TR Symposium

On Friday I took my annual trip to Dickinson to attend the 6th Annual Theodore Roosevelt Symposium. It was a bigger deal this year since they held it in conjunction with the 92nd Annual Meeting of the Theodore Roosevelt Association. Name tags showed me that attendees came from many states; a lot of people are big TR lovers. Every year new books are written about the man, and it must be hard to find new information so the authors aren't tripping over each other by repeating the same old same old. We were told that only one other man in U. S. history has had more books written about him than TR - Abe Lincoln.

Sure enough, there has been a new book written - Theodore Roosevelt in the Badlands: A Young Politician's Quest for Recovery in the American West by Roger Di Silvestro. He gave a very interesting speech and afterwards book buyers lined up deep to buy the book and have him autograph it. My friend Doug Ellison, owner of the Western Edge bookstore in Medora had the book concession. He was taking checks and credit cards right and left.

TR's grandson Tweed Roosevelt always attends to lend his name and family support to the event. On Saturday the group all migrated to Medora for further meetings and socializing, and today, Sunday, were headed on a Doug Brinkley's Majic Bus tour around the area. Brinkley is quite a well-known historian, and I often see him on national TV doing commentary about various political and historical topics. Unfortunately, I did not participate in any of the Saturday or Sunday events.
. . . . .
Snow came to the Rocky Mountain and the east coast areas; therefore I have to get on the ball and finish last minute details before it flies here. Tomorrow, after going to the gym for my workout, I'm going to mow and mulch one last time, take out the garbage, fix the garage door opener light, service my snowblower, wrap the father-in-law's air conditioner with plastic, take a shower, go to the Heritage Center library to photocopy an obituary I need, begin writing my third story, get ready for Halloween. It is going to be hard this year to answer the door for trick-or-treaters, though, since it will interfere with Dancing with the Stars. I should sleep like a baby tomorrow night.

News from 1885

A trip to the Heritage Center library to read the news of another time revealed stories of President U. S. Grant's death in 1885. He was carried to his final resting place in New York City. We had the opportunity to visit his burial place a little over a year ago. Unfortunately, my main memory is of the pit bull who lunged at us with murder in his eyes as we walked up the stairs to enter the domed building. Luckily his master pulled him up short, but it was not pleasant. Maintained as a national memorial by the National Park Service it stands as an imposing structure, and park rangers man the site. Another article written in this period reported that naysayers had their say when they added up the costs to the city of New York to hold the funeral, one million dollars.

History seems to be holding Grant in higher esteem, especially as a commanding general. We visited the Vicksburg battleground near New Orleans where it was plain to see it took good generalship to gain a victory in that terrain, and he did just that.

Casualties were extremely high in the Civil War. This article, "Going into Battle,"was reprinted in Sheldon's first newspaper, The Enterprise, and gives a strong reason why.

Said Captain George W. Stone recently: "I don't believe any man ever went into a battle without feeling frightened. I know I never did. I'll tell you when a man feels real badly. It's when he is forming his men into line for a big battle while a little skirmishing fire is kept up all the time. Every minute or so, someone, maybe your best friend, standing right next to you will shriek out, "Oh, my God," and fall back dead, yet you cannot let your men fire, for the army must be drawn up first. There is plenty of time to think. You don't dare retaliate in any way. The next bullet may find your heart, and your children will be left fatherless. It is a moment that tries the bravest man, because he has to stand quietly and take it all. But when the order comes to fight and the excitement of the battle arises, fear passes away. You have something to do. You have a duty to perform at any cost. Bullets drive into the ground at your feet, sending up little clouds of dust; they whistle past your ears and may cut holes in your clothing. Shot and shrapnel kill your comrades and leave you living, and soon there comes a feeling that some good fortune has preserved you and will protect you, and the desire to do as much damage to the enemy alone fills your mind. That was my experience in the army, and I don't believe that the man lived who did not feel at the commencement of a fight that he would rather be somewhere else."
... ... ...

