I'm No Luddite

Here it is Wednesday again, time for another blog of Miscellaneous Musings. I’ve never tired of writing it; I can always find a new topic to discuss even though it is only three or four paragraphs long. There’s something about stringing a few thoughts together and putting them into a reasonable form that I find appealing. The modern world tries to require us to write with the latest electronic gadgets, namely word processors and I admit to using one. Some of my favorite authors refuse to use them, however. Jim Harrison who wrote The Legends of the Fall plus a whole raft of good poetry writes with cheap ball point pens; Pat Conroy, author of The Great Santini and The Prince of Tides writes in longhand on a legal pad; and my favorite tale of an author refusing to write electronically is Cormac McCarthy who has written all his books on a portable manual typewriter, the same machine that brought nearly a quarter of a million dollars when sold a few months ago at auction for an organization’s fund-raiser. He was able to replace it with one that a friend purchased used on Ebay for $20. Shelby Foote who wrote a great Civil War trilogy that Ken Burns used to base his PBS Civil War series on insisted on using dip pens. Nibs wore out and were scarce so when he located a large supply of them he bought the whole works.

A great example of the low-tech method of writing was Thomas Jefferson’s use of a goose quill to write the Declaration of Independence. I purchased a replica of that document while on our east coast tour this past fall because of the poetry of its words. As much as I admire people who use old methods of writing, I admit to being a slave to the computer. A requested Christmas gift I received from Mrs. Claus this year was a Barnes and Noble Color Nookbook on which I can download hundreds of books and read them on its screen. It is a form of computer containing a powerful storage system. The first book I downloaded? Tolstoy’s War and Peace. I have been wanting to re-read it for some time. It’s a daunting task because it is so long, but there is a reason why it has been called the greatest novel ever written, and I want to experience it again.

In the early 19th century a group in England called Luddites reacted violently to labor saving devices being set in place at factories as part of the industrial revolution. They reacted because many of them lost their jobs because of the efficiencies that came about.
That term Luddite is used occasionally today to describe someone who is against change. I’ve been called many things in my life, but because I’m writing this on my laptop I can’t be called a Luddite with my electronic writing habits.

Christmas, 2010

Rush, rush, rush! Still some time left to fill those Christmas stockings and that little space left under the tree. It won’t make you any happier, but the merchants will sure like it, not that they will remember you the next time you come in or anything. This year I’ve found myself being less excited for the coming of Christmas than at anytime in my life. Maybe it’s due to the constant barrage of advertising we’ve had since before Thanksgiving, whether coming from newsprint, radio, television, or the internet.

I still remember the time when Christmas wasn’t mentioned before Thanksgiving since Thanksgiving meant something besides gorging and watching a football game. I also remember when Christmas celebrated the birthday of someone special, and the retail aspect of the holiday was secondary. I’m certain that a very large percentage of gift shoppers give little or no thought to the religious aspect. They’ve been persuaded and even programmed to spend gobs of money to buy gifts with money some of them don’t have.

Just to remind myself, I searched out the meaning of some of the symbols of Christmas:

* The Star: A heavenly sign of prophecy fulfilled long, long ago- The shining hope of mankind.

* The Color Red: The first color of Christmas, symbolizing that Savior's sacrifice for all.

* The Fir Tree: Evergreen- the second color of Christmas shows everlasting light and life. The needles point up to heaven.

* The Bell: Rings out to guide lost sheep back to the fold, signifying that all are precious in His eyes.

* The Candle: A mirror of starlight, reflecting our thanks for the star of Bethlehem.


* The Candy Cane: Represents the shape of the shepherd's crook, used to bring lost lambs back to the fold.

* The Wreath: A symbol of the never ending eternal value of love… having no end.

Well, I had better get out of my funk and cheer up and wish Merry Christmas to the many people who I count as friends in this world. I’ll even go so far as to wish everyone else the same. I can’t express it any better than by using the old Christmas saying of “Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.”

Winter Has Arrived

Winter hit us pretty hard this year; we’ve had lots of snowfall, and it’s not uncommon to hear the snowblowers roaring off in the distance. I’ve cranked up my old John Deere eight-horse three times already and shoveled a few times in between. When we drove over the Missouri River this morning I noticed it to be pretty crowded with floes of ice that we know will soon connect to form a solid sheet.

I use Bing.com as my computer search engine. Each day it features a different and interesting picture. Yesterday a Great White Owl in flight filled the screen and the sight of it took me back to when I was a young boy. One particularly hard winter I remember Dad coming into the house telling me to look out the south window of our farmhouse. There, gliding back and forth over our south pasture, he pointed out a snowy owl. It looked ghostlike, it’s mostly white body blending in with the snow cover. I’m not much of a Harry Potter fan, but I think the owl in that storyline is a Great White. Apparently they like mice in their diets, and I suppose when the winter comes on too harshly up north some will fly on down here to find something to eat.

Last week I considered metaphors in literature and came upon a good one. This may have been common knowledge to some, but it seemed new to me. The well-known Christmas carol “The Twelve Days of Christmas” carries a hidden meaning. Some centuries past people of the Catholic religion could not openly worship in England. The song stands as a catechism for teaching the kids. Here, according to some interpretation, is what each element of the song stands for:

- Partridge in a pear tree = Jesus
- Two turtle doves = Old and New Testaments
- Three French hens = faith, hope, and love
- Four calling birds = the four gospels
- Five golden rings = the first five books of the Old Testament
- Six geese a-laying = the six days of creation
- Seven swans a-swimming = the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit
- Eight maids a-milking = the eight beatitudes
- Nine ladies dancing = the nine fruits of the Holy Spirit
- Ten lords a-leaping = the ten commandments
- Eleven pipers piping = the eleven faithful disciples
- Twelve drummers drumming = the twelve points of belief in the
Apostles Creed
…
On Sunday we attended another of the lecture series sponsored by Bismarck State College, it’s topic being John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley. The president of the college and a locally based scholar sit on stage in an informal living room setting and hold their “discussion” of the chosen topic. Last month they featured Otto von Bismarck and the implications inherent with naming the city of Bismarck. Next month Custer is the topic; I’ll be there. The scholar’s name is Clay Jenkinson and this area would be much poorer in a cultural sense if he were not here. When something interesting is happening, there’s a good chance he’s involved with it. I usually tune into his Jefferson Hour each Sunday morning on public radio. When we were touring this fall I had to miss a symposium in Bismarck that featured the impact of Eric Sevareid on news reporting. He is also a major force in conducting the annual Teddy Roosevelt symposium at Dickinson State. Jenkinson attended Oxford University as a Rhodes Scholar. In May he and the Satrom Travel Agency are going on tour to London to visit various literary sites in and around London, and I think I am going to go along. We’ll get there taking a five-day cruise on the Queen Mary II and spend six days in the city. Stay tuned.

Saying something is something else

We all like to read well-written prose that has been enlivened with a liberal sprinkling of metaphors and similes. A couple of years ago I bought the book i never metaphor i didn’t like and was surprised to find its author Dr. Mardy Grothe attended UND when I did. I suppose our paths crossed on campus numerous times but I don’t remember him. At any rate he wrote this worthwhile compilation of figurative language including metaphors, similes, and analogies.

I related to this one by H. L. Mencken: “I write in order to attain that feeling of tension relieved and function achieved which a cow enjoys on giving milk.” Curt Simmons was credited with this one from the sports world: “Trying to sneak a fastball past Henry Aaron was like trying to sneak the sun past a rooster.” Dwight Eisenhower said this: “Farming looks mighty easy when your plow is a pencil, and you’re a thousand miles from the corn field.”

Many figures of speech deal with old age and death. This one, Thomas Hobbes’ last words, is easy to understand: “I am about to take my last voyage, a great leap in the dark.” The early president John Quincy Adams spoke from his familiar horse and buggy days: “Old minds are like horses; you must exercise them if you wish to keep them in working order.” But these old proverbs from various sources are my favorites: “There’s many a good tune played on an old fiddle,” “The older the fiddle, the sweeter the tune,” “The oldest trees often bear the sweetest fruit,” “The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.”

Good novels usually equal the use of good metaphors, in fact the whole story can act as one. My recent re-reading of To Kill A Mockingbird yielded this: the mockingbird represents innocence while guns represent false strength. The Bible contains many, such as - “Ye are the salt of the earth,” “The Lord God is a sun and shield,” “The harvest is the end of the age,” “I am the light of the world.”

The point of it all is that good metaphors spark the imagination. I know I am a rank beginner in their use, but I try to improve. I suppose I can talk in terms of flights of geese pulling a blanket of winter clouds over us as they fly south. Maybe not!
…
One hundred years ago this article made the Sheldon news: The ice harvest has begun and every day several loads of congealed moisture are hauled into Sheldon. Most of the ice is being taken from Beaver Dam, on the Maple River, in the vicinity of the S. P. Benson farm. It is clear and of good quality and is about 15” thick. In all probability every ice house in Sheldon will be filled before the first of the year.

Word Stew

Some days I like to sit and let my mind wander about without concentrating very hard on any one thing. Hard winter has set in around here; it’s nothing we can’t handle, but I wonder about all those southerners who have come up here to work in the oil fields. A TV news item showed some of them trying to winterize camper trailers they brought with them. An RV dealer whose business is just down the road from here said in the same newscast that campers really can’t be expected to be very comfortable in the winter season. I don’t envy any of the oil field workers since I don’t think you can put on enough clothes to work around those metal pipes and machines. I wonder if, on a dare, they’d be gullible enough to stick their tongue on a piece of metal.

