Engine Troubles

I guess everyone knows by now we just came out of a big snowstorm. It dumped a bunch around here - 14 inches or so. The driveway plugged up pretty deep so I went out to start my trusty John Deere eight horse snowblower. The electric starter spun and spun but the cylinder wouldn’t fire. I’ve been telling people that the machine is ten or twelve years old and that I was so surprised it didn’t start since this was the first time it has failed me. Well, I was in for another surprise when I dug out the operator’s manual; the sales contract was still in that file and bore the date of September, 1989. The darn thing is twenty years old! Still, machines like that don’t accumulate many hours over the course of the years, so I figured nothing much could be wrong and intend for it to be the only snowblower I will ever own. The first thing I did was put in a new sparkplug (to the tune of $4.00), but nothing different happened, it still turned over but didn’t fire.

It was cold and getting late so I went out to do some shoveling so that one of the cars could be backed out. The new neighbor saw me and said he would blow it out (that’s what neighbors are for, he said), so the job got done. Of course, that evening here comes the snowplow and blocked in the driveway and piled up a huge drift in front of the mailboxes. Luckily the neighbor came to the rescue again. After thinking about what could be wrong I concluded something with the carburetor wasn’t right and suspected the float was sticking. Yesterday morning I took it apart, wiggled it up and down several times, put it back together, and sure enough, it fired and started.

Trouble with a sticky float came up once before in my life. I recalled the scene in the spring of 1971 at Ocean Lake in Wyoming where I’d visited a resort operated by a teacher in the school where I served as high school principal. He had gotten some new outboard motors for his fishing boats and wanted to take some of us out for a short cruise on a pontoon boat. Four of us stepped aboard and as he tried to start the engine we began drifting from shore. The wind came up and big white capped waves started forming. He pulled and pulled on the starter rope, but that engine just would not start. It started getting kind of dicey out there. A fisherman in a big boat tried to get close to pick us up from the pontoon, but he gave up when he could not safely close in. In my fishing tackle box I carried a small combination tool that included a small hammer head. I went back to the engine and tapped it on the carburetor a few times, after which the man pulled on the rope and met immediate success with the engine starting.

… … … … …

Sometimes we run into people who’ve gotten too big for their britches. In order for someone like that to get the proper perspective as to where he/she fits in, he/she should be referred to the following website: Youtube.com and type in “Known Universe.” This video will show them just how important they are in the whole scheme of things. There are a couple of options. The one I like best is labeled simply as “Known Universe.”

Merry Christmas - 2009

I recently watched a program on the History Channel that told of the Christmas truce that occurred spontaneously at the front lines between the British and German troops in World War I, 1914 to be exact. Commanders, aghast, on both sides watched through binoculars the mingling merriment the troops engaged in, and ordered that such a celebration would not happen again. In fact the next year artillery barrages were ordered on Christmas eve, furthermore troops were rotated in and out frequently to prevent fraternization.

The war was only about four months old, but the combatants had seen much death, were trapped in trenches and were cold, wet, and muddy. Snipers were always on alert for targets and the new invention of machine guns mowed men down in swaths. The area between the two lines earned the name “No Man’s Land” and bodies lay for days, even weeks, where they fell. To put it simply, the soldiers on both sides were sick of it, and some felt the other side should live and let live. The troops rose up to join in singing, exchanging simple gifts such as food and tobacco, and visiting with their opponents.

It would seem that without the urging of generals and politicians the war could have ended quickly and simply. Such was not the case. I ran across this story years ago in my readings of history and think it’s one of the best Christmas stories I know of and illustrates the desire for Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.

A Dream

Dear Friends,

I am writing this letter from Heaven.
As you might guess, Paradise is crowded.
The math gets tricky, but many billions
of people have died and made their way here.
You’d be surprised at some of the scoundrels
who call this home since everyone gauges
behavior in life by his own standards.

I noticed one thing as soon as I walked
in the pearly gate: huddled just outside,
a crestfallen group of Moslem terrorists
sat by a sign stating “Due to shortage
of virgins we no longer will honor
your coupons!” I hurried past their despair.

As I walked down the streets, just exploring,
I had to jump to the side and skinny
up to a stone wall because a cattle
herd bore down on me in a wild stampede.
Yes, their brands were still on fire and I felt
their hot breath as they ran on by. Sweat-soaked
cowboys galloped along trying to turn
that herd, but in spite of the unpleasant
task they wore smiles. I had entered the range
up in the sky, the objective they’d hoped
would be theirs someday. It was frustrating
to watch, but they seemed destined to ride
forever chasing those fool cows so I
turned away and walked toward the next corner
where another amazing sight appeared.

A desert oasis sits shimmering
like a mirage where camels and goats feed
on green grasses and drink from sweet water.
Figs picked from trees by lithesome Bedouin girls
sit on platters waiting to be carried
to the men sitting in the shade of tents.
The reader begins to doubt my story,
that my pen writes nothing but fantasy.
I ask you to believe, I have seen it.

But this is not my end destination,
and I need to keep exploring, looking
for the piece of Heaven I can call home ………..

* * *
(The foregoing poem in ten-syllable lines will be completed in much longer form, revised and improved for inclusion into my next volume of poems which I hope to publish in March.)

Late and Pokey

I’m slow getting my blog writing filed today. I’m involved getting another project finished and it took priority. There’s not much else going on in my life. I’ve had a sinus infection that seems to be improving with the penicillin prescription the doctor gave me. News gets boring, especially the escapades of Tiger Woods. I’ve always thought that just because a person is good at something whether it be in athletics, performing, public service, or what have you doesn’t mean he or she is a good person. If Tiger’s wife stays married to him I will be very surprised. The news item that most intrigued me this week was the sale of Cormac McCarthy’s typewriter, a sale that brought $254,500. Wow! It must have been gold plated and jewel encrusted. Nope. It is a beat up 50 year old Olivetti portable that he has used to write all of his published works. He estimated the typing of five million words on it. At the outset it was thought the machine might bring $15-20 thousand. Surprise, surprise.

McCarthy writes some pretty good stuff. I’ve read just the one book - All the Pretty Horses, but his No Country for Old Men recently played as a popular movie and his story The Road has been playing in movie theaters, too. Different people remarked that he would start working with a computer now. Nope. A friend of his picked up a duplicate used Olivetti portable and he intends to keep on typing away.

I can hang the handle wordsmith on McCarthy. I really enjoy reading works written by a language master like him. I just read a book titled Edward R. Murrow and the Birth of Broadcast Journalism. He and the people he hired were wordsmiths, too. World War II brought out the best in them. One of them proved to be a great practitioner of the language, North Dakota-born Eric Sevareid. The book authored by Bob Edwards of National Public Radio quotes Murrow when London was being bombed: “… that faint-red angry snap of antiaircraft bursts against the steel-blue sky…” I envy people who write well.

What Is Reality?

A mind, like a home, is furnished by its owner, so if one’s life is cold and bare he can blame none but himself. Louis L’Amour
. . . . . . .

There is a type of poem called a List Poem. It doesn’t require rhythm or rhyme, but the writer needs to say something such as “Think about this.” Here is my first attempt:

What is reality?
I’ve become confused!
I’m surrounded by
faux leather,
electric fireplaces,
imitation vanilla,
decaf coffee,
diet Coke,
lite beer,
nylon, rayon, Dacron,
plastic money,
avatars,
Splenda,
Astroturf,
fake ID’s,
counterfeit handbags,
knock-off watches,
soy milk,
artificial insemination,
politicians,
Wall Street bankers,
lawyers,
Rush Limbaugh,
@#%&#*!@.

Happy Thanksgiving Day!

I had a long day yesterday and am pretty tired this morning so I’ll just let Ole’s antics fill my blog today.

It's the day before Thanksgiving, and Sven the butcher is just locking up when Ole pounds on the door. "Please let me in," says Ole "I forgot to buy da turkey, and my vife Lena vill kill me if I don't come home wid vun."

"OK" says Sven butcher. "Let me see vat's left." He goes into the freezer and discovers that there's only one scrawny turkey left. He brings it out to show Ole.

"That vun's too skinny. Vhat else have yew got?" Ole asks.

Sven takes the bird back into the freezer and waits a few minutes, then brings the same turkey back out to Ole.

"Oh no," says Ole, "dat vun doesn't look any better. Yew better give me both of dem."
…..
Ole was quite an industrious turkey farmer and was always experimenting with breeding to perfect a better turkey.

Lena and the kids were fond of the leg portion for dinner and there were never enough legs for everyone. After many frustrating attempts, Ole was relating the results of his efforts to his friends at the general store get together. "Vell I finally did it! I bred a turkey vit 6 legs!"

They all asked Ole how it tasted.

"I Don't know" said Ole. "I never could catch the darn ting!"
…….
Ole and Lena were getting on in years. Ole was 92 and Lena was 89. They were sitting in their rocking chairs after a big Thanksgiving dinner. Ole reached over and patted Lena on her knee. "Lena, vat ever happened tew our sex relations?" he asked. "Vell, Ole, I yust don't know," replied Lena. "I don't tink ve even got a card from dem last Christmas."

Meetings

I attended two worthwhile presentations this past week. At the first event, held at the Heritage Center auditorium, we listened to Raymond Schroth who authored The American Journey of Eric Sevareid. Public TV cameras recorded his talk, and I suspect it made him a bit nervous as he seemed rather tight with his delivery. As soon as the cameras shut off, though, at the end of one hour time, he loosened up and got more interesting. I bought his book, had it autographed, and have been enjoying the excellently written biography of one of our state’s native sons. One thing that keeps coming out regarding Sevareid has to do with his high level of eloquence and insight into issues of the day.

The second event was held at Bismarck State College and was in the format of a “conversation” between the president of the college and Clay Jenkinson, our state’s historical scholar. The topic was “The History and Future of the Missouri River - The Damming of the Missouri River.” Quite young at the time - 1947-1953, I can remember only a little of the bustle surrounding the construction of the Garrison Dam which today backs up the large Lake Sakakawea, and I’ve always wanted to go back to learn more of this history. Sitting there for an hour and a half did not tell me everything there is to tell, but I found it worthwhile.

