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