I checked out the Farmer’s Almanac to see what kind of winter weather they were predicting. Managing Editor Sandi Duncan says it's going to be an "ice cold sandwich … We feel the middle part of the country's really going to be cold — very, very cold, very, very frigid, with a lot of snow," she said. A hundred years ago the forecast was just the opposite. My hometown paper ran this story: “Roscoe Davenport, one of the old time trappers who has been doing an extensive trapping business down in Sargent County predicts that this section of the country is due for a mild and open winter. According to Mr. Davenport, muskrats, skunks, mink, and other fur bearing animals have made little preparation for winter, which the trapper says, is substantiated proof that the winter will not be severe.” There is probably little difference in the accuracy of either the almanac or the trapper. A quick scan of weather records on the internet turned up no results for 1910, so I don’t know how accurate the trapper was, and the next few months will test the almanac’s guess.

Sarah Palin stays in the news, but it appears as if a conservative backlash is developing. Joe Scarborough, a former Republican House member and host of MSNBC‘s “Morning Joe” , said that his party should “man up” against her, Peggy Noonan, the former speechwriter for Reagan called her a “nincompoop”, Barbara Bush said she should stay in Alaska, etc. Maybe her deal is all about making hay while the sun shines, I.e. raking in money.

Sometimes we run onto little things that we remember for a few days. A week ago we stopped at a travel plaza in Fargo to fill gas and use the restrooms. This little haiku pretty much sums up my experience:

on your mark -
hitting a house fly
etched in the urinal

Writing

Writing is the only profession where no one considers you ridiculous if you earn no money. Jules Renard
- - - - -

I find it interesting to find new sources of information and/or entertainment. A few days ago a good one came my way. I subscribe to Curtis Dunlap’s blog called Blogging Along Tobacco Road. It is dedicated to publishing the three-line haiku or the five-line tanka styles of poetry. When the e-mail alert came across my screen that a new posting was available I clicked on his site - tobaccoroadpoet.blogspot.com - and watched a video tribute - “For Mike” - he had placed for Mike Farley, a Red Lodge, Montana rancher and haiku poet who had recently passed away. There, Dunlap stood by a river in North Carolina and recited Farley’s haiku:

Jack Daniels
just a splash
at the river’s edge

Of course, he pulled a half-pint of whisky and a shot glass from his pocket and poured himself a “splash.” Check it out. As flippant as this might seem with my description of the scene, it was done very respectfully, and I can only hope I’m celebrated that way some day.

I’ve been writing some of the haiku and tanka forms lately. Here are a few -

blank pages -
writing all those years
without ink in my pen

target practice -
the bull’s eye sighted me
clawing up a tree

a blanket of fog
on the horizon -
an old man telling stories

the morning sun
rises on veiled buttes
spreading its light
with the wings
of soaring hawks

due south
Little Heart Butte
pokes from the surface
a lump on the skin
prominent yet benign

Old Times

Why is it that those who get on their high horse most often face in the wrong direction? Alfred Corn
………………………..

On Sunday we attended an interesting talk at Bismarck State College, another in the series of “Conversations at BSC.” The president of the college, Dr. Larry Skogen, and Clay Jenkinson, a public humanities scholar, have been doing this for a couple of years once a month, and a different topic is featured each time. Sunday’s topic - “Putting Otto von Back in Bismarck: The Iron Chancellor and the Great Plains” kept the audience in their seats for two hours (just because it was interesting). I couldn’t keep all the facts in my head at the time, so I did a little research on my own to get it understood.

The present city of Bismarck was once named Edwinton, and the conversation came around to why the name was changed. The Northern Pacific Railroad had started crawling across the map of America, but in 1873 stalled at Edwinton (Bismarck) because it ran out of money. The upper echelon of the company had made too many expensive purchases. Then a wide-spread depression - the Panic of 1873 - struck the country and financing was not available. So there the tracks ended. The NP management needed a strategy to get moving again and here is what interested me. In order to attract German settlers and create revenue the city’s name changed to Bismarck in order to get Otto von Bismarck, the German Chancellor, interested and to encourage German people to come here. Times did start picking up a bit. The Black Hills gold rush helped bring business. In 1882 the Missouri railroad bridge spanned the river and tracks led to the westward settling. That bridge, by the way, was well-built since the pilings and pillars used today are still original construction.

From 1889 to 1893 the president was Benjamin Harrison, and in order to get him interested in helping the railroad to thrive, the NP management outright gave him a farm of over 900 acres just five miles north of the city, an act of graft and corruption that seemed to have worked.

Now when I drive north on Highway 83 and pass by the nightclub in Hay Creek Township I’ll think of the historical significance of that land.
. . . . . . .

As I sit in relative comfort in this home we built ten years ago and benefit from all the labor saving devices in it, I’m always amazed by what people of a hundred years ago went through. I present the following article in the Sheldon Progress to illustrate my point:

P. N. Brown and I. M. Williams of McLeod arrived in Sheldon early Wednesday morning after making an all night trip in order to get here to carry the election returns to Lisbon. Mr. Brown had a rather trying experience in getting here. He started to walk to McLeod, a distance of about two miles and became lost on the prairie. He wandered around through a heavy cold rain for several hours before he finally reached McLeod. He and Mr. Williams then took the Soo train past Anselm and came as far as the crossing, (about two miles west of Sheldon - my note) walking from there into Sheldon and went to Lisbon on the morning train. (Given present day cars and improved roads, it takes less than half an hour to drive from McLeod to Lisbon.)

Self-Educated

The pastor in his funeral eulogy for Dad spoke of him as being a self-taught man. Dad attended school through just the eighth grade, then had to quit to work on the family farm, a story repeated over and over by people born in that generation. And many are the stories of people, who even though enrolled in school, were kept at home to help at times throughout the school year, therefore missing large blocks of instructional time. In order to cope and function independently as they grew to maturity they had to learn information and skills on their own.

When the astronauts were chosen, the first requirement was a college education. This eliminated the man who made space flight possible, Chuck Yeager. His formal education was limited to high school. From that time on, society no longer recognized self-educated people. It takes a college education, don’t-cha-know. From the two college degrees I received I’ve often said that the biggest reward was the piece of paper handed me certifying that I had completed a required course of study, a result of which I was able to work in certain settings. The reality is that I have learned much more through my independent studies.

This country reveres self-taught men such as Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Edison, Alexander Graham Bell, the Wright Brothers, Henry Ford, et al. None of them traveled very far in formal education but somehow possessed the aptitude that let them excel in their interests. Intellectual curiosity drove them to find answers prompting their self-study by reading, experimenting, and searching.

Both Dad and my father-in-law could estimate the tons of hay in a stack, the bushels of grain in a bin, the weight of a steer, acres in a field, study the sky and predict weather, plus a myriad of other useful facts which let them hang on to their farms in good times and in bad. Dad knew of worldly things even though he did not travel much. He read, then read some more. His knowledge base in history was probably larger than my own, even with my college minor in history. I read once of a man who earned a doctoral degree in some insignificant field of study but then could not find professional work. In order to support himself he found work as a common laborer with a landscape company where the manager only shook his head in disbelief at his ineptitude and helplessness. I think he survived with that company but had to go through a period of training on the job.
. . . . . . .
The hundred year old archived newspaper, The Sheldon Progress, made no mention of Veterans’ Day in their November 11, 1910 issue. Of course, WWI had not yet been fought. That issue reported on one interesting news item:

An escaped prisoner created a good deal of excitement at the depot Monday evening and it was only by the most heroic efforts of bystanders that he was finally run down and captured. The prisoner broke loose from his bonds in some way and jumped from the train just as it was pulling out from the depot. He sprang right into the arms of John Mougey who was standing in front of the door, but John failed to get a stranglehold on him and he escaped. The prisoner headed due west, followed by an excited mob, and although he made heroic efforts to escape, it was soon evident that he could not elude his pursuers. They sprang up on every side and soon had their victim surrounded. The poor fellow, seeing his escape cut off from all directions, finally gave up the attempt and was captured by Mike Flatt, who is now a candidate for a Carnegie medal. He was a fine specimen of a Leghorn rooster and at the present price of chickens is worth his weight in gold.

Dad

I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith. 2 Timothy 4:7


This Biblical verse readily comes to mind as I sit at my keyboard today. I am 68 years old and have had a father up until a few days ago; now his absence is deeply felt. Somewhere I read that when a person dies it is as a library with all its knowledge having burned down. In Dad’s case the library was large. I learned much from him but now no longer can go to him to search his historical, biographical, political, economic, or social knowledge. His mind operated well except for the final two weeks. He read two daily papers - The MInneapolis Tribune and The Fargo Forum - and two county papers - Enderlin and Lisbon - plus assorted magazines. He read many books during his lifetime. He told me as a youth that whenever he could gather a few cents together he would order a book through the mail. A history book club furnished him many hours of reading, and he loved western stories like those written by Zane Grey. Before electricity came to our farm he read each night sitting with his white forehead and weathered face by light of a gas lantern while I sprawled on the floor within the lit circle to draw my pictures or read my own material.

The picture of Dad I placed on the front cover of my last book of poems also hangs on my office wall along with a photo of his dad and his dad. Beyond those men we have little or no knowledge. I can only hope he is in a place now where he can visit with them and acquaint himself with the unknown fathers.

… I have kept the faith. He never wore his religious beliefs on his sleeve, but I know he held them. He spoke to me about his doubts of whether or not he’d ever been baptized. He’d never seen record of it, and it must have bothered him enough to keep bringing it up. A couple of years ago while he was hospitalized and when a pastor from his church dropped in, I suggested baptism. Both Dad and the pastor were willing. So it was.

Saddened

Because of the death of my father early Monday morning I will not write this week.

Autumn

It is quite a fall season with the weather still so mild and comfortable and busy lives in between sleeping and waking. On Monday the wife and I drove over to Lisbon again to see my parents in the home. Dad has suffered some strokes that have caused the loss of coherent speech and the use of one side of his body. He wants to talk but gets frustrated with his illness. Hospice now comes in to see him often and brings their reassurance and comforting. I am 68 years old and have been fortunate to have him all that time. It has been very appreciated that a few good friends and relatives have visited the folks.