Something that doesn’t get much attention today was discussed: the negative impact of the dam’s construction and the displacement of old cultures. The best land on the Indian reservation was lost and communities were flooded over, including the town of Elbowoods. One displaced family drove their herd of cattle to a location they had found south of Raleigh.

Topics discussed dealt with aspects of recreation, irrigation, commercial traffic, etc. One point which gripes many people up here is the mismatched benefit comparing money generated on an annual basis for the shipping industry on the lower end - approximately ten million dollars and the recreation industry here that generates about fifty million dollars. The water here must be released to float the barges, and on a dry year that is giving up a precious commodity. Besides the significance of the barge traffic is minimal.

I’ll be looking forward to more meetings like the above two. I enjoy the input and mental stimulation

Veteran's Day today - A day set aside to honor all veterans. It is observed on November 11 each year, the significance of which marked the end of World War I on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918.
_ _ _ _ _ _

I ran across a verse form I hadn't known about before called Clerihews. The first line names a famous person, the second line rhymes with it plus two more lines that rhyme. Here are a few of mine:

A Collection of Clerihew Poems

George Washington
had no fear of comparison
he was the first
therefore no one could say “the worst”

Barack Obama
writes as a southpaw
and takes his stand on the left
leaving opponents’ sensibilities bereft

Adams and Jefferson
signed as Independence brethren
and strangely both happened to die
fifty years later on the Fourth of July

Michele Bachmann
self-appointed constitutional watchman
can’t seem to get things right
but likes finding people to incite

Santa Claus
some say never was -
but who else owns the ability
to make the store shelves empty

Abraham Lincoln
often sat there thinking’
we’ve got to move in unison
if we’re going to preserve the Union

John McCain
ran a poor campaign
when he chose Sarah Palin,
a major failin’

Albert Einstein
worked to define
his theory of relativity
with mathematical ingenuity

Thomas Jefferson
made sure to mention
that all men were created equal,
but his owning slaves proved it's just verbal

Ernest Hemingway
short of his 62nd birthday
took a loaded shotgun
and blew himself to oblivion
_ _ _
Hello to Marilyn, a faithful reader of this blog who resides at the Parkside Home in Lisbon. Have a nice day!

Roamin' Around the Internet

Each day I take the time to wander around “Bookmarked” section of my computer. The first stop is the Fargo Forum site to look at the obituary section where I look for acquaintances’ names for both North Dakota and Minnesota. Here in Mandan we only get the death notices of North Dakotans and often that is posted two or three days late. The next website is the New York Times where they have an open door to look at all their sections. Yesterday I spotted an especially interesting video posted there: The Man Who Opened the Gate. It featured the person who was in charge of the border guard in East Germany just before the wall came down. Officials in that country knew the time had arrived to allow access to West Germany, but orders to subordinates were sketchy or non-existent which left them free to make their own decisions. As people began climbing over the wall he had the power to order his guards to shoot, but his conscience would not let him do it. Consequently, the dam broke and thousands crossed over. I called Mary in to look at it since I thought it so interesting.

Of course, I need to check out YouTube, Betty Lou’s Guitar Site, Poetry Foundations, Montana Radio Café, Last.fm, Pandora Radio,
Reflections on Tom McGrath’s Letter to an Imaginary Friend, EBay, etc. etc. The three radio stations I’ve bookmarked get a lot of play. On a couple of them I pick my style of music, and no ads interfere.

There is so much on the internet, I’m finding I need to restrict myself. Otherwise, I could sit here all day looking at things. Bing.com gives me another way to roam without using Google all the time. It seems to bring up a different variety of responses compared to Google, but both are good.

What I really need to do is quit looking at the internet, open up my word processor, and just write my thing, but variety seems to spice it up.

Sophistry

For reasons unknown to me
the word sophistry keeps running
through this old word warrior’s head
today. Dad always used to say
You’re shootin’ your mouth off
if I argued with him without knowing
what I was talking about. You want
to see sophistry in action? Walk
into a saloon around five o’clock
in the afternoon when men line
the bar like blackbirds on telephone
wire and start talking politics. You
soon discover the absence of facts
never gets in the way of a good
argument. Potemkin sure fooled
Catherine the Great when he built
villages with hollow buildings to make
her think things were going well
in the realm. That reminds me
of the galvanic bloviators in the media
who sway folks with their hollow
reasoning. They open their mouths
and start chattering, but maybe
it’s no different than being a poet
who doesn’t know what will flow
from the tip of his pen.

Repressed Memories

I wish we could have had a little warmer October, but things haven’t worked out that way. I remember some years where it has been hot and others where we have had quite a little snow. One result from the early hard frost is that we lost our fall colors, in fact, we never had any since they went right from green to dry brown and blowing away in a couple windy days.

I am a faithful reader of several news magazines: Time, Newsweek, and The Nation. Yesterday’s Newsweek carried a short book review that I related to. The headline read “The Luxury of Memory,” with the article discussing the book Enemies of the People. Kati Marton, born and raised Hungarian, was the daughter of AP and UPI correspondents who wrote freely about the shortcomings of the communist regime ruling that country. As the girl grew older she’d ask her parents about their work and what they knew, but they’d wave her off saying, “You cannot ever understand” and consequently told her very little. After the death of her parents, however, she researched and discovered who her parents were, how imperiled they were, and how they thought thinking about the past was an American luxury. They did not want to look back. Most people have encountered how little war veterans will tell you of their war experiences. Dad tells of one veteran who while very drunk told him of throwing explosives into a German bunker and hearing the sounds of the wounded dying soldiers. When sober I don't think he ever told these stories.

My Grandma Bueling as a girl the age of eleven came with her family from the Ukraine in the midst of the mass migration of Germans from Russia. Since she was very stoic we never learned much of her life there, but the stories she did tell spoke of their hardship of life. This one is indelibly printed in my mind: she had to herd cows in the cold and wore no shoes. To warm her feet she’d stand in the warm piles of manure the cows pooped out. We knew there was much else she did not want to remember. My wife has learned tales of her German-Russian relatives and some of the horrific incidents they experienced. This far removed from that time, she has a felt need to not resurrect those memories for public consumption. I know because I wanted to make reference to one of the stories and was censored. The psychological term for this, I believe, is repressed memory. Some things should not be remembered. In my life I have experienced something horrific; it is not something I talk about (with anyone).

The Days Are Full

I attended an interesting “Conversation” moderated by Clay Jenkinson and BSC president Larry Skogen at Bismarck State College on Sunday. The topic was “The Poetry of ‘No Man Is an Island,’” dealing with works written by John Donne in the 17th century. This one of Donne’s quotations is most familiar to us, “No man is an island, entire of itself… any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” It seems as if back in those days whenever someone died church bells would ring to announce the event. Donne was a preacher who was always trying to prepare people for death and the saving of their souls, thus when it tolls for a death, it is also associated with your needing to get prepared.

Ernest Hemingway obviously liked the quote when he used part of it for one of his novels For Whom the Bell Tolls. For some reason all this literary talk reminded me of a short story I had read in high school English class. I could not think of the title or the author, so I had to do quite a bit of searching on the internet to come up with it. The story was “The Bet” by Anton Chekov; it’s on the internet, not long, and within a few minutes I had reread it. My memory had failed though. The ending wasn’t quite as I remembered it, but it’s still a great story. At the beginning a bet was made between two gentlemen that the one couldn’t stay voluntarily imprisoned for fifteen years, but if he did, the other would pay two million dollars. Well, the years passed by and the man never came out of his prison. The money-man began to worry greatly for if he had to pay off the bet it would bankrupt him. The only thing for him to do was to murder the prisoner. Over the years the prisoner had read all the world’s great literature and had come to the conclusion he wanted no part of materialism or money so a few minutes before the deadline he walked out of his cell.

On Thursday Mary flies off to Minneapolis to act the part of a grandma and I’m off to Dickinson for a symposium at the college. It’s the Theodore Roosevelt meeting. This year’s topic: Family Man in the Arena. Any reader of this can find lots of information at this website: theodorerooseveltcenter.com. By clicking on “Video Clips” in the Media box most of the talks and lectures can be viewed in the archive.

Old News

Yesterday I drove over to the capitol grounds to do some reading in the heritage center where there are on file hundreds of microfilms of old state newspapers. I think it’s fun to read through my old hometown paper and this time chose the century old 1909 volume of The Sheldon Progress. The writers wrote with flowery terms such as in the article about twin colts being born at the Creswell farm. “One survived only a few hours while the other one lived for several days when it followed its mate to the equine’s paradise.” I’ve known baseball was important during this period: “A little comedy on the great national game was perpetrated when the Enderlin high school team came over for a little practice session. The Sheldon team has had no practice whatever and can therefore be excused for the rotten exhibition it put up. About seven innings were played when by mutual consent the game ended, Enderlin at that time having secured twelve runs and Sheldon a fine, fat goose egg.”

Politically correct language was not in use yet, and minority groups were often the butt of slang expressions: “One coon cut another at Minot making a gash to close which surgeons took twenty-one stitches.”

One week a business advertised twine made at the state penitentiary, then a couple weeks later this item appeared: “A man named Bacon got a team from Farmer Lakin of McLean County with the understanding that he would work in the Ward County harvest fields awhile and divide the proceeds. He sold the team and skipped. He was recently captured in Minnesota and may develop into an expert twine maker.”

The following item shows vigilante justice was favored: “A number of Enderlin’s valuable dogs have recently gone to the dog heaven via the poison route. The bereaved owners are showing considerable feeling over the affair and threaten to make a present of a coat of tar and feathers to the poison artist if he is discovered.” This story wasn’t over yet. A few weeks later I read: “Bey Shafer autoed over to Enderlin on Sunday afternoon and took his two dogs along. When he returned he had but one dog, the other having died on the way home. While in the Soo Line town the dead dog evidently made a meal on some of the poison which an enterprising Enderlinite, as yet unknown, has been spreading broadcast over that village and which has already been the means of removing some thousand dollar’s worth of dogs from this dust blown sphere to the canine happy hunting grounds. Bey says the tragedy has not impaired his appetite or wrung his heart strings to any great extent, as the departed animal had been given away several times during his lifetime and always came back. This time he’s confident he won’t come back.”