Grant loved to smoke his cigars, something which killed him since he contracted cancer of the esophagus from them. Warnings about tobacco usage had not yet come about. This ad ran in several editions of the paper, "We don't smoke over a dozen cigars per day, but when we do smoke, it's the Diplomats. For sale at a nickel each at Cole's drug store."

Fifty Years Ago

The lines of an Ian Tyson song - "Fifty Years Ago" - caught my attention when I first heard them and I've not forgotten them:

Oh the time has passed so quick
The years all run together now
Did I hold Juanita yesterday
Was it fifty years ago

This song deals with love lost, but substitute the name Juanita with most anything and it applies. Our Sunday edition of the Bismarck Tribune carried an article that made me think of the song again: "UND's library celebrates 50 years." I remember clearly the event that brought the library about; Chester Fritz, a self-made financier, had attended UND and granted one million dollars for a new library. To a sophomore lucky to have a dollar bill in his pocket, I thought that was a mighty big pile of money to be handing out. As these things go, though, it took another $4.5 million from the state in 1981 to make the library what it is today.

On Sunday we celebrated Mary's dad's 95th birthday (actual date being today, October 24). I did not know him then, but subtract 50 years and he was a young man of 45. I'm sure he was close to still being in full bloom yet as he battled the elements to make a living for his family.
Tomorrow, the 25th, marks the first anniversary of the death of my father. I do remember him as a 45 year old man that worked hard to keep our little farm going.

The cost of living was much different 50 years ago. The average cost of a new house - $12,500, average income per year - $5,315, cost of a gallon of gas - .27, average cost of a new car - $2,850.

On the political front several things of interest occurred. Fidel Castro took over in Cuba, JFK was inaugurated, the Peace Corps was established, JFK asked for the money to put a man on the moon, construction of the Berlin Wall begins, Pampers diapers were introduced, etc.

Someone thought it was cute when he hung a sign in the classroom that said, "Time passes, will you?" I know now the answer is yes, I will pass, but not in the context of school promotion as this simple phrase asks.

The Ritchie Boys

On Friday we took advantage of one of the benefits of being associated with the Osher Institute and attended another of their offerings - a free movie dealing with a historical event, The Ritchie Boys. Filmed as a documentary, it outlined the lives of seven or eight men still living who played a crucial part in World War II as interrogators of German prisoners to learn whatever information they could of a helpful nature to the Allies war effort. All the men were born Jewish in Germany or vicinity and left when they did not like the political atmosphere developing under the Hitler regime. They told quite the stories.

Their name came from the camp where they trained: Fort Ritchie in Maryland. Their training consisted of working in intelligence and psychological warfare. Being they all spoke the language of the German prisoners of war, they had no trouble communicating with them. Two of them were buddies throughout the conflict and they played a sort of good cop, bad cop style of dealing with the POWs. They said the Germans were afraid of the Russians and the potential treatment they would suffer if they were turned over to that army. Of course, that became part of their mode of operation. One of them had procured a Russian army officer's uniform. When a prisoner did not cooperate well with the first interrogator he was taken into a tent where the other Ritchie boy sat at a desk. For decoration they had hung a picture of Joseph Stalin behind the desk and forged Stalin's signature along with a sentiment "To my good friend" on it. Carrying it a bit further, the "Russian" wore many medals on his chest. With that ruse the Ritchie boys gained information from the prisoners, a bit of psychological warfare.

Danger followed the boys around, too. With their German accents, they got into certain situations where soldiers with guns questioned whether or not they were American impersonators, and if they thought they were, they would be shot. One got killed when he went to the latrine in the dark. When the sentry challenged him he did give the correct password, but because of his German accent was presumed to be a German soldier and was shot and killed.

The movie told of a facet of the war I had not known of. It was a complicated effort this country put forward to win the war, and it had many parts. The Navajo code talkers can be included here.

Room for All of Us?