An event scheduled on the other end of the emotional index takes place this next Saturday when our older son marries his lady. I still remember clearly the day he was born and how I laid down on the car’s foot feed to back out of a slippery, snowy driveway. That was 34 years ago. The younger son married some years ago and already has two little kids to show for it. Just like my parents did, Mary and I entered the world of grandparents and have relished it.

Among other things I am a member of the Tanka Society of America, a poet group that specializes in writing the short verse form of tanka with a characteristic five line format. The editors of their journal Ribbons have seen fit to publish some of my work and the following will be submitted to them for consideration:

this daylily
blooms once and dies
but then
another bud opens
my sons, their sons …

It is a simple form, usually using a simple statement to point out a stronger element and uses few capitals or marks of punctuation. For its surface simplicity much can be said with it. It expresses my feelings at the present time.

Looking for the Truth

There are three truths: my truth, your truth, and the truth. - Chinese Proverb


For those who know me best it is probably well understood that I am a “Blue Dog Democrat,” which is to say a conservative one. All sorts of descriptions float around, maybe saying I’m a bit left of center fits best. Whatever, when I’m reading or listening to media I go for quiet, well-reasoned dialogues where issues are intelligently discussed in a friendly setting. I appreciate the MSNBC program “Morning Joe” because it features just such discussions. Joe Scarborough is a Republican and one of his regular appearing sidekicks is Pat Buchanan, avowedly conservative. But other guests balance the discussions and the level of repartee is usually pleasant.

I recently heard Jon Meacham, editor of the Newsweek magazine, say on "Morning Joe" that we presently have an entire class of media people who depend on conflict for their livelihood, not conflict resolution. If they make their living from throwing poisoned darts will they ever go away? I don‘t think so. Names of the culprits come easy, but I don’t want to credit their existence by naming them.

While on my recent trip to the northeast , I missed the Eric Sevareid Symposium held in Bismarck, although I kept up with it as best as I could on the internet. Two of Sevareid’s proteges, Dan Rather and Bob Schieffer, attended as featured speakers. A quote I picked up from Schieffer stood out loud and clear; he talked of people’s “journalism of validation. They will listen only to those who agree with their point of view.”

It’s only occasionally that people take hard-hitting criticism good-naturedly. Zgigniew Brzesinski, Jimmy Carter’s national security advisor, appeared on Morning Joe. Scarborough thought he could discuss world events on a par with him when he said something about the Israel-Palestine crisis. Brzesinski shot back, “You know, you have such a stunningly superficial knowledge of what went on that it’s almost embarrassing to listen to you.” Wearing a sheepish grin, Joe acted as if he had no hard feelings about being put in his place and has had Brzesinski back for commentary since that time. That’s the kind of behavior I enjoy seeing.

This blog appears each Wednesday morning (usually).

Travelin' - Last Comments

Someone named Will Kommen said “If you look like your passport photo, you’re too ill to travel.” . . . Diane asked about the several different marks of punctuation, and one answer was ellipsis. If you don’t know what that is look at these three dots . . . We learned several people checked for bedbugs in our motels and found none
. . . I ate ice cream made from Jersey cows, delicious . . . Our suitcases got heavier, but then rocks from the seashore weigh a lot . . . Plymouth Rock is disappointingly small . . . The volume of water flowing over Niagara Falls boggles the mind . . . You gotta admire the bravery of the men who signed the Declaration of Independence . . . Our guide in Vermont lamented how he missed the last public appearance of Robert Frost . . . The naked lady cowboy in Times Square wore a couple skimpy items behind that guitar . . . Thomas Jefferson possessed a fertile mind
. . . NYC 30,000 Yellow cab drivers drove a lot of Ford Escape Hybrids . . . A pit bull near Grant’s Tomb acted like he would have attacked me, but luckily his handler held him with what looked like a log chain . . . The foliage on Gettysburg has surely been nourished by the thousands of men slain there . . . The solemnity of the ceremony at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier takes your breath away . . . Robert E. Lee’s house near Arlington Cemetery isn’t worth the effort of stepping inside . . . 15,000 people work in the Empire State Building . . . Registered thoroughbred horses wear a tattoo on the inside of the upper lip . . . The runoff from heavy rain caused someone to lose his pumpkin crop; we saw them floating against a dam . . . The worst joke told: what do you get crossing a menopausal woman with a GPS, a bitch who will find you . . . We bought “Blue Smoke” salsa for Brandon’s bachelor dinner party
. . . People entering a restaurant when they saw our bus pull in, rushed to get ahead of us . . . Diane told us how fast the eighteen days would pass by and then likened it to a roll of toilet paper nearly used up - a metaphor for life? . . . I felt ignorant when one waitress told me she was from Eritrea and I could only say I’ve forgotten my geography, where is that? - Near Ethiopia and Sudan . . . The city of New York is huge and it still works somewhat sensibly . . . Our neighbors are so good to look after our house and yard while we were away . . . The list must end. It was a great trip! My favorite poem, Ithaka, was written by the Greek poet Constantine Cavafy. It begins: “When you set out for Ithaka/ ask that your way be long,/ full of adventure, full of instruction.” With that I say farewell to the journey.

Travelin' - Home, the Second Part

Philadelphia loomed in our sights next. I wish I could say the sight of the Liberty Bell brought goose bumps to my flesh, but I would lie. It sets, or hangs low, in a special building dedicated to it, and people herd past the bell quite thickly, so much so that it is hard to take posed pictures while acting like we had rung it before the crack appeared. A dimly lit room contains original copies of the Declaration and other documents nesting beneath glass under the watchful glare of a Park Ranger. After the Revolution, Philadelphia was the seat of temporary government so it does bear a lot of historical importance and I cannot make light of it, even though the modern city crowds up against all the significant buildings.

New York City, a foreboding place to a secluded prairie dweller, became the next destination. With our capable bus driver, though, the streets and neighborhoods of that giant metropolis flowed by. A step-on guide named Serge, a Bosnian having lived in the city some 30 years, guided our exploration. So now I can say I’ve seen place names such as Wall Street, the Empire State Building, the rising of the new World Trade Center, SoHo, Carnegie Hall, Madison Square Garden, Harlem, Chinatown, Central Park, Greenwich Village, etc., etc. A harbor tour took us beneath the Statue of Liberty, something which is an impressive sight.

I can’t dwell on such places for long. (This isn’t a book.) Leaving the city during the rush hour became thrilling. Jeff, the bus driver, could not be intimidated by New York bus drivers who kept trying to edge him out for position in the crowded streets. After a second night’s stay in the dumpy New Jersey motel we headed to Boston. Boston, filled with such history as the Old North Church, Paul Revere, Faneuil Hall, the Freedom Trail, JFK’s library and museum , followed our NYC visit.

And so the days passed by with more destinations visited such as Plymouth Rock, the Mayflower, Plimouth (spelling here is correct) Plantation, the Flume, Quechee Gorge, Calvin Coolidge Museum, Niagara Falls, the Cranberry Museum, plus whatever else I’ve already forgotten. One more part to his rambling travelogue will appear soon.

Travelin' - Home

Travelin’ - Home

After traveling on a tour bus through twenty states we arrived home at the end of eighteen days. Fifty-seven people we were on another very satisfying trip with the North Dakota Farmers Union under the able direction of Jeff Willer and his trip escort Diane Peltz. Mary and I realized after our first trip with Farmers Union some years back that no one else can do it better and after about nine trips with them we still feel the same way. This particular tour was a repeat for us; we wanted to return to the early history settings of this country that we had visited previously.

The first notable stop came on day 3 at the Kentucky Keeneland horse track where we watched an annual thoroughbred horse sale where an $815 million sale took place last year. International money comes to this event, and the day before a horse sold to an Arabian sheik for $4.5 million . It was on this racetrack the movie “Seabiscuit” was filmed and after leaving we drove to a retired horse farm and saw the horse that played Seabiscuit in the race scenes.

Day 4 found the bus rolling along the Midland Trail in mountainous country; it stopped at the little town of Amsted to let us off and tour the salsa manufacturing plant that an enterprising lady has established and grown to a sizable business. We had discovered that operation six years ago when we stopped there for refreshments at the next door convenience store. One of the group wandered past the door and came back to tell Jeff and an impromptu tour took place. Later in the afternoon Monticello, Jefferson’s personally designed home, rounded out the day.

From here on days begin to run and blur together. Colonial Williamsburg, home of the Continental Congress, featured buildings restored to their original condition. At Mount Vernon it can easily be seen George Washington chose the location of his mansion well when you sit on the porch and view the panorama of the Potomac River flowing past.

We toured the United States Capitol under the watchful gaze of many armed guards, but an informed guide showed and told us much of the lore and facts associated with the building. To do justice to a visit to this city one should spend a week. There are so many things to see: the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier; memorials to veterans of the Viet Nam war, the Korean War, World War II, and Iwo Jima; the memorials dedicated to Lincoln, Jefferson, Washington, FDR, et al; big eats at the NDFU sponsored restaurants - Farmers & Fishers and Founding Farmers (both excellent); the sprawling Smithsonian Institution with its collection of several buildings each dedicated to a theme.

As I write it is late on the night that we arrived home, and I am tired. My thoughts run to my father who has suffered a couple of strokes while I was gone so we are making plans to drive to Lisbon tomorrow. I will write more in a couple of days.

travelin' - V

Benton Harbor, Mich

The end is in sight one more night after this one. The trip has gone well, but this computer has sticky keys so I will save my energy. Niagara Falls yesterday. Very nice.

Travelin' - IV

On the shore, Massachusetts

The wind is blowing hard this morning, hard rain expected for Boston this pm where we will be. Mary and I ate lobster last night, no big deal, I'll order shrimp next time. New York was a good time. Our guide, Serge, took us up one street and down another for most of the day so we saw a lot of the city plus a boat cruise past and underneath the Statue of Liberty.