The issue dated October 8, 1909 carried this headline: “Orville reaches unprecedented height of over 1600 feet - Ascends for fifteen minutes - Aviator descents in five minutes at a simply terrifying speed.”

More 10-8-09 items: “Owego - Albert Anderson is now handling the mail on route no. 2 and dishing out the pretty post cards to the rural dwellers.” “White Sox manager tolerates no loafing on bases - speed big factor in winning game.” “Peru is sending its president’s son to learn scientific farming in Wisconsin, though llama raising is but indifferently taught here.”

Whenever I want a change of pace I can go back to the heritage library and find lots of amusing entertainment. Times were different then, except I found one striking article that seems to translate to today’s concern for any changes or advancements: “The charge is made that the phonograph and the automatic piano are lowering public taste. That is one way of looking at the situation. These new inventions are taking music into homes where it never was before and never would be but for them. They are doing for music what the invention of printing did for the art of reading. There is still literature - and some of the beautiful creations in lit. come from those who under old conditions would never have learned to read. There may be hope for music.”

A Bit of a Rant

A few days ago a person we know sent us this bit of wisdom: “Never hold your farts in. They travel up your spine, into your brain, and that is where shitty ideas come from!”

The first thing I thought of after reading that was John McCain who must have squeezed his sphincter tight when he picked Sarah Palin to be his running mate. Without her he would have stood an even chance to be elected.

But I’m not here to criticize McCain, I’m writing to criticize Senator Conrad for not supporting a public option for health reform. After listening yesterday to reports that he had not voted for it in committee meeting I fired off the first letter I’ve ever written to a member of Congress. In it I reminded him that I’ve voted for him in every election but that I’m disappointed in his stand. State newspapers reported that he has taken money from the insurance industry, and I asked him if that influenced him. I reminded him that he should be an advocate for the common man, not the insurance industry. It is our votes that put him in office.

Recent figures show that one percent of the U. S. population holds more wealth than the other 99 % put together. I think of the elite status they must hold themselves in. The insurance industry needs no further assistance, but they must be clapping their hands with glee at the prospect of writing so many more policies. I place them in the same category as big oil and the banking industry. North Dakota’s BC/BS has had to have their hands slapped a few times for the “shitty ideas” they promulgate.

The greatest deterrence in this country to prosperity is the high cost of medical care. People are either in debt because of past medical events or are paycheck poor if they have to buy their own policies or are unemployed and have to beg for services. I pay no heed to those who say this is socialistic. What this country suffers from borders on criminal. We should stand idly by and let big business continue to steal from us? I don’t think so!

On the Road to Yellowstone Park - Part II

Traveling with the expectation that Yellowstone Park and the motels catering to its tourists would have few patrons at this time of year, we were surprised to find out we were very wrong. Most of the people we encountered were willing participants of social security checks, that is, older folks. We thought getting a room at Gardiner would be easy, but nothing doing. The best option remaining was to drive to Livingston, fifty-some miles to the north. The extra miles proved to not be a problem though: the drive was beautiful as it passed through the Gallatin Mountains and Forest, and we experienced it again the next morning, only this time the sun lit the valley from the opposite direction.

The last time we visited the park we observed the charred rubble left by the huge forest fire in 1989. Now you can observe a lush new growth of trees caused by the fire’s heat which opened the tough-hided pine cones so they could reseed themselves. Old Faithful gave a good show with a powerful eruption lasting several minutes. We needed an ice cream treat after that where I saw someone I thought I knew from Leonard. I said “You’re from Leonard, ND, aren’t you, but I can’t remember your name. No, my name is Paul Smith and I’m from Texas.” A bit embarrassed, I added, “Well, it was nice meeting you anyway.” The ice cream was good.

After our sightseeing we exited the park at the West Yellowstone entrance for our drive back to Livingston. This highway wound through the Madison Mountains and the Gallatins past the Big Sky recreation area. Many fly fishermen waded the creeks and rivers as we drove along. We talked with one fellow from Chicago who had been in Montana fishing for three weeks and planned to stay another three. I dug out my copy of A River Runs Through It when I got home to re-read that author’s take on the sport. I know this type of fishing counts many passionate followers.

When we left home we thought we would stay 5-7 days in Montana, but we decided to head for home on the third day. I thought it funny when leaving the motel that morning to hear and see a chattering magpie perched on the roof. I don’t know what he was saying, but I imagined him laughing at us and telling us to go home.

Montana in places looked very dry, especially so in the Miles City area. Only where irrigators painted the landscape green did we see any color. Just east of Medora near the Painted Canyon exit a truck hauling bales sat burning. Lots of flashing lights from park ranger, highway patrol, and fire department vehicles created a scene of excitement, and west bound traffic stood backed up quite a distance.

I thought as I neared home how the mountain scenery let me forget my every day cares and how I hadn’t watched or heard any news for three days. My imagination still worked when near Dickinson I saw the oil pumps and told Mary they look like big birds bobbing down to peck seeds from the ground.

It was a quick trip but a long one: 1488 miles in three days. The Fusion told us on her digital mpg meter we made 29 miles to the gallon, but when I filled gas and did the math with a calculator I came up with 28.25 mpg at a cost $142.40. Considering we encountered a stiff headwind for most of the first day plus a lot of mountain climbing we were happy with the economy.

On the Road to Yellowstone Park - Part I

We left Mandan Monday, September 21 at 6:00 am with the intention of driving to Red Lodge and spending the evening. Montana hasn’t shrunk any since the last time we drove across it. The buttes and hills still seem so lonesome that they talk to each other sending messages airmail by hawkback. Fences still crawl up crazy little hills and knolls as if placed there by gymnasts. We stopped for coffee at a Conoco in Glendive; the gal there was talkative, she said a lot of people moved away since they built the prison. Why? Afraid of escaped convicts? No taxes went up and the older folks couldn’t afford to stay.

We kept driving along the interstate, past where the Yellowstone River crawls along like a snake, where the horizon looked like teeth on a rough-cut saw, where black Angus cows looked like pencil marks against dry parchment hills, where a sign advertising red Angus read “Better Bred Red,” (say that a fast a few times) where herds of antelope seemed to say “We’ve live here and we’re used to it,” where an old sheepherder’s wagon stood with big holes in its canopy top.

Our Ford Fusion ran like a hound through that countryside, past Billings, past Red Lodge, up and over the Bear Tooth Pass, and still we kept driving. Above the tree line there was a light dusting of snow. We stopped at the main overlook and looked down at the big trough we had just driven and climbed through, at the slides of scree, scrub brush, stunted plant life, an Alpine meadow. Mary thought I was looking around too much as we rolled along and got too close to the cliff edges. She’d holler at me as we passed through the switchbacks and curly loops.

We peaked and then dropped down again past a sign reading “This Is Grizzly Bear Country,” where we didn’t see any, past a sign reading “Open Range, Expect Cows On Road,” which we did see and had to slow down for. We stopped in Cooke City and bought ice cream at a funky little shop filled with old books and classical music albums lining the walls. The manager said he has chess tournaments in the winter; I told him I could enjoy a place like that.

There were some buffalo on the hillsides; Mary stated there were buffalo all over the place. Huh? I looked again. I should have realized her eyes were getting road weary - what she saw where rocks that in the shadowed light did look something like those critters lying down. I laughed at her but admitted she was right. We thought we would stay in Gardiner for the night, but when we arrived we couldn’t find a single available room. The place was crawling with older folks like us thinking we would travel in the fall when there weren’t so many people around. We drove north to Livingston to stay the night. The trip meter registered 650 miles.

Almost Forgot

Another Wednesday has rolled around, and a short while ago I realized I hadn’t yet written this blog. If I would have forgotten to write today the world would have continued to spin, the sun still would have glowed in the sky, and anyone who reads it would have discovered they got along just fine without it. But, this has all gotten to be a habit and is probably one that I will not break (even though I threaten to do so occasionally). My near-omission in writing came to light as I listened to public radio and heard Meryl Piepkorn and Clay Jenkinson discussing the Teddy Roosevelt Symposium scheduled for the middle of October, and I said to Mary as we drove home from the Merle Norman beauty works store in Bismarck, “Hey, is today Wednesday? I haven’t written my blog yet!”

The symposium at Dickinson State College this year is their fourth one and bears the title Theodore Roosevelt: Family Man in the Arena. TR raised quite a brood of children and the topics will discuss how he interacted with the family. Prominent writers and speakers always attend and the author of one of the best single volume histories of Roosevelt will speak: Kathleen Dalton, author of Theodore Roosevelt: A Strenuous Life.

Mary flies off to Minneapolis during that time to babysit our grandkids, so I will be free to make like a bird and go to Dickinson and soak up some interesting information. Part of the symposia will be a trip on Saturday to the Elkhorn Ranch in the Badlands. Jenkinson said today that past authors and speakers have all said they wished they would have visited that site before writing their books.

Dickinson State University has earned some notoriety in the academic world because they have worked with the Library of Congress in developing and now housing a digitized library of all of TR’s writings, a massive undertaking. Anyone interested in looking at this work go to www.theodorerooseveltcenter.com and click on Documents.

Tonight

I will forgo listening to the president’s speech to congress tonight and will instead attend a talk given by George McGovern who is in town to discuss his recent book Abraham Lincoln. I’m sure tomorrow I will find the president’s address all over the talk shows and internet where it will be thoroughly replayed and dissected then. I’m glad some voices of reason came from the Republican ranks yesterday regarding his talk to school kids. Laura Bush, always known for her graciousness, supported it, and Newt Gingrich found it to be of value, too.

