminding me of similar circumstances in which I have found myself.

It was hard to think of a better way
to spend a June Saturday
than to sit in a lawn chair in the afternoon
listening to bluegrass, tune after tune.

Making our spot in the shade of a tree,
we sat facing the stage so we could see
the musicians sing and play their stuff;
they were pros, practiced, not off the cuff.

Soon, I noticed the girls squirming around
and brushing their clothes. What had they found?
Little brown spots had begun to appear,
and if you rubbed them they would smear.

And if you imagined them clumped into goop,
you'd realize that what we had was worm poop.
One self-styled expert looked up and said,
"Box elder trees, to worms it's like bread."

But then he looked again into the trees
and said, "Oh, I see holes in the ash leaves,
too. Those worms don't care what they eat,
may as well stay put and keep your seat."

So we did, finding relief with some gentle brushing;
at home we'd wash them off, scrubbing, flushing.
That wasn't the first time crap's been dropped on me,
but those stories need to wait 'til part two, or three.

It's Friday!

These towns of Mandan and Bismarck are good garage sale towns. Every weekend there are plenty to choose from, and in no way can we get to all of them. Each year I come away with one or two prize buys. Things have been slow this year, though, since I can only claim as my great "get" a dozen Ole and Lena jokebooks. Now, Ole and Lena are my kind of folks, and I hate to see them made such fun of, but that's the load we have to bear. I think this one shows lots of insight when Ole described the difference between modern ladies and old fashioned ladies. "The old fashioned gal darns her husband's socks. The modern gal socks her darned husband." Ole does have lots of trouble functioning in this modern world. He says that anymore he gets nervous about doing chores around the house. He says, "It seems every time I crack an egg open, out pops a pair of pantyhose."

I thought I made a really good buy today when I bought a carved wooden plate for 50 cents. The gal who sold it to me said it came from Romania; her father has been there a couple of times and brought it back. A sticker on the back is worded in a foreign language, so I believed her. What the heck, 50 cents is a small price to pay for such a treasure. On closer inspection, in the sunlight, I now see that it was mostly machine-carved with only a bit of hand-tooled work.

At another stop, I bought a set of "Snoopy" golf clubs for $10 - a wood, an iron, and a putter - for the grandson Luke. That amount was more than I like to shell out, but if we want to see him grow and blossom into another Tiger Woods, we have to pay the price.

To write a conclusion, I hope I'm not getting absent-minded like Ole. One day he poured syrup down his back ... and scratched his pancake.

Pipe Dream

It was time to mow the grass.
Gallon and a half of gas
cost me over six green bills,
think I'll put goats on these hills,
milk the nannies, make cheese
and smell that odor on the breeze.
Spurge spreads in pastures and everything,
so when the goats beget offspring,
I'll rent 'em to the highest bid
so they can eat and get rid
of that grass-chokin' weed.
Hope I don't create a stampede
of goat-hungry folks to my door
asking, "When will you get more?"
I'll set-up and register a brand,
operate with supply and demand,
sit back, and salivate with greed
since I've created such a need
that the money would start rollin' in.
Now here's where the dream will end.
Wife'd say, "We've got cash, mow again!"

The Homestead Act

The original document enacting the Homestead Act of 1862 and bearing the signature of Abraham Lincoln is on display at the Heritage Center in Bismarck. Encased in a low-lighted area it shows its fading age. The President’s signature pulled at me because I yearned to get close as possible to the man and the aura that surrounds his historic presidency.

Passage of this law set in place a westward movement of many Civil War veterans, Germans from Russia, Scandinavians and others. To facilitate railroad development the government granted a huge amount of land to them as incentive for building tracks to serve the newly established communities. So many came to this area that by end of this “Great Dakota Boom” 69 percent of North Dakota’s population came from foreign countries or were second generation descendents.

