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.”
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
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.”
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.”
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
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.
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.
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