McGovern’s book is very readable and interesting. I know, I bought a copy at Barnes and Noble yesterday. I’ve always admired the man and since he isn’t getting any younger I’m going to take this one chance to see him. He is a World War II veteran, and that puts him somewhere in his 80’s. Here is a good place to let Ole and Sven have their say:

Ole and Sven, the old retired Norwegian boys, lived at the Old Retired Norwegian Home. One afternoon they were sitting on the front porch looking at the sunset and talking about this and that. Lena, who lived there too, was standing around the corner and heard the boys talking. Being a mischevious lady, Lena decided to play a trick on the boys. Taking off all her clothes, she ran around the corner and raced past Ole and Sven as fast as she could run.

Ole and Sven watch in astonishment as Lena runs past. Finally, Ole asks, "Vasn't dat Lena?" Sven replies, "Yah, ay - ay tank so..." Ole says, "But, vat vas she vearing?" Sven shakes his head and says, "Yah, ay don't know, but vatever it vas, it sure needed ironing!"

…

A doctor in Duluth wanted to get off work and go hunting, so he approached his assistant. ‘Ole, I am goin’ huntin’ tomorrow and don’t want to close the clinic. I want you to take care of the clinic and take care of all my patients.’ ‘Yes, sir!’ answers Ole.

The doctor goes hunting and returns the following day and asks: ‘So, Ole, How was your day?’ Ole told him that he took care of three patients. ‘The first one had a Headache so I gave him TYLENOL.’

‘Bravo, Mate, and the second one?’ asks the doctor. ‘The second one had stomach burning and I gave him MAALOX, sir,’ says Ole.

Bravo, bravo! You’re good at this and what about the third one?’ asks the Doctor. ‘Sir, I was sitting here and suddenly the door opens and a woman enters. Like a flame, she undresses herself, taking off everything including her bra and her panties and lies down on the table and shouts: HELP ME – I haven’t seen a man in over two years!!

‘Tunderin’ Lard Yeezus, Ole, what did you do?’ asks the doctor.

‘I put drops in her eyes!!

Rambling

I wondered out loud to Mary if all the street work in Bismarck might be the result of an injection of stimulus money. Sure enough, an article in the Bismarck Tribune said it was. Forget about getting someplace fast in that town for awhile. Four lane streets line with orange cones that funnel traffic into two lanes.

This news is so fresh that reactions haven’t been recorded yet, but the Bobcat plant in Bismarck will close by the end of the year, and all the production will be moved to the Gwinner site. Good for Gwinner, Lisbon, and the surrounding area, bad for Bismarck. I know two men who work at the Bismarck plant who will have to look elsewhere for employment.

I drove over to the Target store this morning to develop pictures taken of my pickup in preparation for an ad to sell it. While waiting for them I went across the street to Barnes and Noble for a good cup of half-caff coffee and some reading time. I picked up a book in the New Biography section about Abraham Lincoln written by George McGovern of South Dakota, a past nominee for president. McGovern has always fascinated me. In the seventh grade a gym teacher branded him a “physical coward” because he wouldn’t somersault over a vaulting horse. The teacher’s undeserved assessment of McGovern’s bravery psychologically bothered McGovern a lot through the years, but it never stood up since McGovern enlisted in the army air force at the start of WWII, became a B-24 bomber pilot, and flew 35 missions over enemy territory. He was highly decorated for his BRAVERY.

Thursday, A Day Late

Sometimes a fellow just doesn’t have much to say. Of course, it’s probably got something to do with yesterday. I donated blood again, or more specifically half of it was plasma and the other half red blood cells. My iron count wasn’t high enough to give double red blood cells so they determined half of that was what they’d take. Whatever the decision, the process of being a donor always steals energy from me, so today I’m dragging around like a lazy dog. However, I still look on it as my little way of payback to society, so I plan to continue doing it. I’ve received blood transfusions on two different occasions in my life, and I won’t forget that somebody had to donate it for me.

I keep working at my second book and search for inspiration under every rock. It goes slowly. The problem might be that I’ve already started the third volume in my head, a fact which detracts me from the one at hand. The third one with have a unified theme, while this one as well as the first one I published bounced all over the place with poems of whatever took my fancy. The last piece I completed starts with this stanza:

Every small town bar has one, an unprincipled expert
of political issues, a verbal bull who will gore
and skewer his opponents with his horns in a quarrel…

I had lots of fun writing that one, and I only had to go so far as to dip into my own barrel of experience to dredge it up. The third volume’s theme will concern the early transportation enterprise that cut trails through my home territory. It’s a good story, and I hope I can do it justice.

Health Care

In regards to the current health insurance debate I suspected all along that something like the following was the case . My local paper yesterday carried a political cartoon where a patient wearing a tee shirt emblazoned with “No Gov’t Healthcare” sat in a doctor’s office with his mouth wide open saying “aaaahhh” and the doctor says “All that yelling and screaming at town hall meetings has damaged your throat!” The second panel shows the patient asking, “So, will my Medicare cover it?”

A few days ago another similar episode occurred where a placard reading “Keep your government hands off my Medicare” was spotted in a crowd. Bill Maher, a clever commentator on current events said, “That’s a bit like driving a thousand miles on a highway to protest road construction.”

I don’t know what health care reform will look like when it’s over, but I do wish that people would study the issue and try to think it through a bit before shooting their mouths off. They make themselves look stupid. I heard one guy tell an interviewer that he doesn’t get his news from regular network newsmen; he doesn’t trust them; instead he listens to the Fox network. (?!%@#)

For awhile the kooks were saying, “Don’t pull the plug on Grannie!” Talk about sound bites. I’m just glad I qualify for Medicare. It takes a lot of stress off from the budget. So long.

100 Degrees Today

Stiffness sets into my joints so that my body tells me of my age even though my brain still does not recognize it. Somebody has said “At the threshold of old age it will take only a few steps to walk through and enter the room.” The day will probably come when I will go to a doctor and he will say he has both good news and bad news. I will say, “Lay it on me, Doc. What’s the bad news?” He’ll say, “You have Alzheimer’s!” After gulping, I’ll say, “Good heavens! What’s the good news?” “You can go home and forget about it.”
Then I’ll put a bumper sticker on my car that says “I’m speeding because I have to get there before I forget where I’m going.”
…
I suppose I should write about the past since there is more and more of it, and I’ll never run out of material. In Winnipeg we visited a graveyard adjacent to the St. Boniface Cathedral; in it rest the remains of one Louis Riel, known as the leader of the Metis, named thus because they were part-Indian and part-Frenchmen. They felt they were encroached upon by the government of Canada which wanted to claim the lands they had been living on for years. It interests me because the Metis, by the hundreds, drove the ox-cart trails which I am presently studying. It is significant to me because the period of the Metis’ unrest and outright rebellion was 1869-70, a fact which coincides with the ox-cart freighting taking place in the part of the state where I was born and raised. From Riel’s life I am gleaning lots of information regarding the people and culture of the drovers who cut deep ruts through the prairie and forded the Sheyenne River to get to Fort Ransom.

A timeline of the years 1867-1870 reveals several events pertaining to transportation: the golden spike was driven at Promontory, Utah; transcontinental rail service began; the Suez Canal opened; first railroad bridge across the Missouri at Kansas City; construction of the Brooklyn Bridge began; etc. plus one more interesting one. In June of 1867 2000 Chinese workers on the western railroad struck because they had not been paid in weeks. They also demanded the whippings stop and that hours spent in hot tunnels be limited to eight hours a day. The Central Pacific manager cut off the strikers’ food supply and threatened to fire the workers. The strike collapsed after a week.

A Trip to Winnipeg

We returned last evening from a trip to Winnipeg where we took in a half dozen shows of Folklorama, their large multi-ethnic celebration of the many cultures that live in and mix with that city. We’ve been there a couple times before, but each season the two week long production is different. This year we attended the pavilions of Africa, Scotland, and Colombia the first evening and Israel, Russia, and Korea the second.

Each of the two nights we ate appetizers at the first location, the main course at the second, and dessert at the third. Some of the food was good, some not so. My favorite was the main course we ate at the Russian venue; it seemed like real food. Scotland’s main course included haggis, a dish I’d heard much about. It was a dark lump of heavily seasoned sausage-like tripe that I did not care for, but then some people don’t think much of lutefisk and lefse either, so I can’t condemn that whole culture because of their favorite dish.

Music performances from each of the countries were a great crowd pleaser, even though some of it was loud. Korea included a demonstration of tae kwon do; I would not want to pick a fight with any of those people because of what they showed they could do to an opponent.

Israel’s show was held on a Jewish campus in the city, and I could not help but notice the patches on the uniforms of the men directing parking. They identified them at that campus’s private security force. With Jews under attack from terrorists in so many parts of the world, this Winnipeg enclave of Jews obviously planned to take no chances by leaving themselves open to attack.

Winnipeg’s mural painters are given exterior walls of businesses to create their large scale art which gives the city an attractive, decorated look. The city overall has a clean proud look about it that makes it a pleasure to visit.

Bumper Stickers

I find a world of wisdom in bumper stickers. For example here we are in the growing season with lots of moisture and the grass needs more than its fair share of attention. This sticker could well be my motto: “I fought the lawn and lawn won.” One that applies to me as well as almost everyone I’ve ever known cautions us to “never miss a good chance to shut up.” If my better angel had been sitting on my shoulder to remind me of this countless times, I would have appreciated it. Alas, where was he?

Money is a popular topic on bumper stickers. A few of them are - “Money talks, but all mine ever says is good-bye!” “Money wouldn’t be so important if everybody didn’t want some.” “If work is so terrific, how come they have to pay you to do it?”

This one especially hits the mark at my house. “Laugh and the world laughs with you. Snore and you sleep alone.” My wife tells me I am afflicted with this ailment, so I have tried the sticky butterfly thingies on the outside of my nose as well as the oval inserts you stick up your nostrils, neither of which seems to work very well. I always can tell when there has been a problem in the night when I wander into the living room in the morning and find a rumpled quilt on the couch.

