Yesterday I wrote of the war poet Wilfred Owen and his famous poem "Dulce et Decorum Est." I neglected to write that Owen was killed in action just prior to the war's end and that his parents received this news on Armistice Day. I cannot think of a better example of cosmic irony than that: being killed serving in a war he opposed.
...
This morning I drove across the old Memorial Bridge to cross the Missouri River but will never have that opportunity again. As of 11:00 this morning the bridge was closed to traffic which will be re-routed over the new span starting at 4:00 this afternoon. The old bridge served its purpose for a long time. Prior to its construction a ferry connected the two cities of Mandan and Bismarck, and only four cars at one time could be carried across, not counting assorted horse-drawn vehicles. I think the old bridge was built sometime in the early 1920's.
...
A savage thunderstorm with strong winds woke me last night around 1:00. It takes a lot to waken me, but this one got my attention. Light-sleepin' Mary sat bolt-upright in bed saying, "What was that noise?" She only had to wait twenty seconds for an answer when another clap of thunder cracked. Then the wind came up and all hell broke loose for about half an hour.
...
I just finished mashing up a batch of strawberries as per Mary's orders. She defers those kinds of jobs to me 'cuz she says her arthritis bothers. Whatever --- I just love that strawberry jam. It will taste so good!
...
I ran across a Garrison Keillor column on yesterday's Salon.com. I love his humor and his way of expressing himself. Among topics he wrote about was being tired from doing chores around his place. But, he said, as long as his mother stays alive, he is still young. She is 94, a "tall tree shading him from mortality." Whenever he wants to feel youthful again he visits his mother and sees his high school graduation picture hanging on her wall. He thinks it's no surprise John McCain likes to show off his 96 year old mother. The problem, though, he says, is that she acts a lot perkier than he. We've got tickets for Keillor's Prairie Home Companion show soon to be in Bismarck. The last time we attended his show was at UND and sat in the upper tier of the Fritz Theater. This time I bought tickets for the main floor, fourth row from the front.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
A Latin Quote
Recently I have noted the use of a Latin phrase Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori in several articles. It originated with the Roman writer Horace and translates in English to "It is sweet to die for the homeland." As might be expected that philosophy doesn't have universal appeal. College students in the 19th century added to it by saying "It is sweet to die for the homeland, but it is sweeter to live for the homeland, and the sweetest to drink for it. Therefore, let us drink to the health of the homeland."
The first time I remember coming in contact with the phrase was as the title of a poem "Dulce Et Decorum Est" written by Wilfred Owen during World War I. It describes a gas attack. Toward the end of the poem he says of Horace's poem that it is "the old Lie." From what I've read of the horrendous killing and suffering on the battlefields of World War I, I would guess there were few of those soldiers who thought it was sweet to die for the cause. After telling of one who got gassed, Owen writes in his last stanza:
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
The first time I remember coming in contact with the phrase was as the title of a poem "Dulce Et Decorum Est" written by Wilfred Owen during World War I. It describes a gas attack. Toward the end of the poem he says of Horace's poem that it is "the old Lie." From what I've read of the horrendous killing and suffering on the battlefields of World War I, I would guess there were few of those soldiers who thought it was sweet to die for the cause. After telling of one who got gassed, Owen writes in his last stanza:
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Sad News
I finished mowing the lawn for the umpteenth time this year. Mary keeps fertilizing and timely rains keep falling making it thick and lush. If it only weren't so warm and sultry it would be more fun mowing.
...
I stopped writing this to answer a phone call from my mother. She had just received word from my cousin Lance that his dad, my uncle, Russell passed away. The funeral will be Monday at 10:30. News such as this always makes me stop and bring up old memories. He loved his land and his cattle and spent many years to build both up. He suffered sorrow such as when his son Merrill passed away much too early, and he experienced joy with the recognition he received for his achievements. As a young boy I always looked forward to the times when he drove his family to our place for visits or when we went to theirs. He carved out a good life from a meager beginning and excelled at what he did. May he rest in peace! He was raised as one of eleven children, and now only my dad and Aunt Evelyn survive.
...