Travelin' - III

Paradise, PA

5:30 am. It's hard to find an unused computer so here I am. Everyone's buying trinkets that say "I Love Intercourse PA" (because that's where we ate supper and now we're staying in Paradise.) You can't make this stuff up. This is Amish country and even though it rained hard yesterday we saw lots of horse and enclosed buggies. Those people are serious about their lifestyle. It is hard to understand things like balers or corn choppers being pulled by horses and having gas engines mounted on them to power them. Things run together. Washington, DC wears one out what with all the memorials, museums, and gov't buildings, and traffic, traffic. The Smithsonian couldn't be covered properly in a week. Mary and I went into a couple of the art museums this time and then over to the arboretum. We're about half way through the trip at this point with lots to do yet. Philadelphia is on tap for today. It's hard to not think about my parents back home who are ailing but am keeping in phone contact with them and their nurses. A trip to Lisbon will be first on the list when we get back.

Travelin' - II

Williamsburg, VA

Here we spent the night. Wednesday was a good day touring the Lexington, KY area with sites such as Keeneland Horse Park where we watched a horse auction (one had sold a few days previously for over $4 million) and toured a retired horse farm. One of the horses we saw was one who portrayed Seabiscuit in the movie of the same name. Yesterday we drove in mountains and curves, stopped at a small town and toured a small salsa factory, then drove on 'til we reached Monticello, Jefferson's house. It is quite a place. Then on to where we are now, Williamsburg. Here we will spend the morning at Colonial Williamsburg and then go to Mt. Vernon in the afternoon.

Travelin' - I

Indianapolis, Indiana

The second day of our journey and we are in a Drury Inn in Indianapolis, IN. Lots of miles have rolled under the bus tires since we started, but so many more to go. Tomorrow, Wednesday, we finally get started with a tour of the Lexington Horse Park, then on to Charleston, WV where I will have more to say.

Heavyweight

Sometimes an idea - even when it’s such a silly little thing - gets in your head and you can’t shake it until you’ve found out the details. I’ve spent most of a lifetime not knowing the answer to this one and when it popped into my head again I pursued it until I was satisfied. A farm sets between Leonard and Highway 46 and people would always tell me as we drove past that that is where Charley Retzlaff lived, he fought Joe Louis. But that’s where the stream of information would end, no one seemed able to add to it. So a visit to the Heritage Center was in order for some research. Retzlaff was indeed a heavyweight fighter who compiled a lifetime record of 61 wins and 8 defeats; 52 of his victories were by knock-outs. He did fight the Brown Bomber, Joe Louis, on January 17, 1936 and was knocked out after one minute and 25 seconds of the first round.

The fight gained the attention of sports writers, and a number of articles appeared in the Fargo Forum regarding it. This headline appeared on January 4: Louis adding weight for go - Bomber figures to scale 203 in Retzlaff tiff; then on January 8: Retzlaff-Louis fight will pack Chicago Stadium. With that headline three pictures of Retzlaff appeared making him look like a hayseed. The caption said Rancher Retzlaff, preparing for Louis fight Jan. 17 shows he can do a few things around N D farm. The first pictured him climbing a windmill, the second standing with a pitchfork in his hand and chewing a piece of straw, the third forking hay to cows tied up in their stanchions.

That article gave the first hint that Charley was not expected to win when it said “Retzlaff due to drag down something like $15,000, which if one is thumped around a bit, is soothing salve for bruises.” It went on to say that three rounds were the likely limit. “Here are the condemned man’s last words: ‘I am going to fight Louis like I hunt. I am going out and try to bring him down. Boxing him is suicide.’”

January 9: Probably for the purpose of fooling several of Retzlaff’s spies, the Brown Bomber turned in a poor drill Tuesday.

January 18: Retzlaff goes down gamely under barrage by Louis. Bomber ends it in first - North Dakotan is down twice in brief Chicago encounter. The article went on to say that they found a fighter game enough to slug with Joe Louis, but not anywhere good enough to keep the spectacular Brown Bomber from achieving his 23rd and quickest KO triumph. The victim was strapping Charley Retzlaff from the North Dakota wheat country . . . And on January 20 a photo appeared captioned: Joe Louis lands -- and so does Retzlaff.

The fight grossed $67,826 with Louis earning 40% of the take and Retzlaff getting 17 ½ % or $11,869.67. A heavy snowfall began two hours before the bout which affected the size of the crowd. Of course, it’s always boring to just read about it when you can watch it, so go to YouTube.com and type in Joe Louis vs. Charley Retzlaff and see the fight.

Memory of Touch

Somehow I got reminded of an author, Barry Lopez, whom I hadn’t read for a number of years so I went searching out a couple of his works. Lopez is an environmentalist and his writing is reminiscent of Wendell Berry, Edward Abbey, Gary Snyder, Aldo Leopold, and others. One of the Lopez books, About This Life, contained a chapter that spoke to me quite loudly, “A Passage of the Hands.” In essay form, he tells of the memories in his hands: “. . . the subtle corrugation of cardboard boxes, the slickness of the oilcloth on the kitchen table, the shuddering bend of a horses’s short-haired belly
. . .” In another passage he tells of working for a summer on a Wyoming ranch: “It was strengthening to work with my hands, with ropes and bridles and hay bales, with double-bitted axes and bow saws, currying horses, scooping grain . . .”

Remnants of touch linger in my own memory and begin to take shape: the warmth of an egg plucked from under a squawking hen, shivers from touching an unseen lizard in the dirt while checking my gopher trap, polished wood of an oft-used pitchfork, sandpaper rasp of a cow’s tongue, softness of the sheep fleece,

. . . sting of blizzard-driven snow on my bare face, wetness of a rainstorm with no shelter nearby, heat of the summer sun in a cloudless sky,

. . . heft of wheat in my cupped hands, jolt from the recoil of a 12 gauge shotgun, calluses in my palms from lifting hay bales, lightness of foot after shedding overshoes in the spring, hot glow after catching a hard hit baseball,

. . . draw of a fillet knife through a fish belly, pain in my ankle from the kick of a horse, aching throb in my knee after driving a motorcycle into a junk pile,

. . . my bride’s kiss on our wedding day, holding my new-born sons for the first time, and now --- holding my grandchildren.

Exaggeration

exaggerate: to state that something is better, worse, larger, more common, or more important than is true or usual.


“I never exaggerate. I just remember big.” Chi Chi Rodriquez

“remembering -
so much between me and then
always wondering
did it really happen
or did I imagine it” Lynn Bueling

With the above I just imagined myself as being important enough to be quoted as if I knew something; therefore, I exaggerated. I believe that feeling of self-importance prevails in many people and what comes out of their mouths reflects that. The worst culprits in the present-day are those of the talk-show variety. What was it de Gaulle said, something about the graveyards being full of indispensable people. Megalomaniacs abound. I think of General MacArthur being fired by President Truman for thinking he was above and beyond civilian control as stipulated in our Constitution. I think of Napoleon who thought his army could prevail upon Russia with her vast distances and severe winters, I think of Hitler whose grand designs showed little care for people other than his master race.

We just passed the five-year anniversary of Katrina’s devastation of New Orleans. The city is still in the process of being restored; it’s been slow going. I heard with my own ears some who did not feel sorry for the residents of the city, they were ordered to evacuate, it’s their own fault for not leaving; therefore, no aid should be given to them. My ability to present philosophical argument is limited, but one point became very evident to me: most of the people stranded in the city did not have the means to evacuate. Their plight was never exaggerated, but those who felt no concern exaggerated their position of morality in this society.

A sizable minority say the United States is a Christian country and that it was established as such. Read the U.S. Constitution. It does not mention "God". It does not mention "Jesus". It does not mention "Christ". It mentions religion only twice. The first: Article 6, to establish that "no religious Test shall ever be required as a Qualification to any Office or public Trust under the United States". The second: First Amendment, "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof".

Exaggeration really exploded at Glenn Beck’s rally in Washington, DC a few days ago. He estimated about 500,000 people attended, Michelle Bachmann from Minnesota bloated the figure to 1.6 million, but the park service thought about 87,000 was an accurate number. One of the guests Glenn Beck invited for his Washington rally was the Rev. John Hagee who has called the Catholic church a “whore religion” and said that God sent the Hurricane Katrina to destroy New Orleans because of some gay-rights gathering in New Orleans. Religious tolerance? Oh, yawn, I guess I shall stop talking about exaggeration.

Taking Time (to smell the roses)

This past Saturday night Mary and I drove a few miles south of Mandan to an outdoor concert at the Bohemian Hall, a structure built years ago by an ethnic group of immigrants of the same name who originated in Czechoslovakia. The prime mover and organizer of this musical event, which draws a few hundred people, was Chuck Suchy, himself a Bohemian who likes to encourage and continue the building’s use as a community center, something which harkens him back to his childhood days of going there with his family. Suchy, a few years back, received the honor of being named North Dakota’s Troubadour by the state legislature and is a talented writer, singer, and guitar player. He draws his inspiration from the agrarian life and still runs cattle on the family farm located just a couple miles across the hill from the hall.

At one point during the evening, with guitars set aside and singers standing off-stage, we were treated to a couple of monologues, one by Clay Jenkinson, this state’s resident intellectual and scholar, the other by Suchy. Jenkinson spoke of the simpler things in life and of his grandmother’s ways and attitudes regarding life on her small Minnesota dairy farm. It revived memories in most of us and set us to laughing and thinking of parents and grandparents and our days at home.

Suchy sets the date for the concert always in the weekend closest to coinciding with August’s full moon, and there it stood in the cloudless sky, only a few days away from being fully round. A stiff southeast breeze cooled us after the sun set and kept the mosquitoes at bay. Suchy spoke of being in love with this night, the landscape, the people who inhabit it, and life in general in this part of North Dakota. Something he said resonated: money can’t buy this, but money sure can destroy it. He related this to things such as factory farms where animals are raised in confinement, strip mining, oil field development, etc. The familiar quote “Take time to smell the roses” came to mind and he clearly relishes the simple farm life he lives and brags with special pride of the hay crops he raises.