I love this one. “More hay, Trigger? No, thanks, Roy, I’m stuffed.” Does that one might make you think a bit? Speaking of the dead, these work for me - “I intend to live forever. So far, so good.” and “Never knock on Death’s door. Ring the bell and run, he hates that!”

I know this stuff is silly, but what the heck. Here are a couple that remind me of me - “Whenever I think of the past it brings back so many memories,” and “My life is based on a true story.”

The one I have found to be the most profound deals with physics (I think, something to do with every action having an equal and opposite reaction) - “What would happen if the whole world farted at once?”

Good-bye!

Buzz Aldrin, etc.

We just marked the 40th anniversary of the moon landing. Some people just won’t accept facts as evidenced by those who say that walking on the moon was all a hoax, (a hoax akin to those who contend the earth is flat or that Obama is not a U. S citizen even though he was born in Hawaii of a mother who was a U. S. citizen.) I am convinced the moon landing really happened because if there had been some shenanigans taking place regarding its authenticity the just-elapsed forty year span would have exposed people with a guilty conscience who would have taken the opportunity to write a book and make some money from the supposed scam. One of the astronauts, Buzz Aldrin, has become my hero, because when confronted by a verbally abusive critic, he up and popped him. The guy tried to sue but the judge declared he had it coming. You can watch it happen. Go to Huffingtonpost.com and scroll down in "Most popular on Huffington Post" until it comes into view. The video is titled “Buzz Aldrin Punches Moon Landing Conspiracy Theorist in the Face.”
… … …
I worked in the hayfield again Monday morning even though the weather threatened to drive me out. A dark blue storm cloud slid around to the south but put on quite a show with all the sharp lightning it produced. It made me think back to another time when I was in a wheat field near Kiowa, Kansas. Cauliflower clouds had grown tall all that afternoon and when night came on and our combines still threshed away sharp lightning lit the sky and kept coming toward us. With lightning dancing all around we finally got scared enough to stop, shut the machines down, and dismount. That decision was not what the owner of the field thought should occur. He came roaring up in his pickup and swore up and down that we should keep those machines going. He was more than likely afraid of hail wiping out the nice crop and our safety was not particularly high on his list, an attitude I found to exist among certain other farmers down there. Luckily he backed off and we did not combine anymore that evening.

Reminded of old combining stories, there is another that comes to mind. I was atop a machine running in road gear for several miles down some highway in Nebraska, it was cold and drizzly, and, with no cab, I drove all hunched up. The highway was a bit narrow, and I guess I was weaving across the center line a bit, but I didn’t think much. A man and woman in a car passed me; I remember seeing grocery bags in the back seat but thought little else of it, except when he passed and pulled over to the side of the road which blocked me from going further. He got out and proceeded to holler and scream at me about keeping “that goddamn thing on my side of the road!” He kept at it, and I was not going to take any more of it and took the machine out of gear, locked the brakes, and started getting out of my seat to confront him. He saw my reaction and screamed, “If you don’t know it, I’m the sheriff of this goddamn county!” Just then the boss of the outfit pulled up in his pickup and everything settled down. I may just have punched him out, but unlike Buzz Aldrin, I don’t think the judge would have sided with me to tell the sheriff he had it coming.

...What we choose to recall

Merle Haggard sings a line “… everything does change, except what we choose to recall.” I heard it again this morning, and for some reason I have been running it through my head a bit today. When I attended graduate school I ran with a great group of guys who had lots of fun together. We hung out after hours at a joint called The Driftwood and enjoyed a carefree life. Since that time, however, I’ve only seen two of the guys one time each and neither was the same fellow I knew back then. I wonder if the Driftwood still stands to dispense the fun and drink. Probably not. It was in Greeley, CO, a town which has seen lots of growth since 1969. The way things sometimes go it was probably leveled to make room for a shopping mall.

A picture of Sheldon’s main street, taken about 1900, hangs on my study’s wall which shows at least two city blocks solid with store fronts with standing horse teams and buggies tied in front of them. I don’t have that particular memory, but the one I do have differs greatly from the reality of today’s main street. Only a few buildings still stand, and I have heard several of them are going to be taken down because of their vacancy and state of disrepair. A couple of years ago the old city hall and Newton’s cream station and feed store met with demolition. Each time I drive down that street I still picture how it used to look.

In any small town drive around a bit and then make your way out to the community cemetery. It’s usually the only that’s growing. Farms grew larger, families shrunk in numbers, the kids went off to the bigger towns for employment. I guess it is only the memory we choose to recall that stays the same.
…
A Swede enters the bar in the town where he stopped for the night. He grabs a barstool and orders a drink. After sitting there for a while, he yells to the bartender, "Hey, you wanna hear a Norwegian joke?

The bar immediately falls absolutely quiet. In a very deep, husky voice, the woman him says, "Before you tell that joke, sir, I think it is only fair — given that you are new here — you should know five things:
1. The bartender is a Norwegian.
2. The bouncer is a Norwegian.
3. I'm Norwegian and a professional weightlifter.
4. The woman sitting next to me is Norwegian with a black belt in karate.
5. The man to your right is a Norwegian and a professional wrestler.

Now think about it seriously, Mister. Do you still wanna tell that joke? The Swede thinks about it for a second, shakes his head, and declares: "Nah, not if I'm gonna have to explain it five times."

July 4th Considered

Another July 4th has come and gone. I really believe that with each year I reflect a bit more on why we celebrate that day. Reminded of a recent book by David McCullough entitled 1776 when a local columnist in our daily paper made mention of it, and with lots of spare time that day I drove over to Barnes and Noble and bought a copy. McCullough proves himself a very readable historian; I think any history researched and written by him is worthwhile reading. I haven’t finished reading the book yet, but it gives a clear picture of the political and military workings of the period.

An event in England surprised me completely when I read that the House of Lords and the House of Commons did not, in their debate, wholly support King George III by voting for military action in the colonies. Approximately 1/3 of the members in each body voted nay, but with their country’s rule of law the majority prevailed and the war commenced.

In the colonies complicated feelings for or against freedom from England did not encourage simple actions in the colonies, but, driven by strong leadership, we all know the final outcome was independence and freedom from domination.

History and biography always take priority in my reading, and I’ve just finished a volume that illustrates the length that people go to protect freedom. The book - World War II on the Air, Edward R. Murrow and the Broadcasts that Riveted a Nation - tells of the CBS newsmen led by Murrow who invented on the spot reporting in the European war zones. Because of these men the world received news of Hitler’s armies and his attempts to dominate the world. The book and its companion CD of actual wartime recordings made by the reporters clearly draws the picture of the struggle and the lengths that the Allies went to to defeat the menace.

A quotation by Murrow stood out prominently, “Europe has no doubt that America is mighty in battle. Our nation, which was created by people who wanted to leave Europe, is the center of the hopes and some of the fears of millions who are in Europe today.”

Dear Mary

Dear Mary,

Things haven’t gone too badly since you’ve been gone again to Mpls to babysit our grandkids. Last time you went I filled the hamper and didn’t have anything to wear - well, I figured it out this time: I haven’t changed clothes. So when you come home you won’t have to worry about washing. Just throw these away!

I know how possessive you are of your lawnmower, so --- since mine is getting repaired --- I’ve left yours alone. The grass is getting long, but that will make it seem worthwhile mowing when you get home. After 35 years of marriage I know when to leave well enough alone.

I’ve been out to the ranch helping to put up hay. It’s really pretty out there, so green. Old flatlander that I am, I didn’t know how settled I’d be when we moved out here, but there’s a beauty in this country that really appeals to me. This morning, Tuesday, was very foggy as I drove south of town and the layers and patches of fog blended into the lay of the land. One sight was especially striking: Little Heart Butte was completely surrounded by the white haze except for its peak that stood up high and clear. It reminded me of Mt. McKinley, except for its smaller scale, of course.

On Monday at the dinner table Marty asked Angie to stick around this morning to give me any change in instructions. She drug her feet a bit since she likes to take a morning walk. I suggested she could just stand in front of the house and run in place. That didn’t go over well. Her sense of humor is something like yours.

Did you hear the one about the lady who after looking in the mirror got all depressed. She told her husband, “I’m not the woman you married. My face is wrinkled, I’ve got granny-flab hanging on my arms, bags under my eyes, etc. Please, honey, say something positive about me so I can feel better about myself.” He thought a minute and offered this, “Well, your eyesight is good.”

Well, I’m writing this Tuesday night so I can get a good start in the morning to come and get you at the Fargo airport. I’m tired and could use a good night’s sleep. My back gets stiff bouncing around in the tractor, my eyes get tired in the sun, I’ve got a bit of sunburn, etc. I wonder if you’ll say something good about me to make me feel better when I see you.”

Love,

Lynn

Channel Surfing

Sometimes, when I sit vegetating in my chair, I pick up the television’s remote control and start running through the few dozen channels cabled into my house. Once in awhile I land on a station that catches my interest and watch it through to the end. I channel surf in my thoughts, too, with a variety of images flitting in and out of my mind. Many of them get little attention and quickly pass, while others linger a bit longer to get mulled over a bit longer. I think I’ll do a little of that right now and see what pops into this screen in my head.

Channel 21 - Here comes one of Clark Douglas’s trucks with its stock rack rattling on the washboards on the gravel road. I can’t see it yet; it’s hidden in a cloud of dust, but I’ve been expecting it to come to pick up my 4-H heifer and take her to Lisbon for Achievement Days, so I know it’s him. The big Ford drives into the yard and Gene Jaster jumps out, pulls down the ramp, and my blue ribbon winning Holstein walks right up.

Channel 34 - My buddy and I pitch our tent in Manitoba, unload the boat, and proceed to do some fishing. Evening comes and some Canadians, camped near us, invite us over to drink some of their rye whisky. I drink too much and fall soundly asleep in the tent but am awakened by what I take to be my buddy’s loud snoring. I stumble out the next morning to discover our campsite has been torn to shreds by a marauding bear.