I stopped writing this to answer a phone call from my mother. She had just received word from my cousin Lance that his dad, my uncle, Russell passed away. The funeral will be Monday at 10:30. News such as this always makes me stop and bring up old memories. He loved his land and his cattle and spent many years to build both up. He suffered sorrow such as when his son Merrill passed away much too early, and he experienced joy with the recognition he received for his achievements. As a young boy I always looked forward to the times when he drove his family to our place for visits or when we went to theirs. He carved out a good life from a meager beginning and excelled at what he did. May he rest in peace! He was raised as one of eleven children, and now only my dad and Aunt Evelyn survive.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Their Quest
Recorded history throughout the centuries speaks of the movement of people to find a better life. Biblical stories of these events have been written such as Moses leading his people to the Promised Land. European countries today are experiencing resettlement and mixing of different ethnic groups in their midst. The U.S. certainly has had its trouble with illegal aliens coming across the border to work for whatever wages they can find. Last night PBS on their show POV (Point of View) carried a story of jobless Palestinians crossing the border illegally to find work in a prosperous Israel.
The cameraman stayed with a group of them for an extended period of time as they struggled to get across the border, find employment once at their destination, cook their simple meals, sleep under cardboard or tin shelters, and visit about their dreams for the future. I don't think they played to the camera at all, and their remarks were sub-titled in English on the screen. They were watchful at all times for police and security forces, and one time their campsite was burned down. One of the men broke his ankle getting away, and his companions lamented that he was the only breadwinner for his extended family. You could feel their sense of loss as they watched the flames.
I thought it was high irony, but one of the places they found laboring jobs was in building a Separation Wall which, when completed, would bar them from coming across and finding work in the future. A vision of The Great Wall of China flashes across my mind or the Berlin Wall or the fence being built between us and Mexico. Obviously, no answers have been found for problems brought about from have-nots migrating toward the promise of livelihood. Fortunately, my migrating ancestors made a go of it.
........
This morning I watched the "Morning Joe" program on MSNBC. One of the guests was Zbigniew Brzezinski, a Carter administration official, who, when asked what his views were on escalating the war in Afghanistan, replied that he was very worried as to what the outcome might be. I've never forgotten a passage I read 25-30 years ago in the James Michener book Caravans where he wrote that no foreign power had ever invaded that country successfully. Russia found that to be true not long ago.
The cameraman stayed with a group of them for an extended period of time as they struggled to get across the border, find employment once at their destination, cook their simple meals, sleep under cardboard or tin shelters, and visit about their dreams for the future. I don't think they played to the camera at all, and their remarks were sub-titled in English on the screen. They were watchful at all times for police and security forces, and one time their campsite was burned down. One of the men broke his ankle getting away, and his companions lamented that he was the only breadwinner for his extended family. You could feel their sense of loss as they watched the flames.
I thought it was high irony, but one of the places they found laboring jobs was in building a Separation Wall which, when completed, would bar them from coming across and finding work in the future. A vision of The Great Wall of China flashes across my mind or the Berlin Wall or the fence being built between us and Mexico. Obviously, no answers have been found for problems brought about from have-nots migrating toward the promise of livelihood. Fortunately, my migrating ancestors made a go of it.
........
This morning I watched the "Morning Joe" program on MSNBC. One of the guests was Zbigniew Brzezinski, a Carter administration official, who, when asked what his views were on escalating the war in Afghanistan, replied that he was very worried as to what the outcome might be. I've never forgotten a passage I read 25-30 years ago in the James Michener book Caravans where he wrote that no foreign power had ever invaded that country successfully. Russia found that to be true not long ago.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Plenty of Activities
Yesterday, 7-20-08, Bismarck-Mandan had lots of activities to choose from to spend a relaxing Sunday afternoon. We could have chosen among a melodrama at Fort Lincoln State Park, a violin concert at the old Governor's Mansion in honor of a past governor Art Link, strolling through the zoo, and touring a Parade of Ponds event. We drove over the Missouri River where a huge flotilla of pleasure boats cruised, so if we had had a boat we could have done that. Our choice: an outdoor production of Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night" on the capitol grounds.
Shakespeare's work has never been a favorite of mine, but since his work survives several centuries, there is probably something wrong with my literary tastes. The "Twelfth Night" consists of a quite complicated plot and was very hard to keep pace with since I didn't have much knowledge of the story line. In fact, after returning home, I opened the internet to find a synopsis of the play. It was enjoyable to sit through, though, since I admired the dedication of the cast and production crew for all their hard work. Not long ago I read that a good way to exercise the brain is to read and comprehend Shakesperean sonnets, thought to be as stimulating as working a crossword puzzle or learning a foreign language.