History says that many of them failed to prosper under the conditions, probably because of the harsh living conditions. Wild animals, lack of trees for windbreaks, crop failures, loneliness and sub-standard housing caused many to leave. Only rare examples of their houses remain. During these past few years I had reason to drive to Linton and saw a couple abandoned houses still standing, part of their exterior walls weathered away exposing the sod walls. On my last trip I looked but think they no longer stood.

My mother-in-law was born and raised in a sod house southwest of here. She told stories of how the walls were three feet thick and she could sit in the window sill to look out. It had a packed dirt floor and each year a new coat of calcimine was painted on its walls. To manufacture chinking material they tramped barefoot in mud.

One of the stories from the lore of the area still amazes me. A family trekked westward to their new land with their wagon. A blizzard caught them in the open. They overturned the wagon to use as shelter where the woman gave birth to a child.

My Recipe

Anyone want to clone me?
If so, here's my recipe:
mix half cup of Norwegian
with one-quarter cup of Swede
and quarter cup of German.
Set stew on hot-as-hell stove
and cook hard to tenderize.
(Remember, watched pots don't boil,
so busy yourself elsewhere.)

Check kettle every few years,
adding seasoning to taste.
Blend assorted medicines,
vitamins, and elixirs
'til stew reaches full flavor,
remove damaged or useless
body parts to purify,
then turn burner off to cool.

As the concoction congeals,
ladle off fat that's floating
to the surface. Add ample
amounts of experience,
mistakes, false starts, and happy
endings. That, my friends, is me.

Things Learned This Weekend

We drove to Minneapolis over the weekend, high gas prices be damned. Clint's family has settled into their home there, and we wanted to see how things looked. When we left to return home by heading west on Monday morning I couldn't help but think where do all these cars heading into the city fit? Incoming traffic didn't seem to thin until we had driven about 20 miles out. The more miles we drove down the highway, the more I relaxed. Traffic and I do not blend well. We stopped at the monastery at St. John's University and bought a couple loaves of the monks' bread - good, hearty whole wheat bread. Our next stop was in Lisbon to visit with my folks.

Dad remembers lots of interesting stories, and it's fun to listen to him tell them. Tales of the prohibition days always entertain me. For a few years his family lived near Nome, ND. When they were getting settled, Art and Emil Kaatz were helping put a cow in a pen in the barn. She fell into a hole and when they inspected it, they found a whisky still nested neatly down in there under a false floor. For a couple of years after that, apparently-thirsty strangers, not knowing the property had changed hands, would stop in the yard asking for Jack.

This story especially amused me. Dad's Grandpa Menge and Joe Spiekermeier owned a still. They must have been on good terms with the sheriff because he called one day to warn them he was coming out to have a look. They showed their ingenuity then by hiding the still up inside the cupola of the barn. In another incident in the sand hills area the Ransom County sheriff must not have been on such terms with moon shiners because when he came out to one place to snoop around they shoved his car into the river.

Prohibition ended 75 years ago, and people of my generation have not experienced the shenanigans carried on during that time. There is always talk now of legalizing some drugs like marijuana to eliminate some of the legal problems and maybe that will come to pass someday, but I don't think the stories surrounding it will be as amusing as those of the homemade distilled spirits that the old-timers can tell.

Main Street, Part IV

I started running down this track a few days ago when I looked closely at the picture on my wall entitled "Main Street, N.D." Speaking of a track, I'm reminded of how close the railroad track ran closely parallel to the main street, just out of the picture. As a young boy I remember seeing the steam locomotives pulling freight and passenger cars and blowing heavy clouds of black smoke and white steam as they rumbled along. A local section crew was employed maintaining the track and in the depot Earl Farnham served as the depot agent presiding over the freight and passengers coming and going through his world. I'm even further reminded of a little passenger train that ran which we called "The Galloping Goose," and I remember still another fact: I rode its last run in 1961 when I went to Fargo to make a bus connection to return to UND in Grand Forks. Only a few passengers rode with me that day. There was no fanfare for the event when we arrived in Fargo. It just quit running, period. No profit, no service, it had run its useful life.