Channel 45 - The Sheldon Shadows are playing basketball in the old town hall. A time out has been called, and I’m a bench-rider standing on the outside edge of the huddle. Coach Grosgebauer, in one of his usual lapses of strategy to overcome a score deficit, looks about for someone to chew on. He spots me, “Bueling, I haven’t seen you doing anything yet!” I reply, “You haven’t put me in yet, Coach.”

Channel 53 - My first year out of graduate school and I’m the principal of Wind River High School in Wyoming. The car I drive is a 1966 Chev Impala that has served me well, taking me round trip to Alaska and through a year of grad school in Greeley, Colorado. Home for Christmas vacation I decide to treat myself by retiring the old steed and buy a new car, a 1971 Buick Skylark in which I fly off to the future.

Channel 72 - The girl who will be my future bride and I drive through the fall foliage of the Sheyenne River Valley near Fort Ransom, and she loves the scenery, brilliant colors, and my company. I think I’ll set the clicker down and watch this channel. It should be an interesting program.

A Great Find in Rummage

Saturday mornings around here often finds us searching out two or three garage sales; it’s not that we need anything, but the thrill of the hunt supersedes any needs. And, it is only once or twice during a summer that we stumble upon choice items. The treasure I uncovered last Saturday may have been my allotment for the year, and I found it in the unlikely place of a recently closed farm implement building on main street. Odds and ends of that business were being offered as well as household items that had been brought in. There, neatly placed on shelves were a couple hundred older hardcover books from which I chose two. One of them, a history entitled Red River Runs North!, contains information I had not run across before about my historical research interest of ox-cart freighting. A wealth of facts in it will feed my writing project regarding the trail from Fort Abercrombie to Fort Ransom.

The other find grabbing my attention that day was an autobiography written by North Dakota’s own Eric Sevareid, Not So Wild a Dream. I find Sevareid’s writing pretty irresistible; how can an old farm boy not keep reading after scanning the first two lines of chapter one: “The small brown river curved around the edge of our town. The farmers plowed close to its muddy banks and left their water jugs in the shade of the willows.” Having read this book previously, I am familiar with his story. It is this book that carries the oft-quoted passage regarding how people reacted when he told them he hailed from North Dakota. To them this state “… was a large, rectangular blank spot in the nation’s mind.”

Sevareid’s use of the English language was superb! I still remember his radio and television commentaries and how precisely his two minute’s worth of words described his topic of the day. Whenever he started talking I usually stopped to listen, and since it’s been a number of years since last I read him, I’m enjoying his penned words all over again.

As a young man he demonstrated an adventurous spirit and the places he went and the enviable experiences he gained shaped his world view and influenced his professional life. He was present in Europe working as a news correspondent prior to and during World War II and sent out breaking stories and bulletins, a feat few other correspondents were able to accomplish. He’d beg or bluster his way through the management of radio stations and get small doses of airtime to inform the world what Hitler was doing at the outset of this period. His report was the first indication to the outside world that France had capitulated, offering little resistance to the Nazi army. When things started getting dicey for him and his family he knew he had to get his wife and one week old twin boys out of Paris and safely home to the United States. That story alone raises goose bumps when he found out that procuring transportation made him compete with the thousands of refugees who wanted a place on available ships, too. After a time when he knew his own life to be in danger, he made his way to England to find and report to his boss Edward R. Murrow. He had left Paris without permission, something I suppose most of us would do if our lives were in danger, but worried whether or not Murrow might fire him for insubordination. Murrow’s response to the contrary, “This is the best news I’ve had for a long time … You have pulled off one of the greatest broadcasting feats there ever was.”

The book is long and wordy, but I enjoy every page of this great writer. A symposium on Eric Sevareid will be held in Bismarck next April, and a one night lecture is scheduled at the Heritage Center in November. I plan to attend both events.

Freedom of Speech

As aggravating and damaging as it can be at times, it is our duty as citizens of this country to promote and protect free speech. As a youngster I clearly remember how frustrating it was to be bullied and intimidated by older, stronger boys and then be forced to follow their dictates. Being made to “shut up” developed into strongly entrenched resentment and prevented useful, satisfying dialogue from ever developing. The present national political scene emulates this childish approach to important debate and I am sad for that. I always enjoy hearing the oft-repeated anecdote regarding Ronald Reagan and Tip O’Neill. During the day their ideological differences were topics of fierce debate, but occasionally at night they set their differences aside by enjoying each other’s company over drinks and story telling.

My history book tells me that the first attempt to codify personal rights came about with the Magna Carta signed into effect in 1215 by King John who was forced to do so because some of the English barons rebelled. The thought set down in that document became a guiding star our own forefathers borrowed from when they wrote the U. S. Constitution and guaranteed Freedom of Speech in the First Amendment. One of my sources states “The First Amendment, also called the Great Amendment, is in many ways the cornerstone of America’s free, open, and tolerant society… It guarantees that Americans can share the information they need for a robust public debate on the issues, and to act on those issues.”

I doubt whether the one-sided diatribes heard daily on television and radio shows meet the criteria for and add to a robust public debate and I have for the most part stopped listening. I choose to open my books and study them for the knowledge therein and not feel as though I’m being told to “shut up.” After drawing my own conclusions, I am grateful to have the freedom and opportunity to express myself on this humble web log.

***
Family health concerns concerning our three surviving parents weigh heavily and take up quite a bit of our time and energies. A trip to Lisbon yesterday prevented my posting this blog. I am certain faithful readers of this blogsite will understand. We are glad the auction sale in Lisbon went well. It took lots of energy, but we were gratified by the large turnout, the good sales, and the great crew who came to help us load their possessions and haul and unload them at the site of the auction. We were also gratified to hear that their landlord was pleased with the clean condition of the property. My brother and his wife worked hard at cleaning when they came to visit, and anyone who knows my wife knows how hard she worked.

Random Thoughts on the 3rd of June

The auction sale is done! A nice crowd attended; some things sold well, others not so well. My mother expressed relief that a prized trunk built by her dad stayed in the family when one of the Devitt girls bought it. The saddest part of the sale is that the financial proceeds from it will be eaten up in about one month at the nursing home.
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Mary and I have an anniversary coming up, number 35. Those years have passed by quickly. I guess that’s what happens when you marry the right one.
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This Saturday marks the 65th anniversary of D Day. There are several good websites containing history of that battle. One of the good ones: www.militaryhistoryonline.com. A scene from that battle plays over and over. A few men are pictured coming ashore and one soldier is hit and goes down. I’ve always wondered if he survived his wound. Casualties that day amounted to 1,500 Americans killed with 3,200 wounded and 1,900 missing in action. A veteran told me once that the term "missing in action" often means being blown to bits by an explosion and no trace of the body could be found.
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Much is being made of the Republican party’s demise and how they can’t get it together. I presume they will in the future, but there sure is a lot of acid coming from the mouths of some of their commentators. It makes me think of Newton’s Law of Motion - To every action there is an opposite and equal reaction. Having just suffered through eight years of government ineptitude and corruption, this new administration’s approach to governing should have been expected.
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We heard of a Norwegian who was so dumb he thought the word “innuendo” was an Italian word for Preparation H.
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I watched the NBC special last evening of Brian Williams and crew roaming around the White House for a day. One thing that impresses me about Obama is that for his youth and inexperience he exudes a confident air. Whether or not his term(s) in office will be successful remains to be seen.

Recorded History

I’m getting ready to go to Lisbon regarding auction sale business for the last time; however, I’ll probably be there until Sunday this time and will be very glad when it is over. The next trips out there will be to just relax and visit with the folks. Going through their possessions gives one a handle on the passage of time. For instance, Ma’s wedding dress from 68 years ago was dredged up from the bottom of her beloved cedar chest and the shirt Dad wore at the time revealed itself, too. Pictures are especially interesting: who is this, when would that have been, where was this one taken, etc. The bedroom set they were given as a wedding present will have to be sold. No one has room for it. The “Box” built by Grandpa Sandvig in the 1920’s has to go. No one has room for it. The ornate china closet with side board has to go. No one has room for it.

The written word might be the best way to preserve things, anyway. I will have lots of stories to relay through my blog regarding my parents, but in the interest of time today (remember, I’m heading to Lisbon shortly) I’m going to bring out a story my father-in-law told from his past that was transcribed by my wife Mary. It recalls the time when Adam and his brother went out one morning to milk the cows and do other chores. Quite a little time passed and “still their younger sisters and father hadn’t come out of the two story farmhouse to get the milking started. ‘Na, wo siens ah?’ In German he says, ‘the cows stand here leaking milk; they have already let down their milk. Finish up here, Lazarus, I guess I’ll have to go wake them up-- they must have overslept. I could smell smoke before I even got close to the house.

Putrid smelling smoke from a collapsed chimney enveloped me when I opened the door. ‘Good God in Heaven! Mutta! Mutta!’ Mother was the first one I saw but I couldn’t pick her up off the bedroom floor; she was just too heavy for this 15 year old boy. Getting a grip under her arms I pulled her out of the house, left her on the front stoop and ran back into the house. I returned to find Dad still conscious enough to be able to walk. I grabbed him, blankets and all, and he walked out of the house with my help. ‘Go upstairs and get the girls,’ he whispered hoarsely. The smoke was so thick and noxious I thought I’d collapse, too. I grabbed a diaper and held it over my nose and mouth as I sprinted up the 16 foot staircase of our tall, two story farmhouse. ‘Helen, Katy, Clara, wake up! Wake up!’ They couldn’t be roused and one by one I pulled, tugged, dragged them down the steep, narrow staircase outdoors to safety. ‘Come on, Helen, we’ve got to get out of here!’ I had to pull them down backwards and once I almost fell. Klunk, klunk, klunk, their feet hit every step. [Several sentences here are omitted] Once Felix was outside the house he plopped down beside his family as they lay helpless and disoriented for a time, coughing like crazy until they came to and started throwing up. They were all terribly sick and Mother had a terrible headache that didn’t go away for a long time. I wanted them to go to the doctor but no they said, ‘we’ll be all right now.’”