I look forward to next weekend. A chautauqua event "Lincoln, Land, and Liberty" will be held at the new Bismarck State College National Energy Center. Its theme visits three historical figures who played a significant role in the shaping of the United States in the nineteenth century - Abe Lincoln, Walt Whitman, and Frederick Douglas. The presentations are spread over three days, and I intend to be there.
Shakespeare's work has never been a favorite of mine, but since his work survives several centuries, there is probably something wrong with my literary tastes. The "Twelfth Night" consists of a quite complicated plot and was very hard to keep pace with since I didn't have much knowledge of the story line. In fact, after returning home, I opened the internet to find a synopsis of the play. It was enjoyable to sit through, though, since I admired the dedication of the cast and production crew for all their hard work. Not long ago I read that a good way to exercise the brain is to read and comprehend Shakesperean sonnets, thought to be as stimulating as working a crossword puzzle or learning a foreign language.
I look forward to next weekend. A chautauqua event "Lincoln, Land, and Liberty" will be held at the new Bismarck State College National Energy Center. Its theme visits three historical figures who played a significant role in the shaping of the United States in the nineteenth century - Abe Lincoln, Walt Whitman, and Frederick Douglas. The presentations are spread over three days, and I intend to be there.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Call of the Wild
In the hayfield yesterday I scared up two coyote pups, not quite full grown, maybe 3/4 size, and probably whelps from the same litter. They showed entirely different personalities and entertained me as I watched from my tractor seat. One was wary and ran way ahead to disappear over a grassy knoll top. The other pup at first showed interest in me and my machinery, but that soon turned to aloofness and disdain. Unfortunately, I came to the end of the field and the show ended when I had to turn away. He had stopped loping along to yawn and begin looking at something else. A distance of only 20 feet or so separated us when we were nearest each other.
A large hawk sailed and swooped to the ground in that secluded field. He'd hover and watch for field mice that my rake exposed beneath the two swaths I pulled together into one large, fluffed windrow. It reminded me of the times I plowed ground under a canopy of seagulls that followed me from one end of the field to the other to dive and peck away at the worms and grubs I turned up.
A solitary person driving a shiny yellow pickup pulling a long, silver stock trailer drove past on the dirt road. I recognized him as the rodeo contractor who furnishes bucking bulls for national bullarama events, his family being the owners of the champion Little Yellow Jacket. I knew they had a pasture near the hayfield where I worked and that he would be one of a very few people who had business here.
It is always refreshing to get away from the city and everything we call civilization and escape to this wild world where few humans disturb it, where wild creatures are at home, and when, after I leave it, their world resumes as before.
A large hawk sailed and swooped to the ground in that secluded field. He'd hover and watch for field mice that my rake exposed beneath the two swaths I pulled together into one large, fluffed windrow. It reminded me of the times I plowed ground under a canopy of seagulls that followed me from one end of the field to the other to dive and peck away at the worms and grubs I turned up.
A solitary person driving a shiny yellow pickup pulling a long, silver stock trailer drove past on the dirt road. I recognized him as the rodeo contractor who furnishes bucking bulls for national bullarama events, his family being the owners of the champion Little Yellow Jacket. I knew they had a pasture near the hayfield where I worked and that he would be one of a very few people who had business here.
It is always refreshing to get away from the city and everything we call civilization and escape to this wild world where few humans disturb it, where wild creatures are at home, and when, after I leave it, their world resumes as before.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Elderly?
My digital exam and the results of my PSA test were good, and the doctor told me to check back with him in six months. After I left his office, I went directly to the state dispatcher and picked up a new Chevy Malibu and headed to Fargo to pick up my rider who had gotten there to her meeting by other means. I don't know if it is old age setting in or not, but I was tired from all that driving and last night at home I didn't feel much like doing anything. As we had headed west to Bismarck in the afternoon, we had heard a news report about a man being rescued from his burning trailer home in Mandan by several policemen. The words of the story spoke of the policemen rescuing an "elderly 63 year old man." I turned to my rider and asked, "Did he use the words 'elderly 63 year old?'" She assured me he had. I could only imagine the copywriter to be a very young person who looked at sixty-somethings in that light.