The next day, driving to Fargo, we listened to the public radio station for the three hour trip, and there on the Bob Edwards program was a topic of the same theme we had heard the night before. A newspaper reporter from somewhere had compiled a collection of his newspaper columns into book form, one of them giving title to the book: Fiddler in the Subway. He’d written of a professional symphony musician who possessed a valuable violin and had conducted an experiment in a Washington, DC subway. During rush hour throngs of federal bureaucrats crowded the station and hustled about boarding their rides, talking on cell phones, reading papers, etc. He proceeded playing difficult but beautiful violin pieces with his instrument. At the end of his stint he counted only seven people who’d lingered a bit to listen to the rich sounds of the music while hundreds of commuters ignored him, showing no interest at all. People so wrapped up in the hum-drum habits of their lives couldn’t or wouldn’t break out of the pattern to enjoy this thing of beauty.

I have been trapped in this attitude many times in my life, but I now make more conscious effort to relish the finer things. With that I will return to the paradox I am presently contemplating of why factories installed whip sockets on horseless carriages.
………….

A local news station was interviewing an 80 year old woman who’d just married for the 4th time. She told the reporter that her new husband was a funeral director. Thinking that was interesting the reporter asked, “What did you first three husbands do before they died?”

She replied “The first was a banker, the second was a circus ringmaster, and the third was a preacher. I married one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready and four to go.”

John Wooden and a Wooden Jail

Browsing through the new book section in the library I picked up John Wooden’s book A Game Plan for Life: The Power of Mentoring. After reading it I know he is a man I would like to have known. Wooden was the heralded coach of the UCLA basketball teams that won many national titles and coached two of the great ones - Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Bill Walton. He wrote the book in two parts: I - the seven mentors in his life and II - seven people to whom he has been a mentor. He gave the etymology of the word mentor which I found interesting. Mentor was the friend of Odysseus in the Greek epic poem The Odyssey; Odysseus asked Mentor to look after his family and his home when he left for the Trojan war. As an English major in college Wooden understood the concept.

Those he named in the first part were his father Joshua, Earl Warriner, Glenn Curtis, Piggy Lambert, Mother Teresa, Abraham Lincoln, and his wife Nellie, and just because he hadn’t personally known each of them he read deeply the stories about them that gave him great inspiration. As he said in the chapter about Mother Teresa he learned: “You should never expect a reward in return.” Of Lincoln he wrote: “Lincoln … modeled how to move past disappointments without carrying grudges.”

The second section bore the testimony of those he mentored including Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Bill Walton, Dale Brown, et al. Wooden never called Kareem except by his birth name Lewis and helped him through plenty of tough spots. When Kareem went to UCLA he was bothered by people who called him insensitive names such as the time when he and Wooden entered a restaurant and a woman cried out, “Oh, look at the big, black freak.” He wrote that he could see Wooden was bothered by the remark as much as he was, but he remained calm and cool thus mentoring him. Kareem loved literature and poetry and with Wooden found someone to talk to.

Walton wrote amusedly how he always wanted to rebel around Wooden’s rules and challenged him by wearing long hair and a beard. Wooden told him, “Bill, I acknowledge that you have a right to disagree with my rules. But I’m the coach here, and we’re sure going to miss you.” A pile of hair covered the barber’s floor soon after.

Wooden died just this past June, only months short of 100 years but he kept a clear mind throughout his life. In the last chapter he wrote , “As I finish this book, I am nearly ninety-eight and a half years old.” I believe he must have lived a good life.
. . . . .

I read in my hometown paper this 100 year old headline: Johnny Burke Gets Tanked Up On Firewater and Proceeds to Make Things Lively. Here’s how the story went: Saturday after Johnny Burke acquired a good-sized jag, and as is usual with him under those circumstances he proceeded to make himself decidedly obnoxious, ending up by throwing a billiard ball through the big plate glass of the Goodman pool room. He was promptly taken in charge by Marshall Fallon and incarcerated in the little shack known as the city jail, but in searching him Ed evidently overlooked a match or two, as about suppertime frenzied cries of help and fire were heard to emanate from the bastile. Of course, the offender received fines and costs plus this: “Johnny was ordered to leave town forthwith never to return, and if he does show up again he will be arrested on other charges and not let off as easily as he was this time. Burke is not a bad fellow when sober, but as soon as he gets outside a little firewater is always looking for trouble and usually finds it.”

While I found the story of the troublemaker to be fun to read the thing that struck me was the reference to the city jail. We used to play in it during school noon hours since it sat just on the north side of the school grounds and as I remember was never locked. A small building, it had some steel bars and stood built solidly with walls made of 2 x 4 lumber laid sideways on top of each other in a cribbed style. Some names and initials were carved on the walls, so of course legends grew in our minds as to who of infamy may have stayed in it. The building still exists and was purchased by a member of the Sturlaugson family and moved to a farmstead near Hatton, ND.

The Point of Beginning

A while back I came on an interesting term: the point of beginning. While there can be many such points, the one that interested me dealt with surveyors and lines they draw on maps. When I set out to read what I could find on that topic, another related term rose up to pique my interest even further: the Mason-Dixon Line. The roots of it all go back to the time of William Penn and Charles Calvert, well-known players in our country’s very early history. Territorial line squabbles had developed in colonial days so Penn of Pennsylvania and Calvert of Maryland agreed in 1732 to hire Mason and Dixon to survey a line and establish boundaries; the line they drew started fifteen miles south of Philadelphia, the point of beginning, and extended westward.

This Mason-Dixon line proved to be significant some years later when it became part of the turmoil and difficulties that resulted in the Missouri Compromise and the later Civil War when it was used to designate the free states north of that line and the slave states south of the line. Further problems developed because of the differences in how property lines were established. On the north side survey lines and their resulting squares kept property in tidy parcels. South of the line a mess developed because property lines meandered to encompass the best of lands. If a prospective land buyer didn’t like gullies or sloughs he by-passed and/or excluded them.

The process brought me to the original survey lines and notes made by surveyors Clavenger and High when they came to the Dakotas to draw their maps by a survey commenced on September 6, 1872. It’s interesting to me. We take our land descriptions for granted, but there had to be “a point of beginning.”

Collecting Quotations

I collect quotations when I see something said something better than I could say it; that’s why I study them. Look at this one from an old French leader Charles de Gaulle for instance: “The graveyards are full of indispensable men.” When people think that an organization cannot run without them, he/she should ponder on that for awhile.

The Civil War general William T. Sherman wrote in a letter: “Reason has very little influence in this world: prejudice governs.” Everyone I know comes to the table carrying a whole basket full of preconceived notions about the way they think things should be, and it becomes evident even without their realizing it.

“Everyone takes the limits of his own vision for the limits of the world,” said Arthur Schopenhauer. Many times I’ve thought I knew the answers until I came in contact with someone who was far beyond me in wisdom. The way I look at things probably goes back to the Sherman quote - prejudice governs.

A lyrical line in a song sometimes stands out. Bonnie Raitt sang “Life gets more precious when there’s less of it to waste.” That’s the point where I’ll jump off and establish a theme. Mary and I just hosted an overnight houseguest who drove up from Arizona with his 18 year old cat Kitty Bear. We had the greatest time talking about many things; he is a man I’ve always admired because he’s lives life to the fullest. In his early 70’s, he’s lived an adventurous life and if somehow the lights turn off he’ll leave with more experiences than the average man. We called another couple whom we all knew from the days of teaching in Bowdon and met for supper at Bonanza. Alaska represents a big part of Leo’s life, and he told us many stories of his experiences there. The location of Chilkoot Pass came up and I said Mary and I have ridden the railroad up that steep incline. “I’ve hiked it,” was his reply, 30+ miles one way.

Over ten years ago I was fortunate to receive a group of emails from him that I enjoyed reading and filed away for future re-reading. It was about the time he’d retired from school administration in Alaska and was in the process of relocating to Phoenix. Here he was flying along in his private plane accompanied by Kitty Bear: “I started Thursday about two PM. Forgot about going the Portland route and elected to go on top over the scattered clouds on the west side of the Cascades. It was beautiful… no turbulence…went to 7500 which put me over the scattered clouds…Ellensburg was crystal clear…turned south over Yakima…the snow covered ground glistened from the sunlight and the treed peaks had that mixture of green and white that is so special. … I droned along and as the sun set behind the peaks I saw my destination Madras, Oregon below. It was clear that the airport is a ways from town and only one runway had been cleared of snow and that only partially. I did not want to fly in the dark but the twinkle of light ahead that had to be Redmond beckoned. I elected to go on and it was a good decision … I touched down in the twilight with the runway lights providing that sort of ‘welcome back to earth’ glow that is priceless after a long trip.”

Later on in his trip he wrote “About noon on Saturday I headed out toward Tonapah. Seems the U.S. Navy was playing war games in an area I had to cross so I had to maintain nine thousand feet just to stay in radar contact or get run over by a jet going so fast he would not even see me… Oh, yes, in case you wonder Kitty Bear just curls up on his blanket and sleeps most of the time til I cut the power to descend and that stirs him to life and he evaluates my landings and takeoffs. Tonapah had a three cat welcoming committee…they eyed and yowled a little but settled for a stare down versus a brawl.”

So, I’ve saved his letters which are quotations. They read well ten years later. I enjoy re-reading about his exploits, but even better I enjoy hearing him tell it in person. Thanks for coming Leo and hurry back.

Crazy?