Graduation

We attended a reception for a high school graduate on Sunday. When I congratulated her, I spotted a twinkle in her eyes which I presumed came from earning this accomplishment paired with her dreams for the future; she told me she plans to attend a good university. Young folks at this stage of their life begin to strongly think of independence. My wish for her and all high school graduates is to realize that with this freshly minted diploma all they have really done is open a gate. Now comes the tricky part; they have to decide how large the yard beyond will be. For some it will be small and thick with weeds growing alongside the fence line. Grass will grow ragged and unmown with lots of dandelions abloom. At the opposite, others will fertilize and maintain a huge yard, multi-colored and textured with flower beds, bushes, and trees where song birds and butterflies make their homes.

My high school class adopted the motto One goal reached, many beyond. I suppose that sufficed, but who cared much about mottoes then? The fallacy with those words is that not many people set goals. They take life day to day, or put another way, paycheck to paycheck.

A life’s motto that makes more sense to me - If you can dream it, you can achieve it.

Dream Big - Author unknown

If there were ever a time to dare,
To make a difference
To embark on something worth doing
It is now.

Not for any grand cause, necessarily –
But for something that tugs at your heart
Something that is worth your aspiration
Something that is your dream.

You owe it to yourself
To make your days count.
Have fun. Dig deep. Stretch.

Dream big.

Know, though,
That things worth doing
Seldom come easy.

There will be times when you want to
Turn around
Pack it up and call it quits.

Those times tell you
That you are pushing yourself
And that you are not afraid to learn by trying.

Persist.

Because with an idea,
Determination and the right tools,
You can do great things.

Let your instincts, your intellect
And let your heart guide you.
Trust.

Believe in the incredible power
Of the human mind
Of doing something that makes a difference.

Of working hard
Of laughing and hoping
Of lasting friends
Of all the things that will cross your path.

Next year
The start of something new
Brings the hope of something great.
Anything is possible.

There is only one you
And you will pass this way but once.

Do it right

Busy, busy, busy

I've been so occupied with other things that I almost forgot it's Wednesday, the day I usually write a blog. Writing is one of my favorite things, and I never intend to give that up. The primary draw for my time has been the auction sale we are preparing for in Lisbon on May 30. A reader of this might be interested in scanning the sale bill posted on the internet. A couple different versions of the bill are located on these sites: www.rdauction.com --- or --- www.globalauctionguide.com/rd.

When June comes I will finally be able to do other things, but what am I doing here, feeling sorry for myself? Dad expressed his thanks for our preparing the sale. I replied, I just hope that when I get old and unable to do for myself that someone will step up to take care of our affairs.

More Memories

The grass is greening up, shirtsleeves seem sufficient to keep the breeze off, and we got in a damn car accident yesterday - rear ended at a stop light. I went to the emergency room afterwards, had a CT scan and the doctor reported he saw a hollow chamber within the walls of my skull. Well, I am still mobile and the other party’s insurance will take care of the repairs (they say).

We will be heading to my aunt’s funeral tomorrow in Lisbon where I will be a pall bearer. This leaves my dad as the sole surviving offspring of Charles and Tillie Bueling. Eleven brothers and sisters have preceded him in death. He is 94 years old, now lives in a home, and still makes plans for the future. I am taking carving tools and wood along since he wants to start carving his creations again.

There is still work to do preparing for the auction sale, so any spare time tomorrow will be spent at that job. We’ve come across many items of interest when we sort and box things up, some to be sold, some to be kept as heirlooms. An example of this is an old postcard addressed to my grandmother Clara. The sender located at St. Cloud, MN said, “It is easy to go to the show here, just jump on the street car and away you go. The Birth of a Nation is coming … Saw Charlie Chaplin in the movies some time ago. He sure is some funny guy.” A long letter stamped with two one-centers to Grandma and a one cent postcard are written in Norwegian, a language I took a class in one time but still cannot read.

Yellowed newspaper clippings abound, some announcing engagements, some obituaries, some four or five generation family pictures, etc. Lots of beautiful old Valentine cards of outstanding quality were saved, crafted with a quality you just don’t see in today’s. Loose pictures, mostly of relatives and acquaintances who have passed on (which makes me stop to think of my own mortality). After all is said and done with this transition period there will be many more stories to tell and pass on. This blogging effort of mine has always been intended as a method of letting my sons and their descendants know more about me and my thoughts.

To conclude, the most yellowed clipping I’ve run across in this memory trip speaks to my folks' life period probably the best way it can be stated. It is a poem entitled “The Old Milk Cow.” Its first verse goes like this: When crop failure hits / And we’re down to two bits, / With our creditors we’re in for a row. / To another crop it appears / We will have to shift gears, / And go back to the old milk cow.

Dad's Memory

Sitting at this keyboard the day after we returned from Lisbon after another two-day stay I can take time to think about the people I am descended from. My folks now reside there in the Parkside Home, and Mary and I each week have been taking regular trips to their apartment to sort and pack things in preparation for an auction sale on May 30. We’ve come across many things of a high-interest nature such as old cards, letters, and pictures, and during the 3:00 coffee hour at Parkside we sit and ask questions about them.

The ladies at the home were all a-twitter yesterday because it was their inaugural organizational meeting of a “Red Hat Society.” It so happened I had taken to Dad a red cap emblazoned with “Sheldon Shadows” so Ma able to wear that until we shop for something more appropriate. I had wheeled Dad down there too because we thought we were going to have our coffee with them, but, no, they kicked us out, ladies only. So we returned to the spot where the men were being served. Their discussion turned to weather and Dad started remembering the spring of 1936 when he said he and a hired man put in the crop with horses, and it was so cold they had to walk behind the horses to keep warm. A question arose: was it the year the dust blew so bad? No, that was 1934.

I had taken pictures to the folks so they could identify for posterity the people on them. While we were waiting for the ladies to crown their queen and finish with festivities we went down to his room and looked at pictures. I found that I couldn’t write fast enough because of the wellspring of information that flowed by the gallons. A picture of his brother Leslie holding four work horses brought this comment: That’s Queen, Topsy, Bird, and Dolly, and Queen was a daughter of Topsy. I eventually got Bird and Russell got the two white ones. The memory was pretty strong. I’d guess that photo was seventy-five years old.

A photo, about 85 years old, of a threshing scene we’d blown up to fit on an 8 ½ by 11 sheet soon filled completely on the back side with written reminisced information. It was snapped about 1927 and pictured his Dad’s threshing machine, a Nicholson-Shepard Red River Special that was worn out by the time Dad worked with it and consequently seemed like it was always broken down. Two men shown were Nels Bjerke on the left with horse team of Sam and Molly, and Ludvig Davidson on the right with Cub and Jesse. The tractor powering the machine was an Allis-Chalmers 20/35. The facts kept pouring forth. The 1924 Model T touring car had been modified into a pickup and Grandpa came to own it by trading his Willys 6 to Richard Fritz even-up. Oh, by the way, when Dad was ten years old the Model T was the first car he ever drive.

The earlier mentioned Ludvig Davidson once hired Dad to help him haul hay for two days and paid him $4 for his labor. Grandma Bueling, his mother, was so happy because then Dad could buy a pair of Star Brand shoes to wear while, at nine years of age, he ran a McCormick binder. Otherwise, he would have had to work barefooted in the grain field.

Dad has always had a soft spot for the heavy work horses did during this period and told of a time he hauled grain on a gravel road and how sore their feet got. It also was hard on the wooden wagon wheels so at the end of the day he ran the wagon into some water so the spokes would soak and tighten up a bit. The memories never stopped coming. I am going to start carrying my recorder so I don’t have to write so fast. Then, the ladies came back energized from their Red Hat gathering so our history lesson drew to a close.

Nightcrawlers

Last Friday on Katie Couric’s CBS news program I watched a feature that brought back a memory. Steve Hartman has been doing similar things on the show that Charles Kuralt used to do before he passed away, and he revisited a place called Sopchoppy, Florida. Kuralt had talked to people who did “worm grunting,” whereby a wooden stake was driven into the ground and a steel bar was rubbed across the end grains to produce a loud vibrating or grunting sound. The racket caused night crawler worms to come out of their holes where they could be picked up by would-be fish bait salesmen. It is thought the worms feared a mole was burrowing for them, so they climbed up into the daylight to escape the predator. During Kuralt’s interview with one of the hunters he got him to admit making about $200 per week gathering the little critters. Unfortunately, for him and others like him it got the attention of the IRS people who came and made them claim the income. When Hartman repeated the same question 25-30 years later, no one would confess to the income they made. They had become “media-savvy,” but they were still rasping the steel across the end grain and gathering buckets of the bait.

The memory revived in me had to do with gathering night crawlers, too. We were students at Valley City State when someone suggested we gather some bait. Immediately, I had visions of “snipe hunting” and feared they would try to make me the butt of some outlandish joke. I’m pretty sure we were fueled and fired up with beer in our bellies so I let myself get talked into the adventure. The city park became the scene, and we were cautioned to walk quietly watching the ground carefully while the experienced one shone a flashlight down. Here’s where I suspected the snipe-hunt: we were told that when we saw a night crawler stretched across the ground, yet anchored with one end of his body in his hole, that we were to dive for it, that they were very quick. Disbelief and skepticism overtook me then. How could a worm move quickly? “There’s one, see ’im? You were too slow! He disappeared.” Not seeing it, I knew then I was being toyed with. But a couple of the others kept diving to the ground on their knees and, sure enough, they were coming up with the prize. The whole episode struck me as being so ludicrous and funny that all I could do was double up with laughter; I doubt that I ever did catch one. Gradually, as the night wore on, I became a believer, but it’s an episode from carefree youth that brings a smile to my face each time I think back on it.

This, too, Shall Pass

Spring has come all at once! Every slough, creek, and river has filled to overflow and race down any route it can find. In the hill country around here the water runs out of all the ravines and gullies, collects into larger flows, and really makes its presence known. But because it is hilly it will be over just as fast as it started. Interstate 94 got shut down between us and Jamestown for a day. After the spring of ’97 road crews constructed higher road beds on it in a couple of spots, and now, since other water-vulnerable spots have shown up, that road equipment will probably be at it again. I heard on local radio about the hardships that have been created out in the countryside: washed out railbeds, washed out gravel roads, washed out bridges, etc. The after effects of all this water will be felt for some time.