The day before, Mary and I ate a quick burger in our neighborhood McDonald's. Just a block north sits the large Mandan rodeo grounds and oval race track combo. A good many horse trailers and pickups sat there shining in the warm sun with lots of horses tied in their shade. We didn't know what event was taking place, but just then a young gal came walking out of the restaurant wearing cowboy duds, so I thought she'd know. I asked, "What kind of event is goin' on over there?" "A family rodeo," was her reply. "Oh," I said, "does that mean there is something for all ages to do?" "Yes, even for you old-timers!" She turned on her heel and sashayed away in her tight jeans and ponytail bobbing under her hat. I turned to Mary and wondered if I look like an old-timer. She said, "Well, you do have gray hair."
I guess I'll have to relax and start reading the signs that point over yonder. It's like Springsteen sings, "Glory days, well, they'll pass you by/ Glory days, in the wink of a young girl's eye/ Glory days, glory days."
The day before, Mary and I ate a quick burger in our neighborhood McDonald's. Just a block north sits the large Mandan rodeo grounds and oval race track combo. A good many horse trailers and pickups sat there shining in the warm sun with lots of horses tied in their shade. We didn't know what event was taking place, but just then a young gal came walking out of the restaurant wearing cowboy duds, so I thought she'd know. I asked, "What kind of event is goin' on over there?" "A family rodeo," was her reply. "Oh," I said, "does that mean there is something for all ages to do?" "Yes, even for you old-timers!" She turned on her heel and sashayed away in her tight jeans and ponytail bobbing under her hat. I turned to Mary and wondered if I look like an old-timer. She said, "Well, you do have gray hair."
I guess I'll have to relax and start reading the signs that point over yonder. It's like Springsteen sings, "Glory days, well, they'll pass you by/ Glory days, in the wink of a young girl's eye/ Glory days, glory days."
Sunday, July 13, 2008
More Than One Way to Say It
On the editorial page of my local Sunday paper today I spotted a phrase written in similar fashion by two different writers with two different venues, one national and conservative, the other statewide and liberal. They were both talking about unchecked capitalism and the credit cards used so prevalently by shoppers. Their names are unimportant, but they both see one thing in the same light, one using the phraseology of "the spell of self-involved consumption" and the other wording it "the new worldliness of self-centered materialism." I thought this was a remarkable similarity and underlined them with a pen for Mary to notice as she sat reading and eating her cereal. She seemed only mildly impressed, and I needed to ask her if she was taken with it the same as I was. Apparently she wasn't; all she gave me were a shrug and a grunt.
Tomorrow I check in with the doctor for my semi-annual prostate exam. I've been through this procedure several times and can color the language in two different ways: a digital-rectal exam or a well-greased finger up my butt. Either way, I'm correct.
A poem percolates in my brain and has for some time now. It carries the theme of how things get said. Even though it is unfinished, it reads in part:
...where the newsman's words
have been rewritten,
weakly,
and I read them,
wondering,
is this what he meant
and knew to be the truth?
...where the words and style
of the poet
degenerate,
and its message deflates
to comply with standards
set by scolds and quibblers...
Tomorrow I check in with the doctor for my semi-annual prostate exam. I've been through this procedure several times and can color the language in two different ways: a digital-rectal exam or a well-greased finger up my butt. Either way, I'm correct.
A poem percolates in my brain and has for some time now. It carries the theme of how things get said. Even though it is unfinished, it reads in part:
...where the newsman's words
have been rewritten,
weakly,
and I read them,
wondering,
is this what he meant
and knew to be the truth?
...where the words and style
of the poet
degenerate,
and its message deflates
to comply with standards
set by scolds and quibblers...
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Time to Think
I drove out to the country early this morning to rake the brother-in-law's hay to get ahead of the hot midday sun. The hay still holds moisture from the evening hours, and the leaves and stems don't get damaged when the rake spirals them into windrows. The rough, hilly countryside south of town is beautiful at that time of day because of the way the sun strikes the grass and crops, and it made me wonder just how many shades of green color the land. Johnny Cash probably wondered, too, since after visiting Ireland he wrote the song "Forty Shades of Green."