What actually prompted me to look deeply into that picture of main street was after I had re-read Oliver Wendell Holmes' poem "The Deacon's Masterpiece or That Wonderful One-Hoss Shay." The buggy, or chaise, that he wrote of must have been similar to the buggies in my picture, and I wanted to have a look. An avowed Unitarian, Holmes wrote this in 1858 to poke fun at the Puritan theology of the time. An internet search turned up many discussions of the poem that begins

"Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then of a sudden it..."

The deacon of the church built it so it wouldn't break down. He built it from the very best of materials so that each part was as strong as every other part. In Holmes' view, the shay works well until it ... went to pieces all at once, and nothing first, - just as bubbles do when they burst. It was built in such a logical way that it ran a hundred years to a day.

Holmes' humorous indictment of religion was adopted by the field of economics, too. The term "one-hoss shay" is used to describe a model of depreciation, in which a durable product delivers the same services throughout its lifetime before failing with zero scrap value.

I thought long and decided there is another application, too, for the little towns and schools that run along quite nicely for long periods of time, and then, by the time we realize what's happening, we have nothing left except the memories.

Main Street, Part III

A few odds and ends remain from the notes I took at the Heritage Center. People in the Sheldon area have always shown the tendency and ability to take care of matters themselves. I couldn't help but notice this. "A movement is on foot for a farmers' elevator at Anselm and $6,000 stock has already been subscribed. Fred Wall, Jake Kaspari and other leading farmers are pushing the project. There is strong talk among farmers who have money to back their talk of a farmers' elevator at Sheldon also."

Maybe dimes were scarce and this was a high enough price but a store advertised a three pound can of beans for ten cents, and sirloin steak cost fifteen cents a pound.

A drunk in the town drew attention to himself as noted by this story in the February 28, 1908 issue: "John Burke tired of the quietude furnished by farm life, peacefully strolled into the village last Saturday afternoon. Unintentionally, he partook too freely of the 'White Eye' and became hilarious, so much so, that it was necessary for Marshal Mougey to delve out a few handsfull of law before Burke would really give in. Burke, not liking the idea of remaining in the cooler over Sunday - which, in reality, is the finest kind of cooler at this period of the year - finally decided to hire a livery to take him to his abode, so John let him off easy. This is Burke's first visit to Sheldon since the episode of a few weeks ago."

And another animal story: "Billy, the brown spaniel belonging to P.J. Hoff, is no more. A few days ago a neighbor drew a bead on him and plunked one pellet of cold lead into his frame. This disagreed with Billy to such an extent that he expired on Wednesday morning. Billy was a good-natured, harmless dog, ever ready for a little fun with the boys and seemed to especially enjoy chasing thrown base balls and stones."

And one more story about animals appearing in the June 5, 1908 issue: "Sheldon is to have a circus here Friday, June 19. This will be the first circus that has ever showed in this town ... There have been one or two miserable little affairs camp here, one had a coyote and a badger and the other a few horses. Tom-Tom the largest elephant in captivity will be here..." A news blurb followed the appearance of the circus and told of how they had gotten into town late and had to dispense with the parade. They had gotten lost on the trail from Milnor and lost time.

One more blog on this topic to follow...

Main Street, Part II

All through our high school years we proudly sported the colors of red and black. It was such an ingrained tradition, I doubt if anyone ever gave any thought to the origination of that choice. So I read with interest in the January 24, 1908 issue of The Sheldon Progress just when and how it occurred: "Several combinations of school colors were voted upon for our school colors last Friday. Red and black received the most votes and were the colors adopted." Then, in a May issue, the following story appeared: "The first commencement exercises of the Sheldon High School were held on last Monday evening in the opera house. The background of the stage was a large U.S. flag, draped with red and black, the colors of SHS."

Someone was having grandiose dreams about the future of the school: "Small beginnings frequently have large endings and many of our greatest educational institutions started with very few scholars. Harvard University started upon its career with but three students on its rolls." This statement was a reflection upon the size of Sheldon's graduating class having just one student: "C. G. Bangert, president of the school board, presented the first diploma granted to a Sheldon High School graduate - John Wilson Goodman." The story went on to say: "Next year it is thought several more would be eligible."