Last week I spent a couple of days in Lisbon for family business and saw lots of activity there in anticipation of the Sheyenne River’s rise. Lots of dump trucks hauled dirt to build dikes; flat bed trailers loaded with pallets of sandbags traveled through town all day; National Guard equipment, vehicles and personnel were in abundance; and evacuation plans were being made for the hospital and soldier’s home. Ironically, just a couple weeks previous to this, Lisbon facilities housed some evacuees from the Fargo flood. My parents now both reside in the Parkside Lutheran Home in Lisbon which, fortunately, sits on high ground.

The high water lets me appreciate a period of local history I’m presently studying; it is the freighting industry where carts and wagons pulled by ox teams served Forts Abercrombie and Ransom. Two routes were established to get from one place to the other - a low water route and a high water route. When able to travel the low water route, they could have forded the Sheyenne in a couple of spots to follow a direct route. Obviously this spring they would have had to take the longer high water route which departed in a southerly direction from the Owego settlement to follow a large bend in the Sheyenne River and then headed westward to what is now Lisbon and then beyond to Fort Ransom. It would have taken longer, maybe a couple of days. Today, if farm families aren’t completely cut off they may have to find longer high water routes, also.

Forty Years Ago

Yesterday I rummaged through a drawer where some of my keepsakes lay which are, for the most part, seldom looked at. After I left graduate school I decided to purchase for myself a college class ring. Well, there it sat looking pretty much like a new one since I never wore it that much. The year of graduation inscribed on it made me take notice, and I’ve been reminiscing about those days ever since. Nineteen sixty-nine was the year, and when I did a little simple math I realized it has been 40 years since I graduated with my master of arts degree. I remember that year with pleasure; along with studies we had a great social time. There were about a dozen of us taking classes in the administration department; we were a diverse lot who established the Driftwood Lounge in Greeley as the headquarters for our shenanigans, story-telling, and general all-around shiftless behavior.

Colorado, still not over-populated at the time, possessed many scenic wonders, and I got around to see them as much as I could. Looking westward from the campus the Rocky Mountains rose high and sharply serving as a source of eye-candy for this flatlander. I still remember the time when large flakes of snow floated on the air, and a girl who had never seen snow fall sat transfixed in front of the student union’s west windows. She probably remembers seeing snow for the first time in her life; I remember the total scene: the girl, the snow, the mountains.

How can I forget to mention the odor of manure that swept the campus each time the wind blew from the northwest. The Monfort Feed Lot with 100,000 head of cattle fattening in its pens reminded us of their presence, and as they always said in Wahpeton with its foul smell of sugar beet processing, that’s the smell of money. I believe Monfort’s capacity has grown, but it has also relocated its operation to a more favorable position as regarding its wind-borne odors.

Forty years! So much has transpired over that period of time. A wife, two sons, grandchildren, jobs, and now retirement. The responsibilities a person assumes can almost hobble him at times, and the scars a man bears have been earned. I just typed and framed a quotation from Tennyson’s poem Ulysses:

“Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are…”

No matter what I wish now that I would have done or shouldn’t have done with my life, I will continually remind myself “that which we are, we are.” Colorado was one of the bright spots, and it came at the end of an odyssey similar to Ulysses' when I drove to Alaska searching for great things, ended up in Greeley in graduate school, and lived the first days of the rest of my life.

Is It Spring Yet?

We’re experiencing the kind of winter that the rest of the country thinks we always have. Here it is April 1 and it’s still here. In my limited travels it has never been unusual for people, upon learning I live in North Dakota, to make off-the-cuff statements like “It’s cold up there, isn’t it,” “Those winters you have aren’t for me,” or “We sure laughed when we saw that electric plug-in cord hanging from the front end of your car.” I hope this isn’t the first of a series of bad winters again. When I was a young lad it seemed as it we were always blocked in during the winter. I remember when cars were often left sitting out at the head of the driveway because we couldn’t drive into the yard.

The flood threat seems to have passed for now, at least in the Fargo and Bismarck areas, but we’ve got a heck of a lot of snow to melt again since this last blizzard dumped a pile. In fact, the snow had melted right down, but now we have to start all over again with the thaw. The record keepers say we are just within an inch or two of having the most snow ever.

We live close to the Heart River which feeds into the Missouri River, which is also close. Water rose to high levels in those rivers, mostly attributed to ice jams. A week ago I couldn’t get over how high and wide the Heart River was running. It was packed with chunks of ice and tree branches. It reminded me of a herd of four-legged critters running through a chute, and it moved me to versify:

March 22, 2009

Heart River water
ran wide, deep, and fast beneath
the Sitting Bull Bridge
carrying grinding ice floes,
a stampeding herd
of buffalo choked into
a closing canyon.
Hunters crouched, aiming cameras
from the banks, marksmen
intent on bagging trophies
to boast while seated
around family room fires.
Then, as that deluge
passed, those foot thick carcasses
lay strewn on the banks and fields
to melt under the spring suns.

Letter to Mary

Dear Mary,

Not much has happened since you flew off to Minneapolis for a few days to help take care of our new granddaughter. Not much, that is, until Sunday. I got up as usual, made coffee, read the paper, and watched some news shows. Then I wandered on down to my study to look for a book and ran into one that’s been on my shelf for some time that I hadn’t even read yet, a Jim Harrison book of poetry named Saving Daylight. Harrison’s the one you might remember who wrote Legends of the Fall which was later made into the movie starring Brad Pitt. At any rate his poems always make me think of the outdoors and living the strenuous life. His style of writing is what made me take off in my younger days to search out that better world. Then I got to wondering about all the other books I’ve started to read and had laid aside planning to get back to later. I found some: John Adams by David McCullough, Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner, All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy, One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, plus a couple of others. I’ve brought them all up and set them in my little cabinet and promised myself I will read them now. I also just bought the Norman Maclean Reader. He wrote A River Runs Through It. Remember, that’s the one you didn’t like too well because the younger brother kept getting into jams and then got murdered at the end.

Around 10:00 a.m. I decided to get a cup of coffee at McDonald’s and was I ever surprised when I drove down our hill: that eighty acre alfalfa field on the river bottom looked like an ocean. I blamed it on snow thaw, but a quarter mile down the road when I crossed the Sitting Bull Bridge on 1806 I found out where it came from, from water backing up on the Heart River. Boy, talk about a placid little stream gone wild! It ran high, wide, and filled solid with chunks of ice and tree branches picked up along the way. It reminded me of a herd of buffalo, close-packed and running through a canyon. And rubberneckers, lots of people parked along the roadside to gawk and take pictures.

I made it for coffee and in there I noticed a few cowboys with their high top boots and remembered the horse sale scheduled to continue Sunday. I drove by on Saturday and saw how full the lot around Kist’s sale barn was, so I never even tried to go in. But Sunday morning, I thought, I’ll just run down there for a look see. I climbed the bleachers and sat behind an Indian fellow with a big hat. (You’ve probably noticed that Indians dress like cowboys nowadays.) The vent holes in his Stetson were on the back of the hat and were in the shape of a cross. On its side he wore a gold pin in the shape of a coup stick that had four little feathers hanging from it. I wondered if he was counting coup or scalps, but I digress.

The auctioneer rattled off his chant, a side man took the mike occasionally to inject a little information, and horses were ridden in singly and put through their paces in that little twenty foot diameter sales ring. Taunts like “She’ll please ya’, she enjoys what she’s doin’,” “Boy, here’s a horse that needs buyin’,” or “Excellent disposition, no buck in ‘im” were uttered between bids. With the last one, the gelding’s rider slid off the rear end of the horse to prove the side man told no lies. I could only think that with the way the boy’s legs were spread how the thought of emasculation might flash through his mind if the horse decided to kick.

Of course, it wasn’t only fat or skinny cowboys that rode the horses into the ring. A leopard marked appaloosa ridden by a gal with long blonde tresses changed the scenery for a bit. Others must have been watching closely, too, because that horse seemed to bring more money. I had to laugh at a little Shetland pony that trotted in being ridden by a skinny, long-legged fellow whose feet dangled way below the stirrups. It brought $750.

I decided to leave after awhile and paid a visit to the men’s restroom. I passed some private deals being made in the hallway, saw the café jammed to capacity, and entered the toilet to find it really smelly. Two fellas stood at the urinals where one said to the other, “I think your boots smell better than this!” About then a stool flushed and a tall dude stepped out all red-faced embarrassed saying, “I had a rough night last night.”

When I drove out of the lot I noticed license plates from all over the midwest: South Dakota, Montana, Minnesota, Nebraska, and Wyoming. It’s a popular sale, what more can I say. I always enjoy sitting there for a spell. I’ll never forget the time I went to a buffalo sale and saw a young bull leap ten feet straight in the air trying to get over the sale ring fence. Talk about athletic ability!

I drove back home and the water had gotten deeper and more people sat parked alongside the road gawking at it. I haven’t forgotten, and I know you haven’t either, how deep the water got in '97 when we lived in Wahpeton. I sure hope Fargo can keep ahead of the flood water this spring, but it doesn’t look good.

Later, in the afternoon I went to a movie: Julia Roberts in Duplicity. Not too bad. I decided to buy a popcorn because I hadn’t been eating too well, but it was so salty I had to go buy a pop, too. It cost $6.50 for a ticket, $3.00 for the corn, and $2.00 for the drink. $11.50. You always say I’m the cheap one, but you didn’t give me a very big allowance this month and now I’m broke.

I’m getting tired of eating TV dinners and di Giorno frozen pizzas. Maybe when you get home you might whip up a nice batch of those cowboy beans that taste so good. Well, I’d better close for now. I’ve got some books to read.

Love,

Lynn

p.s. The clothes hamper is full.