Driving a tractor back and forth in a field gets repetitious and gives a man plenty of time to think about things. One of the thoughts that kept recurring was a reference that caught my eye yesterday while roaming around the internet. Lee Iacocca, the one who led Chrysler Corp. to recovery some years back, asks, "Where the hell is our outrage? We've got a gang of clueless bozos steering our ship of state right over a cliff, we've got corporate gangsters stealing us blind, and we can't even clean up after a hurricane much less build a hybrid car. But instead of getting mad, everyone sits around and nods their heads when the politicians say, 'Stay the course.'"
A Google search turns up countless references to his recent book Where Have All the Leaders Gone? And if one thinks Iacocca should be discounted and is the only one who spouts opposition and disrespect of our country's leadership, he can be steered towards many other references of dissatisfaction. The recent issue
of The Nation magazine carries a lengthy article, "Disaster Capitalism: State of Extortion." The gist of it is "multinational corporations ... systematically exploit the state of fear and disorientation that accompanies moments of great shock and crisis." One can easily guess some of the examples the author lists: control of oil fields in Iraq, global food crisis where agribusiness cartels control patents on Genetically Modified Organisms, a housing bill that shifts the burden of mortgage default to taxpayers, etc.
This modest blogger and his blogsite represent only a tiny grain of sand on a world wide beach. I wish I had a large front-end loader and a fleet of dump trucks.
Driving a tractor back and forth in a field gets repetitious and gives a man plenty of time to think about things. One of the thoughts that kept recurring was a reference that caught my eye yesterday while roaming around the internet. Lee Iacocca, the one who led Chrysler Corp. to recovery some years back, asks, "Where the hell is our outrage? We've got a gang of clueless bozos steering our ship of state right over a cliff, we've got corporate gangsters stealing us blind, and we can't even clean up after a hurricane much less build a hybrid car. But instead of getting mad, everyone sits around and nods their heads when the politicians say, 'Stay the course.'"
A Google search turns up countless references to his recent book Where Have All the Leaders Gone? And if one thinks Iacocca should be discounted and is the only one who spouts opposition and disrespect of our country's leadership, he can be steered towards many other references of dissatisfaction. The recent issue
of The Nation magazine carries a lengthy article, "Disaster Capitalism: State of Extortion." The gist of it is "multinational corporations ... systematically exploit the state of fear and disorientation that accompanies moments of great shock and crisis." One can easily guess some of the examples the author lists: control of oil fields in Iraq, global food crisis where agribusiness cartels control patents on Genetically Modified Organisms, a housing bill that shifts the burden of mortgage default to taxpayers, etc.
This modest blogger and his blogsite represent only a tiny grain of sand on a world wide beach. I wish I had a large front-end loader and a fleet of dump trucks.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Glory Days
I looked again at the Bruce Springsteen video of "Glory Days" on YouTube and was reminded of why it is my all-time favorite song. The opening scene shows him walking onto a playground with a basket full of baseballs to throw at a target as he dreams would happen if he were a pitcher. The next scene morphs to a nightclub, and he sings of leaving a bar but meets an old friend coming in. He joins him and they start talking of the old days, "tryin' to recapture a little of the glory of ..."
The song appeals to me on different levels, but I'm always reminded of the days when I played on a baseball team. We were young, 5th or 6th graders as I recall, and I can still hear Gary Marsden calling me one day all excited because someone had given him the go-ahead to find enough players to field a team. I've forgotten who sponsored the team, but some group - maybe the American Legion - stood the cost of a navy blue t-shirt for each player with the words Sheldon Midgets printed across the chest. I had equipment, a first baseman's glove, so when I asked Gary what position I'd be given, he told me first base. Wearing that glove often ended up with me spraining my thumb because whenever I caught a hard hit ball it did not have proper support built in and the thumb bent back too far; but I sallied forth, ill-equipped as I was.
We played a few games with Enderlin teams, and I remember a game when Gary Dahl pitched for us. Someone had gotten on first base who proceeded to engage me in conversation, then led off as he kept me talking. Gary thought I was in the game and threw a hard pick-off to me. I never saw it coming and still hear it whiz past me into the fence. He hollered out my nickname "Lefty!!!" as the ball shot past, and the runner advanced to second. It was a lesson learned: always keep my eyes on the ball. I'm reminded further of my second favorite song that begins "Those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end."