The recent story of wild animals released from their confinement by their keeper who then committed suicide caught the media's attention. How this guy accumulated some of these species that are considered quite rare interests me. Of course, I've heard many complain through the media that people should never be permitted to own them. Right away I thought how there must be the opposite view that people should have the right to do whatever they want. I've told the story many times of my dad remembering when stop signs on highways were first installed and that, then, there was a pushback. Order in the natural world has changed to accommodate us, the dominant species, as we multiply. I think of the changes forthcoming in the western part of North Dakota from the oil development. The status quo is going to be upset. So to stop this rambling I dusted off another old poem of mine that tells of an experience where wildlife met civilization.

- The Dog and the Badger -

Entering this humble memory,
I am the boy of seven again
witnessing a duel fought to its vile
end. Short-shadows of midday distort
the shapes of a badger and a dog
locked in struggle beside the dirt road.

A man and his German Shepherd caught
the wild one, off guard, digging a den
in the dry ridge. We came on the scene
in the midst of their desperation
and heard the dog's master goading him
to charge into the fray, "Sic 'im, git

'im, boy!" Hot coals of ancient instinct
bid him to attack and kill this beast,
but a searing fire in the badger
roared at this affront. He responded
with defiance and counterattacked.
Their fight deadlocked. At times, when the dog

backed off, energy spent, lolling tongue
dripping blood, the badger turned to dig
and deepen his hope of survival.
And still, the man kept urging his dog
to the attack, again and again.
It obeyed, but each time his strength slipped,

and the badger kept on with digging.
The man refused to let the badger
escape. With a pliers he cut wire
from a rusting fence and bent a hook
on one end, then jammed it down to twist
and pull at the badger's fur and flesh.

He soon emerged, infuriated,
writhing, trying to rid his body
of this bond. The dog then re-entered
the fight and bothered the doomed badger
enough to let the man lift a fence
post and bring it down, hard,
on his
head!

Dusting Off an Old One

For some reason I was reminded of this poem I wrote over a year ago:

On the Road, Yellowstone Park

Montana buttes stand forlorn and send
messages to one another by hawk,
colors blanch except green hues painted
on irrigated corn. Black cows are pencil smears
on dry parchment and contradict
a sign proclaiming Better Bred Red.
Fences climb hills like goats. Bear
Tooth Pass lifts us two miles into
the sky, above tree line, through alpine
meadows, then lets us drive to our destination.
More signs: This is Grizzly Bear Country ... we see
none; Open Range, Expect Cows on Road ...
we slow to let them cross. Rocks laying prone
fool Mary, "Out there, buffalo, they're all
over out there!" Cooke City appears, a small
shop attracts us for coffee and ice cream. Old
books and classic albums line the walls. The
proprietor, "I have chess tournaments in winter."
Gardiner's restaurants and motels lure,
but senior citizens swarm, all wanting rooms.
Lulled into September complacency, minus
a room, we head north to Livingston. Late day
shadows soften the outline of fly fishermen
wading the Gallatin, a sport that compels, they
say. Rich homes line the valley --- artists,
authors, and actors live here. Next day we
repeat the highway south through the morning
shadows to enter the park at the Roosevelt
Arch. The sites remain eons old. We've
encountered them before - Old Faithful, lakes
canyons, falls, hot springs, pools, fumaroles,
buffalo grazing in ditches, elk in meadows, and
cameras, cameras everywhere with long lenses
set on tripods. Ravaged forests from old fires
grow, though, and restore themselves anew.
The map tells us to exit at the west
side, then we turn north to follow canyons
carved by the Madison River where more
fishermen cast their flies. I recall McLean's A
River Runs Through It, I hear the Redford
voice, I see the brothers fishing their stream the
last time before the errant brother is murdered,
I will resolve to read the story once again.
Here a person feels small. The rock walls
announce ancient reality and predict their
survival long after I am gone. Tomorrow?
We are sated, we can go home again satisfied with
renewal. We turn our car east and enter our
world again. In a Miles City cafe ranchers talk
cattle prices. At a Glendive gas stop the
manager says old folks moved away when they
built the penitentiary. "Taxes went up." East
of Medora a westbound load of hay bales sits
burning on the road. Back home Mary works
in her garden, and I sit at my desk ... writing.