Even after we’ve aged to the place where we should know better, we like to go out and do crazy things. Take this for instance: driving 200 miles through heavy rain to get to a spot infested with mosquitoes, heat, and humidity, then climbing through barbed wire and tramping through thick growth virgin sod to a spot where there is nothing except for a few depressions in the ground, standing under a rain cloud and getting soaked, and then, when all is said and done, calling it good. And, after getting home and kicking back in my Lazy Boy and finding a tick crawling on me I tell the wife it was still good. That’s the way it was yesterday.

The primary destination was Pigeon Point in the Owego township of Ransom County and joining me for the drive and keeping good company reminiscing about the old days was Larry Strand, an old Sheldon friend. We drove to Dennis and Linda Bjugstad’s new and beautiful country home south of Kindred so that Dennis could act as our tour director. We first drove to Abercrombie to visit the new-to-me visitors center at the fort. Fort Abercrombie served as the gateway to further westward movement in the historical period that interests me. Then we headed west again, passed through Walcott, decided it was time to eat dinner and found some pretty-good home cooked food in the local bar, and continued on to Pigeon Point and the site of the Owego settlement where fascinating history has been made. The site’s name of Pigeon Point apparently came from the time when pigeons were common and how men could knock them down by the bushel in the trees there. I’ve checked the writings of a prime bird expert, John James Audubon, who verified the huge numbers of those birds that once flew in these parts. He said once,
the “light of noonday was obscured as by an eclipse.” He estimated that when he saw a flock passing overhead that if it were one mile wide when it passed for three hours, traveling at the rate of a mile a minute, allowing two pigeons to the square yard, one billion, one hundred and fifteen million plus birds passed overhead.

As we tramped around the area which is now owned and protected by Nature Conservancy we tried to envision the large wagon trains that stopped here overnight on their way to supply the new Fort Ransom. Just south of the Pigeon Point the land stands very level and most likely served as their parking place. I could almost hear the sounds of the many oxen grazing the grass that was in abundance. One of the wagon trains I’ve referenced numbered forty wagons. How many oxen were hitched to each wagon I’m not sure. If four, then 160 of them plus a spare number for replacements, maybe 200 of them. The bull-whacker drovers, known for their coarseness and profanity, would have added to the scene to make it a very colorful one, indeed.

So I’ve got my work cut out for me as I research further, write countless drafts, search out editors, and do whatever it takes to properly weave all the bits together so as to preserve this history in writing. I’m sure it will take two years or more. Dennis asked if that meant there will not be another chapbook of poems before then. My reply, “Oh, there might be one anyway.”

Musing on Some Good Writing

“What was at the heart of those days? Things like the taste of bread right out of the oven when you were good and hungry. The smell of newly plowed earth. A horse munching oats and bending its head to be rubbed. The way the late, flat sun sent long slants of light across the prairie grass.”

I save quotations by scribbling them down in notebooks and then forget about them until running across them again, sometimes years later while searching for ideas. When after reading them I find they still resonate, then I am glad that I took the time to copy them. The above lines were taken from the book Those Days: An American Album by Richard Richfield (1931-1994). Critchfield earned recognition as a war correspondent, then as the author of several books. He happens to have been a North Dakotan, born and raised in Hunter. I remember him from the days when I spent a little time looking up information in NDSU’s Institute for Regional Studies. He, too, sat at a table in the midst of several printed works which he’d placed in a haphazard semi-circle and worked diligently away. When I looked at the copyright date of this book, 1986, I believe that An American Album ended up as the product of those hours I saw him sitting there. He stood not very tall and wore the thickest glasses I’d ever seen, but physical attributes aren’t necessary; his command of the English language excelled, and he wrote his prose so well and readable that I find it a pleasure to open the book at any point and read a few paragraphs.

Critchfield bears emulating; he, along with dozens of other accomplished writers, serves as a guidepost to follow. If I were to have written the opening quotation, it may have come out like this --- Many pleasant memories survive my late childhood, things like the taste of warm lefse, straight from the griddle, on which I smear butter that melts and runs from the rolled ends, the smell of freshly mown alfalfa or fermented, sour silage that makes me think of sauerkraut, a dog stretching out to let me scratch her belly, and the sounds of gentle breezes magnified in the rustling leaves of the cottonwoods. A Pulitzer Prize will never be awarded for those words, but I enjoyed the sensory trip it took me on.

Paging through Critchfield I randomly stopped at page 225 and read this: Whenever freight trains came through town, migrant workers would be riding on the boxcar roofs. The country’s farm economy had never recovered from the collapse of 1920 . . . a migrant army was on the move. . . Some of these men had been on the road for years - jumping freights, hitchhiking, panhandling, shunting back and forth across the country in hopes of a job. They slept in haylofts or bunkhouses . . . nomads nobody wanted to see except in the August-to-October threshing season. Dad has talked long and often about these men that his father would hire at harvest time, but the Sheldon poet Tom McGrath in his book length poem Letter to an Imaginary Friend described their lot most graphically when he wrote of the hired man named Cal whom McGrath’s uncle, the boss of the harvest crew, beat mercilessly when the threat of their unionizing through the Wobblies movement became known to him. McGrath, the young boy, witnessed this spectacle:

We were threshing flax I remember, toward the end of the run-
After quarter-time I think - the slant light falling
Into the blackened stubble that shut like a fan toward the headland -
The strike started then. Why then I don’t know.
Cal spoke for the men and my uncle cursed him.
I remember that ugly sound, like some animal cry touching me
Deep and cold, and I ran toward them
And the fighting started.
My uncle punched him. I heard the breaking crunch
Of his teeth going and the blood leaped out of his mouth
Over his neck and shirt-…

I find great pleasure in reading the literature written by great authors and enjoy making connections of these works like I have just made between Critchfield and McGrath. My deepest regret is and always will be that I have not read enough since I wasted my time doing other things for too many years.

Memories Revived

This Monday evening I attended the regular monthly meeting of the Westerners Corral and listened to the guest speaker Mr. Curt Eriksmoen. He writes a weekly column that discusses some historical character in North Dakota and appears in the Bismarck Tribune, The Fargo Forum, and a Bottineau paper. A retired man, this has become his pastime, and someone asked if he ever runs out of topics to write about. He answered that his pool of possible material is now larger than when he started writing.

One of the sources Eriksmoen mentioned was that of Clement Lounsberry and his three volume history of early North Dakota and some of its characters, copyrighted in 1917. I randomly opened volume 1 to page 255 of my own set and came on this entry: The mosquitoes were almost unbearable in the timber and the valleys. Maj. Samuel Woods speaks of them, and of the terrific thunder storms and the condition of the prairies, in his report of his expedition to the Red River Valley (1849). He writes “They were driven from the timber by the mosquitoes, and being on the high, open prairie, ‘the thunder broke over us appallingly.’” Now, it doesn’t take a lot of imagination to write an essay based on that information and anyone with some writing experience could have a lot of fun expanding on that passage.

I can’t say that my own pool of ideas is larger now than when I started writing, but I think I’m more aware of things that can be written about. For this week’s Musing I let my mind’s eye wander and caught this memory when it came floating by. When I was growing up small farms were a fact of life and very few farmers had trucks or trailers to haul their cattle, hogs, or sheep to and from market. Our community depended on a man, Clark Douglas, who owned a small fleet of trucks for the express purpose of hauling livestock. Vivid memories rise to the top, I see one of these trucks with the large wooden rack appear a mile down the gravel road being chased by a large cloud of dust, and as it draws closer the stock rack and the chute gates strapped to the rack’s sides rattle and vibrate on the wash board bumps. It turns into the driveway which sets the dog to barking and pulls to a stop waiting for Dad to tell him where to load. When the driver gets his instructions he backs up to the loading point and Gene Jaster jumps out of the cab, pulls and slides out the ramp, sets the chute gates in place, and the livestock is hollered and prodded into the box. The whole process usually takes just minutes and the driver straps the ramp and gates back up and drives off to West Fargo. This little tale took a lot longer to punch the computer keys than it did to think it up. When the memory opens up stories come easily.

A picture hanging on my wall conjures up another scene. My Uncle Russell sits on his horse on a cold, snowy day by our bullet-holed mailbox with a 1948 Fraser Manhattan parked behind him. This snapshot recalls the day he rode to my Grandpa’s funeral because the roads were blocked tight with snow. Others in the family, if they could not drive in, flew in by private plane, and the snowplow came out to open up for Dad. I was only five at the time and had to stay with a neighbor. Whenever I see old pictures I wonder who they were of and what was the occasion. Often no one survives to remember. Some day that will happen to knowledge of this picture, and, for that matter, to the memory of the large, rattly stock trucks coming for a load of cattle.

Just Thinking

I’m where I’ve always wanted to be because I’m able to read, write, think about writing, research topics that take my fancy, etc. I know it assails some people’s sensibility whenever they ask “whatcha doin’” and I answer “thinking.” What kind of activity is that they wonder with their German-Russian blood? Personally I think it’s wonderful. I know that even my wife has had to go through years of orientation on this subject since most of her waking hours are spent getting her hands dirty in her large and numerous flower gardens. It is a source of pride and curiosity in this neighborhood since people, strangers to us, will stop and ask if they can walk through the backyard, something which happened again last week.

We were told a great story in the first person a few years back. An acquaintance who had been widowed married for the second time a Norwegian bachelor farmer. She, with the strong German heritage, moved to his farm and proved right away she was willing to help with the work. He owned both cattle and sheep, so they split winter feeding chores. She told us that this one morning they left the house, each going to their respective duties, hers the cows, his the sheep. She finished hers and returned to the house, but he did not return at the usual time and made her wonder what had happened. Eventually he came and she asked him why so late. He said he just thought it such a nice day that he laid back on a haystack and watched the clouds float by. Her words, and I quote, “You gotta be shittin’ me!” Of course, with my own Norwegian heritage, I could identify with that.