The song appeals to me on different levels, but I'm always reminded of the days when I played on a baseball team. We were young, 5th or 6th graders as I recall, and I can still hear Gary Marsden calling me one day all excited because someone had given him the go-ahead to find enough players to field a team. I've forgotten who sponsored the team, but some group - maybe the American Legion - stood the cost of a navy blue t-shirt for each player with the words Sheldon Midgets printed across the chest. I had equipment, a first baseman's glove, so when I asked Gary what position I'd be given, he told me first base. Wearing that glove often ended up with me spraining my thumb because whenever I caught a hard hit ball it did not have proper support built in and the thumb bent back too far; but I sallied forth, ill-equipped as I was.
We played a few games with Enderlin teams, and I remember a game when Gary Dahl pitched for us. Someone had gotten on first base who proceeded to engage me in conversation, then led off as he kept me talking. Gary thought I was in the game and threw a hard pick-off to me. I never saw it coming and still hear it whiz past me into the fence. He hollered out my nickname "Lefty!!!" as the ball shot past, and the runner advanced to second. It was a lesson learned: always keep my eyes on the ball. I'm reminded further of my second favorite song that begins "Those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end."
Monday, July 07, 2008
Tin Lizzie
Returning from the fitness center this morning I tuned the radio to our local NPR station and heard an interesting discussion comparing the Henry Ford era of car building to the present day's, the point being made that ole Henry faced the same kinds of problems with developing his cars: high costs and limited range. That story is being told over and over by the folks trying to develop an electric system of propelling the new models. If I ever wondered where the Model T's nickname "Tin Lizzie" originated, I learned that, too. The name Lizzie was a name commonly used for a work horse, so it does not take a stretch of the imagination to see how it was applied to early cars.
On the afternoon of the Fourth we attended a party at a neighbor's house. One of the guests there was employed working on the new bridge in Minneapolis which replaces the one that collapsed some months back. I asked him how wide is the new structure, and he stated they are completing ten lanes now with the potential of adding another four. Also, provision is being made for a light rail line to be built on its deck. Public transportation, in my mind, must be developed to a much greater extent than it is now. Our trip to Minneapolis four weeks ago illustrated the need when I saw how many cars were trying to squeeze into that city on Monday morning. The future will probably say goodbye to suburban sprawl and hello to inner city renewal and development.
While in Minneapolis, son Clint installed a "counter" so I could tell how many looked at this blogsite. The numbers probably don't lie. There were 402 "hits" this morning, so either my wife has visited it that many times or there are a number of people checking it out. I presume the latter, so being there are a few of you out there who read it just means that I will have to try hard to write worthwhile subject matter.
On the afternoon of the Fourth we attended a party at a neighbor's house. One of the guests there was employed working on the new bridge in Minneapolis which replaces the one that collapsed some months back. I asked him how wide is the new structure, and he stated they are completing ten lanes now with the potential of adding another four. Also, provision is being made for a light rail line to be built on its deck. Public transportation, in my mind, must be developed to a much greater extent than it is now. Our trip to Minneapolis four weeks ago illustrated the need when I saw how many cars were trying to squeeze into that city on Monday morning. The future will probably say goodbye to suburban sprawl and hello to inner city renewal and development.
While in Minneapolis, son Clint installed a "counter" so I could tell how many looked at this blogsite. The numbers probably don't lie. There were 402 "hits" this morning, so either my wife has visited it that many times or there are a number of people checking it out. I presume the latter, so being there are a few of you out there who read it just means that I will have to try hard to write worthwhile subject matter.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Every Day's a Saturday
I like to say that this retirement business means every day is Saturday, and I can do whatever I want. A favorite pastime for me is driving over to the Bismarck Library or the State Library or the Heritage Center Research Library or the Mandan Library or even the University of Mary Library. A visit to the Bismarck Library yesterday had me coming away with a book entitled Brothers in Battle, Best of Friends; Two WWII Paratroopers from the Original Band of Brothers Tell Their Story.