Plans Go Awry

The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley (often go awry)
Robert Burns from " To a Mouse, 1786"

This afternoon, Sunday, we left around noon to drive north to the Knife River Indian Village National Historic Site. The sun shone brightly with only a slight breeze, the temperature reached the mid-50's, and we wanted to get out once more in case winter sets in abruptly to cramp our style. Besides, our new car which possesses a few luxury items is a pleasure to drive.

Duane, our friendly car salesman, said expect that the "check tire pressure" warning light might come on sometimes, and, sure enough, there for the first time it lit up just outside of Center. Knowing that a Tesoro station lay not too far ahead, I thought we'd just drive up to the air hose and top the pressure off. Unfortunately, the problem was more: someplace we punctured that tire and it was going flat. I inquired inside if they could fix a tire, but no, it was a typical convenience store. Only one thing left to do: take the flat off, put on that poor excuse of a spare, and drive back home.

About a year ago, Sears had a good sale on hydraulic floor jacks, and I bought three of them, one for me and one for each of my boys. Wouldn't you know, that nice jack never got put into the new car's trunk, so I got to jack it up with another poor excuse for factory equipment, the scissor jack.

Our trip to the Knife River Village, a site I have never visited, still remains to be completed. I will have to wait to see how the story of my trip up there ends, just like I had to wait until the last line of this limerick poem by R. Avakian to see how it ends.

There once was a maid from Madras
Who possessed a magnificent ass.
Neither round nor pink,
As some might think,
It was gray, had long ears and ate grass.

The Future as the Background

The Future as the Background

He just rode up here again
sittin' on that thoroughbred
he calls Vic, such a pretty
sorrel horse with four white socks
he gets prancin' and dancin'
on our parade ground. The man,
so arrogant in buckskins
and plumed hat, said he needs speed
in his battle horse, quickness
for fast charges, nimbleness
to evade determined foes.
The way he can maneuver
that horse is awe-inspirin'!
Much as everyone dislikes
him, we know he wins battles,
so if we march to the west
after Indians, as rumors
keep sayin', there's a good chance
we'll come back, and that horse'll
keep him safe in the saddle.
We watch him ride down the hill
to the fort where the Seventh
drills on horseback with ensigns
flyin'. Men work at loading
supply wagons, and we've been
hearing the regimental
band rehearse "Garry Owen,"
his favorite marching tune.

On Visiting a Child's Gravesite...

Last week one day at the Osher Institute I showed the following picture and told of visiting the grave of the child born to a couple passing through the little town of Almont, ND. They had no money to buy a stone but left their only object of wealth, a china cup and saucer. I was asked if I had written a poem about the scene, and answered, "No, I had not." After I arrived back home I asked myself why I had not and started writing, this poem being the result.

Mother's tears filled the cup,
father stood sadly near.
With heads bowed, they said good-bye
to the day-old child she bore.
If the poet could only speak
he would say, Rest assured,
all is well
at your infant's grave.
I walked the ground
and heard the birds
singing from the trees.
I felt the breeze
blow through my hair,
saw the flowers wave,
and watched the cows graze
on the grass in a field across the way.
You had no money for a stone,
so you gave the wealth you had
and left your cup and saucer
to mark his lasting home.
It's being cared for by the folks
who come out from the town.
So rest assured, they're tending it
just as if it were their own.

The Lightning-Rod Man

"But spite of my treatment, and spite of my dissuasive talk of him to my neighbors, the lightning-rod man still dwells in the land; still travels in storm-time, and drives a brave trade with the fears of man." - Final sentence in The Lightning-Rod Man by Herman Melville

In the story of The Lightning-Rod Man a lightning-rod salesman knocks on the home-owner's door in the middle of a storm. This home-owner does not usually give much time to salesmen but, because it is raining outside and the man is wet, he invites him inside and proceeds to make the man feel comfortable. In the midst of the terrible thunder and lightning outside, the salesman begins with his pitch, but the home-owner counters it with his mild style of resistance. As the story progresses the salesman ratchets up his pressure trying to convince the home-owner that he must have a lightning-rod for his home and is even so brazen as to "command" the man to buy one. That, of course, is the last straw, and he physically ejects the salesman and breaks his salesman's sample lightning-rod for good measure.