A story related to another school carried a Fergus Falls, Mn byline with its headline blaring: "Boy Is Eaten By Wolves." It seems he was kept after school and had to walk home alone without his usual companions. When he never showed up at home his father took a lantern and began to search for him. He came upon a scene where he found two wolves feasting on his half-eaten son.

As I wrote yesterday the horse culture ruled and another interesting story found was: "The old bay mare owned by Mrs. Eastman ... took a notion to be bad the other day. All went well 'til the man driving her stopped and laid down the reins. The old mare looked around and said to herself, 'Well, if these old fools don't know enough to hang on to me, I won't have to hang on to myself.' She immediately dug out and turning short upset the buggy. After this she kicked out the dash board and then once more settled down to the quiet line of conduct which she has been following for the last twenty years."

To be continued ...

Main Street, Part I

I often study a picture hanging on the wall of my study on which someone has written, in a wiggly cursive script, the caption "Main St. Sheldon, N.D." Bearing no date, I will guess it is a scene from a hundred years ago. Trees stand barren of leaves so it could be early spring or late fall. In the foreground I count three buggies and one fringed surrey, all parked and still hitched to their waiting teams. It is obvious that lots of horse and wheeled traffic moves up and down this street because numerous hitching rails line it. Looking even more closely you can spot piles of horse manure, too. Five men in dark clothing cluster around the front of a building marked Restaurant - Pool Room, which is four doors down from another building where its readable sign advertises Department Store. A tall telephone pole about halfway down the street supports five crossbars suggesting that quite a few homes communicate over those lines strung on them.

Our state's Heritage Center has done a good job of preserving much of the past. This interested reader enjoys visiting there to study microfiche copies of The Sheldon Progress and has decided that one hundred years ago the town still supported a horse culture. A large ad sponsored by the Ransom County Immigration Association headquartered in Sheldon wanted men and teams to plow and seed about 5,000 acres which they had recently purchased in the Carrington area.

A local auction offered by the Tregloan Farm five miles north of town listed 35 head of horses because they were downsizing. A free dinner and horse feed were provided. A week later a news article said conditions for this sale were not very favorable. Bad roads kept away many who would otherwise have attended, but good prices were paid for the animals. Emil Kaatz bought the first team sold, and a minister, "getting a bargain," bought a six year old driving mare. Other purchases were made by George Cullen, Alfred Rife and F. B. Grinnell.

This part of the country was still young and road improvements could only be wished for. A news piece in the same issue as the Tregloan sale, March 22, 1908, stated, "The roads are unmentionable in the language of polite society. Rural carrier Shelver started out yesterday on runners and came home on horseback."

Through the reading of several issues many more horse auction sales were listed. Frank Koehler wanted to close out his stock of harness and shoes, maybe because in a following issue this ad ran: "Our harnessmaker, Frank Orvocki, has filled his shop and ware room with the largest line of machine and hand made harness ever had in our town..." A. S. Taylor advertised fencing wire for sale as being "Pig Tight, Bull Strong, Horse High."

The May 1, 1908 issues ran this news: "There seems to be either a horse or cow episode to chronicle each week of late. This week it is Andrew Arntson and Floyd Eastman's saddle horse that holds the stage. On Wednesday Andrew decided to give a little exhibition of fancy riding. The horse decided to give a little bucking exhibition. He stiffened his legs and bowed his back and jumped straight up, and with a look of determination in his eye seemed to be saying to himself, 'If I can't unload this thing in one jump, I can do it in two jumps.' At the first jump Andrew's suspenders gave away and at the second he gave away himself and describing a half circle in the air descended quickly to mother earth. The saddle pony laughed quietly to himself and trotted off. Andrew walked slowly from the scene of activities with rather a crestfallen mien."

To be continued ...