The story of the Band of Brothers, Easy Company of the 101st Airborne Division in World War II received a lot of attention just a few years ago. I watched the movie made of it several times on the History channel. When I discovered that a fellow Sheldonite, Myron Ranney, was a member of that unit, I was especially interested in knowing more. A quick look in the index of Brothers in Battle lists Ranney four times. I found those passages and was reminded I had read something a few years ago that his father wrote in The Sheldon Progress after Myron had enlisted, the elder Ranney being the editor and publisher of the paper. With a quick trip to the Heritage Center this morning, I easily found in their newspaper files what I was looking for. In the August 20, 1942 edition he wrote:
"A letter came this morning from my son, Myron, saying he had volunteered for the paratroop division of the army. Myron is 19 and a former student of the University of N. D. The letter brought a lump in my throat and made it hard for me to work. He was not forced to go. But he loves his country greater than his own security."
I will have to finish reading the book before I can make any further comments on it, but with every day being Saturday I will get to it. This room in my house I call my Study needs straightening and cleaning, but I'll probably get to it some other Saturday.
The story of the Band of Brothers, Easy Company of the 101st Airborne Division in World War II received a lot of attention just a few years ago. I watched the movie made of it several times on the History channel. When I discovered that a fellow Sheldonite, Myron Ranney, was a member of that unit, I was especially interested in knowing more. A quick look in the index of Brothers in Battle lists Ranney four times. I found those passages and was reminded I had read something a few years ago that his father wrote in The Sheldon Progress after Myron had enlisted, the elder Ranney being the editor and publisher of the paper. With a quick trip to the Heritage Center this morning, I easily found in their newspaper files what I was looking for. In the August 20, 1942 edition he wrote:
"A letter came this morning from my son, Myron, saying he had volunteered for the paratroop division of the army. Myron is 19 and a former student of the University of N. D. The letter brought a lump in my throat and made it hard for me to work. He was not forced to go. But he loves his country greater than his own security."
I will have to finish reading the book before I can make any further comments on it, but with every day being Saturday I will get to it. This room in my house I call my Study needs straightening and cleaning, but I'll probably get to it some other Saturday.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
More McLeod
While we toured the schoolhouse part of the McLeod Museum, I noticed several newspaper clippings they have collected regarding events and people from that area. One of these articles featured the brother and sister Crandall who lived hermit-like in a shack they'd tacked together somewhere out in those hills. As a child I remember going with my parents to their place to visit for some reason or other. Their dwelling fit my dictionary's definition of ramshackle: appearing ready to collapse, rickety, carelessly or loosely constructed. Their refrigeration consisted of a deep, narrow hole where perishables were cooled. She took the cover off for us to look down there, and I think that the small boy I was kicked some dirt down there by accident, not to be confused with a boy who spits from a balcony somewhere. I'm certain that county social service people would not let anyone live like them in today's world, but these folks lived to be old people so the lifestyle could not have been all that bad. At any rate, I do not write to criticize anything about them. They just represented holdovers from an earlier time and didn't seem to care about entering the modern world.
I'm presently reading the novel Gap Creek by Robert Morgan. This book was an Oprah's Book Club pick awhile back and has received other awards. Inside the cover flap it talks of the young couple "and their efforts to make sense of the world in the last years of the nineteenth century." In my mind I make a bit of a connection between the Crandall's and the people in the novel. The author is scheduled as a featured guest scholar at this fall's Theodore Roosevelt Symposium at Dickinson State University. I am making plans to attend again and hope I get a chance to visit with him. His themes are often of the hill country and its people, the hillbillies, of Appalachia. His poetry is especially expressive as witnessed by the poem "Squatting" which opens with this line: The men in rural places when / they stop to talk and visit will / not stand, for that would make it seem / they're in a rush.
I'm presently reading the novel Gap Creek by Robert Morgan. This book was an Oprah's Book Club pick awhile back and has received other awards. Inside the cover flap it talks of the young couple "and their efforts to make sense of the world in the last years of the nineteenth century." In my mind I make a bit of a connection between the Crandall's and the people in the novel. The author is scheduled as a featured guest scholar at this fall's Theodore Roosevelt Symposium at Dickinson State University. I am making plans to attend again and hope I get a chance to visit with him. His themes are often of the hill country and its people, the hillbillies, of Appalachia. His poetry is especially expressive as witnessed by the poem "Squatting" which opens with this line: The men in rural places when / they stop to talk and visit will / not stand, for that would make it seem / they're in a rush.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)