Now, I’ve got to get my train of thought back on track, and relate as to how I spend my time. I recently returned to the research library at the heritage library and found some interesting notes in my hometown newspaper dated July, 125 years back. First off, this bit caught my eye. The publisher editorialized “Some of our young gents, not having the fear of their Creator before their eyes, indulged in a match game of baseball last Sunday. Don’t do so anymore, boys.” I imagine that a strong conservative religious element existed in town at the time, a general feeling that probably gave rise to the “blue laws” that forbade certain retail businesses from opening. Anything goes now, though.

In another piece the publisher wrote “There is a loud call all over the country for the clearing out of the great cattle companies which have virtually taken possession of the Indian country for pasturage…” Being a student of western history for many years I knew they only needed to wait a couple of years and the wish would be granted. The winter of 1887-88 was so severe that hundreds of thousands of cattle perished on the overgrazed grasslands. Teddy Roosevelt lost a fortune since he’d invested heavily in a cattle spread in the Badlands.

A full page was devoted to the death of Ulysses Grant on July 23rd. Reading that I was reminded of something I learned in Hannibal, Missouri this past spring. Grant, admirably, worked hard before his death to finish an autobiography so that the financial proceeds would benefit his wife and family. He had no wealth besides this personal story and found a publisher who offered a sum of money to be agreed on in a contract. Mark Twain, a friend of Grant’s, happened to be present just prior to signing. Twain, the experienced author, protested vigorously saying that a much better contract could be procured. Grant argued he wanted his wife to have something, but he did hold off on signing. Twain soon delivered what he promised, and instead of Grant making only $20,000 offered on the original deal he made closer to $500,000. By the way, Grant’s autobiography is considered to be an excellent work.

Well, that’s about all the thinking and writing I’m going to do today. My wife is calling to do some darn job upstairs. It’s all come like a bolt out of the blue which was the topic of another short article I read: “The lightning struck and instantly killed a 1-year old thorough-bred Durham bull valued at $125 at the Helendale Stock Farm. Mr. Power states that the bolt came out of a clear blue sky."

So much of our time can be spent in the past; it is the only thing we know. The present time instantly becomes the past, and the future is unknown. Mandan recently hosted another of their annual classic car shows downtown and main street filled with hundreds of old cars and people. I wrote this short poem in response to the event:

classic cars
lined up on main street
draw hundreds
always looking back
to the life we left

Some Days Are Downers

Yesterday we took a regular trip to Lisbon to visit with my parents at the Parkside Home. Over the phone a couple days previous to that I’d asked Dad if he wanted to take a drive to Sheldon and look things over. Yes, he wanted to very badly. After a nice fish dinner at the home we took off. Along Highway 27 and the road south of Sheldon the crops looked good even though some of the sloughs were full. At the junction of the two roads a dozen potato hauling trucks stood parked at their site making me wonder if a good potato harvest is being expected. Arriving in Sheldon we drove slowly around the streets looking at the mostly run-down condition of the houses in town. We pulled into Curt Black’s yard and drove around his circle drive to find him sorting through a junk bucket in preparation for his September sale. He is one of Dad’s last remaining friends since he’s outlived most everyone else. After exchanging a few pleasantries we drove east of Sheldon to look around.

The conditions of the fields were as we expected to find them - wet and weedy; many of the quarter sections haven’t seen a tractor wheel turn on them this spring, the second year of absolutely no production. Township roads are under water in some spots so we had to pick our way to get to the farm location where I was raised. Even in good growing conditions, my travels through this countryside are somewhat depressing. We passed the farm site where I was brought into the world, the same farm pictured on the cover of my recent book, and where now there is nothing except a few trees. Straight south a half mile is the site of the farmstead that the folks built up and is the scene of my growing years. It is gone, the few remaining cottonwoods shoved into a pile. Another half mile and we passed the historical site plowed under, an old wagon road from Owego to Sheldon. Another half mile used to stand my grandparents farmstead, a place were 52 years ago I met with a life-changing accident. Further along the road, the Lyle Schimming farmstead has vanished. So much has changed, so much gone.

Returning to Sheldon we repeated our trip through the gloomy field situations and came in on the east side. There our once nicely kept school and grounds stands in shambles with junk sitting around and a large hole cut in the gym’s east end so that trucks can come and go within.

Main street had only one car on it and we surmised it was probably the bar keeper’s. The only site of real activity has been and still is the grain elevator where several people can draw a paycheck. Then out west we turned to drive past our land there. We were met with a large sign stating there was no traffic allowed. We’ve heard that’s because of water flowing over a low spot. We turned before that though to drive south to the farm my folks bought from Ma’s parents. There the tenant had put up a nice crop of alfalfa bales on the north field by the railroad tracks, and we could see grain waving in the wind over on the west side of the creek.

While Dad was with us I asked him to verify some property lines since he and Ma had sold five acres a few years back. Stopping there on the road and scanning things over we were met with four barking dogs that came out of the yard signaling in their animal way that we were unwanted there. We could not continue driving south since the creek water stood over that road, so we backtracked and headed back to Lisbon. So for the day we saw one person we knew, Curt Black, and two strangers standing on main street as we came back through. I guess we can call it a ghost town.

Historical Bits

Small town newspapers in days-gone-by published their news stories with a certain flair that, unfortunately, today’s schools of journalism teach their students not to write. I enjoy reading the stories written a century ago.

100 Years Ago in Sheldon

(ad) Lock Step Binder Twine is guaranteed to be as smooth and even and as free from knots and weak spots as are the characters of the men who spin it . . .

Adolph Ihme, living nine miles northwest of here, crossed over the state line into South Dakota a few days ago and returned via Fargo on Saturday morning last with a handsome bride . . .

Charles Ufer, Sr. met with a serious accident. While driving in a couple of horses from the pasture one of the animals kicked him in the face, cutting it quite badly. He was unconscious for two hours and when he got to the house was in such a dazed condition that he could not explain how the accident happened. Restoratives were applied and he is improving slowly.

For Sale - Northwest Quarter Section 17, one mile south of Coburn. Bargain at $15 per acre. A. F. Anderson, Lemmon, S. D.

There are the usual battles being waged on the dandelions - with the usual effect.

The east bound freight train got tired of keeping in the middle of the road on last Friday and when between Elliott and Lisbon, jumped the track and bumped along over the ties for several hundred feet.

(The citizens of the village of Sheldon have often spoken with a sort of questionable pride of their infamous outlaw well. The following item might remind one in an eerie way of the runaway oil well in the Gulf.) The large outside casing is now being put down in the artesian gusher, but as yet nothing can be known as to what the result will be.
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Last evening Mary and I attended a “premiere” at the Belle Mehus Theater in downtown Bismarck featuring a film about a past North Dakota governor William L. Guy. It was very good and surprisingly there were a lot of audience laughs during the showing because of the way politics of the time was portrayed. A box seat situated in a place of honor at the front of the auditorium went empty. Instead, Mr. and Mrs. Guy walked almost unnoticed down the aisle until they reached the midway point when everyone realized it and then stood for the ovation. Neither did they sit in the front row. They sat five or six rows from the front, more in the middle of the audience. I read it as their not wanting to be “elevated,” but instead looked on as one with the people. I thought it was a nice gesture on their part

Exploring A Tangent

To me it’s always fun and interesting to explore a tangent. That is what has happened as I read up on the early surveying of my home area. How did those guys do it? I’ve found a few recently published books that have told me much more than I knew before. The most important idea that comes out is that when land began to be surveyed and its limits or borders were established is when it began to have a monetary value. Andro Linklater authored two these books: The Fabric of America and Measuring America. The first mentioned book bears the subtitle How Our Borders Shaped the Country and Forged Our National Identity. Without property assignments that can be recorded we would just be a bunch of squatters on a piece of land, holding on to it only unless someone stronger came along and decided to take it away.

I remember seeing one time in a box of junk Dad had purchased at an auction a length of chain with oblong links the likes of which I’d never seen before. Without knowing what it was, it was just some more junk he had brought home. I know now what it was, it was a Gunter’s Chain invented by Edmund Gunter in the early 1600’s. He designed them to be an exact length, 66 feet, and one of the important facets of surveying was born. It’s a topic much too long to discuss in this modest blog, but I’m finding it very interesting and will be able to use a lot of information in my next project.
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Main street in Mandan filled up last Sunday with classic cars, 550 of them plus some classic farm tractors. And bring a crowd of lookers it does! My favorites are the ones I wished I could have had when it would have made a difference. I think I’d liked to have owned a ‘57 Chevy most of all, and there were a few of those beauties there. The rare car present was a 1908 Maxwell that exists in its original condition. Apparently it found a good storage shed all its life.
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Monday evening Mary and I attended a picnic sponsored by a history group I have joined, The Westerners. The site, located about ten miles south of Mandan, sat in some of the prettiest country in North Dakota. With ample rain, the grass shone green and lush, and the rugged terrain was as good as the food. Clay Jenkinson spoke about the West and its early inhabitants

Garage Sale

We’re getting ready to hold a garage sale this Friday and Saturday. Stuff accumulates. Some people don’t save it but live their lives slick and clean. I don’t know if it’s admirable or not. A spoken line repeated over and over at one school I worked at said: a clean desk is the sign of a sick mind. My life is messy; it is hard to throw things away. My wife is the opposite, and since they say opposites attract it might be interesting to note that we celebrated our 36th anniversary yesterday.

My philosophy has evolved over the years, but I have come to the place where if I want to look at something antiquey, I will go to a museum. So out go those two pair of hames, that broken cow bell, two gopher traps, one pair of buggy steps, assorted metal ends for single trees, a wooden hay pulley, some rusty horseshoes with the nails still sticking out of them, and a string of sleigh bells on a rotten leather strap.

A few things stay though. There is that white leather show halter I bought to lead my 4-H calves at judging shows. I remember showing a blue ribbon Holstein heifer at Lisbon and had a hard time controlling her with the tie-up halter. The judge overlooked that and kindly recommended a show type. I’m keeping a solid brass steam engine valve. Why, I guess just because it is such a high quality item from another time. I’m keeping the Craftsman wrenches one inch and above even if I don’t use them. I looked up their price on the internet, and I know I could not get what they are worth. Other things even though they are priced and on the table might yet get retrieved, too, however I will have to do that without the wife seeing it.

I told the wife I think we’ve got another ten years at this place and then we’ll move to a smaller place that is easier to take care of. Of course, she hasn’t put her stamp of approval on that one, but time works against us. Ten years hence I will be 78 years old!

50 Years - Come and Gone

It wasn’t so long ago that I realized our high school graduation took place fifty years ago, just like that. I only heard from one classmate who suggested a get-together might be in order, but nary a spark of interest from anyone else. I guess everyone in our class just wants to forget how long ago that event occurred. At the time, it was big! In our eyes the girls were prettier, the fish bigger, and we thought we would live forever. Two of the classmates I remember being with us at one time or another have passed on, and I suppose it means we all will. So the words and melody of a song come into my head, “Let’s live, love, laugh, and be happy!”

We’ll be attending a fiftieth wedding anniversary of a cousin of mine this coming weekend. She probably wonders how the time slipped by. I don’t feel like I’ve been married long but it’ll soon be our 37th anniversary. Over those years along with the wife, I’ve gained children and grandchildren, a house, and a two-car garage. That’s been the American dream all along.

And to finish off, I ran into a ditty that made me stop and think. Looking around the Huffington Post book section I found this taken from a college graduation speech given by David Foster Wallace. He said, "There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way who nods at them and says 'Morning, boys. How's the water, and the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, 'What the hell is water.'" His point was on making conscious choices on how to perceive the world.

Tales of Impalement

In doing some background reading for my newest research/writing project I ran across an anecdote that interested me. It told of a teamster/bullwhacker in the nineteenth century who, while trying to yoke one of his oxen, got hooked under his chin by the critter’s horn, lifted aloft, and carried around the corral area until help arrived. According to the story teller he recovered but was forced to eat mush for the rest of his life. I thought that was a singular event until yesterday when I found this story. A Spanish bullfighter entered the ring and worked to subdue the bull - as they usually do. The bull hooked him, but much worse than the man in the aforementioned tale, the tip of the bull’s horn pierced the soft skin of the bullfighter’s throat and exited through the man’s mouth. He survived with the help of a surgeon but is in pretty tough shape. Readers of this blog can find several references to the event by googling the words “bullfighter gored in neck.” The pictures are graphic and might make you squeamish. I thought to myself that we can’t blame the animal in either case for doing something in his self-defense.

So much of interest to be found when I poke around history. In my opening line I mentioned my current research/writing project. The place name of Pigeon Point in Owego Township will receive some attention because it was an overnight stop between Forts Abercrombie and Ransom on the freight trail. Why the name Pigeon Point? In my reading I found where one of the old-timers related as to how numerous the passenger pigeons roosted in the trees at that spot. That species is now extinct, but still in the 1860’s and 70’s they were numerous. The famous John James Audubon spoke of them. He set about trying to count them one day and gave up after tallying 163 flocks having passed him in 21 minutes. He said, “The air was literally filled with pigeons; the light of noon-day was obscured as by an eclipse, the dung fell in spots, not unlike melting flakes of snow…” He did some estimating over the next three hours that if the flock was one mile wide and traveled at the rate of a mile a minute, allowing two pigeons to the square yard, that one billion, one hundred and fifteen million, one hundred and thirty-six thousand passed by. The flight of pigeons he observed lasted for three days. I don’t know how accurate he was, but there surely were a lot of pigeons in the air.

And, to finish off with another story of impalement one of the old settlers writing in the WPA history project in the 1930’s told of the family Thomas Wilson, the first settlers in my home township of Greene who farmed just a short while before moving into the just-platted town of Sheldon in 1882. Wilson went to work for storekeepers Goodman and Grange as a butcher. One day he butchered 100 hogs in a fenced enclosure and stuck each severed head on one of the posts, “a very queer looking sight it was!”

A Strange Bird Flew By

A couple of days ago as I browsed in the stacks of the Bismarck Public Library I spotted a book which jumped out at me because it revived a strong memory. The book Flying MacArthur to Victory written by Dusty Rhoades relates in diary form the author’s experiences in World War II piloting MacArthur’s personal plane The Bataan, a converted B-17 heavy bomber. Several thousand of these were built and were notable for their ability to continue flying even after suffering battle damage. My experience was this: in the early 1970’s mosquitoes were infecting horses with sleeping sickness - equine encephalitis - which could transfer to humans, and it was decided that a general spraying program would help to control the outbreak. After the B-17’s usefulness ended most of them headed for salvage. The Bataan, even with its historical significance, survived and sat on a runway somewhere available to be adapted to the job at hand.

At the time I worked at the Sheldon school which needed basement remodeling because of flooding from heavy rainfall. Lots of junk needed to be hauled away and one morning George Bartholomay, Kenny Lewis, and I took a pickup loaded with it to the dump grounds. After unloading, I hopped in the back end of the pickup to let the wind blow through my hair on the sultry summer day and remember this scene so distinctly. Sensing something I looked back as we drove along and saw the huge four-engine bomber bearing directly at us and flying only about 500 feet off the ground. I banged on the roof of the cab and hollered so the other two could see it as it passed overhead dragging its large shadow. We watched it make just a few passes over Sheldon as it sprayed the chemicals and then it was gone, off to another town.

Whether or not the spraying program succeeded I doubt anyone can say that it did. Maybe it caused a few cancers in people who happened to have it rain on them as they stood watching the plane. It was something out of the ordinary, the biggest thing to happen that day in lots of little towns.

Some Lighter News

As is usually the case the past week’s news is mind-numbing and items of importance are shunted off to the side to make room for the next new and exciting thing. The oil leak in the Gulf, Nashville inundated, the nomination of a new Supreme Court judge, the sharp drop in the stock market, etc. all grab at our attention during the daily news cycles. It gets so we have to pick and choose if we want to keep up. Mix in Tiger Woods, global warming, health care, volcanic ash and the brew thickens.

News in my hometown paper was much simpler in May of 1885. The following are a few gleaned from the records of the Heritage Center: Thousands of dozen of eggs are being shipped from Sheldon to the Fargo market . . . P. P. Goodman has planted twenty-five acres of corn down on his Sheyenne River farm . . . Business has been lively during the past week. The business side of front street having been crowded with teams from early morn until dewy eve . . . City Marshal Sanborn has given some of the hilariously inclined farmer citizens a little whatcome advice lately in consequence of which they crawled into their wagons and made tracks for home . . . Several prairie schooners passed through town yesterday bound for the west.

Jumping ahead twenty-five years we find these tidbits: Hans Bjugstad, while strolling around through the hills last Saturday ran on to a den of young coyotes. He dug out seven of the little animals . . . For centuries scientists have been racking their brains in an effort to discover the elixir of life, a recipe for perpetual youth. But it remains for man unknown to the world of science to find the true preventative for old age, the fountain of perpetual youth. That man is Chauncy Durgin. He attributes his extremely youthful appearance at the age of ninety-three to his habit of eating pie every morning for breakfast and conveying it to his mouth with a knife. Since he gave his discovery to the world several of our young men upon whom Father Time has laid his hand, have been following his example. As a result the pie market has been rapidly rising in price . . . ad: Burke’s Auto Livery takes you anywhere. Expert and sober chauffeurs only employed. Phone 63, Sheldon . . . Tuesday morning Mail Carrier Good’s “bronco” went out on a strike, decided that he wouldn’t carry Uncle Sam’s mail any longer and proceeded to kick the mail cart into kindling wood. He succeeded admirably and Mr. Good had to return to town and make the trip by bicycle route.

In the hallway of the Heritage Center, an exhibit of the front page of various state newspapers caught my eye. The Fargo Daily Courier of January 17, 1917 had this headline in large letters: Ballot Is Given to North Dakota Women. Hanging beside it was this front page from the December 28, 1930 issue of the Bismarck Tribune: Fire Destroys State Capitol. I don‘t think the state historians were making any type of statement.

My Two Cents

So much to read, so little time! It seems like I spend all my money on books. A new title caught my eye so I bought it: The Long Way Home - An American Journey from Ellis Island to the Great War. The first lines in the dust jacket of the book read “When the United States entered World War I in 1917, one-third of the nation’s population had been born overseas or had a parent who was an immigrant. At the peak of U. S. involvement in the war, nearly one in five American soldiers was foreign-born.” Since my maternal grandfather fit into that category I thought it would be informative. The author traces the lives of a dozen men, one of whom came from Norway. When I looked deeper into the tale I discovered he marched with the 362nd Regiment of the 91st Division, the same one Grandpa was a member of. Reading this account should give me a bit more insight into the sketchy history of the battles he fought in.

The 91st, identified as the Wild West Division, included a lot of cowboy types from Wyoming and Montana. One of my uncles told the story he knew of the time when Grandpa’s troop train carried the raw recruits to their training camp in Washington. At a station stop some sergeant started bawling orders at them and one of them promptly decked the sergeant. He didn’t take kindly to being ordered around. At the remaining station stops armed guards stood on the platform to keep order.
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We recently visited New Orleans, the Gulf Coast area, and Nashville. Now both are suffering through disasters. I hope they don’t think that the dark cloud follows me around and that I had something to do with it. I might want to go back sometime.
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We just finished re-watching my John Adams boxed DVD set as well as a Thomas Jefferson DVD found at the library. Without the leadership and wisdom these two men demonstrated in the early days of this country a much different government probably would have developed. I've been watching the new Tom Hanks production of "The Pacific" on HBO. The battle scenes are very graphic, but it doesn't match up to the earlier "Band of Brothers" or "Saving Private Ryan."