The author, the Herman Melville of Moby Dick fame, lived and wrote in the 19th century, but it seems to me that his story resonates today and stands as a metaphor for pressures we experience. Many types of "lightning-rod salesman" work with their high-pressure tactics playing on our fears to persuade us of the "right" way to think. It is easy to identify a few situations which we are often confronted with:

* The economy - who is to blame, how can it be fixed, Keynesian, trickle-down, ...
* The Congress - represent interest groups, money influenced, always campaigning, ...
* China - friend, foe, can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em, ...
* The President - good, bad, inexperienced, brave, indecisive, not born in the US, ...
* Iraq, Afghanistan - necessary wars, pull out the troops, ...
* Universal health care - yes, no, socialistic, privatize, ...
* Social Security- in danger, easy fix, private accounts, ...
* Climate change - man-made, yes, no, ...
* The latest fad - Tea Party, Occupy Wall Street, ...
* etc, etc...

I like how an old written work of literature like Melville's can be so thought-provoking. The internet hosts many sites where stories and novels can be read. The one I reference above came from www.americanliterature.com.

Thirty-four Dollars

I always go crazy at the Bismarck Public Library book sale held twice eacy year. Some of the books offered are culls from the library's shelves, but for the most part they have been donated by interested parties, yours truly included. For a mere $34 I purchased those pictured above. Anyone who frequents stores such as Barnes and Noble knows that $34 can easily be spent on one book.

The author John LeCarre wrote three of the books. He is known as a writer of spy thrillers. This summer with the 9/11 Symposium
one of the speakers was a "spook," that is to say worked for one of the intelligence agencies in Washington. He mentioned that some good books have been written about international spying, but I didn't catch who he said. Later in the hallway I asked him for his recommendation, and he said John LeCarre writes very well and accurately about this business.

A copy of Stephen Ambrose's Band of Brothers begged me to buy it, as well as his Undaunted Courage. Neither could I walk away without buying Edmund Morris' Teddy Roosevelt story entitled Theodore Rex, James McPherson's Battle Cry of Freedom, and David McCullough's The Path Between the Seas.

I don't want to go on naming books, but one other I thought I should buy was James Michener's Hawaii. I've read it before, some time ago, but since we travel to Hawaii in January I wanted to reread it. Any of Michener's books are very descriptive of the area and times he writes about, so I want to get familiar with Hawaii again before getting there.

They had more books there than I have seen at previous sales, and many of them still set below the tables in their boxes because there wasn't enough room to bring them up to display. I am quite sure I shall return.

Middle Age?

* If I am middle-aged, does that mean I should expect to be still living when I'm 138 years old?

* I believe in science, therefore releasing Amanda Knox was the right thing to do.

* I just might grow to like Governor Christie of New Jersey. He seems to be a man of his word, when he said he wasn't ready to run for president, he meant it. I'll take another look in 4 years.

* My AARP Bulletin says I can help trim the national debt by skipping the cookies. How? Saving health care costs.

* North Dakota is in third place behind New Hampshire and Montana in beer consumption. Our people drink 29.8 gallons each.I wonder who is drinking my share?

* Mexico says they want tourists back. I'm not about to lose my head to take that chance.


* Ole bought Lena a piano for her birthday. A few weeks later, Sven asked how she was doing with it. "Oh," said Ole, "I had her switch to a clarinet." "How come," asked Lars. "Vell," Ole answered, "because with a clarinet she can't sing."

* I think I went through this phase: "Never retract, never explain, never apologize; get things done and let them howl." Nellie McClung

* Tomorrow morning (Thursday) I will attend one of my favorite events, the book sale at the Bismarck Public Library. I always come away with way too many books.

* We washed windows today. Mary has put her flowers to bed for the winter. Winter is a-comin'!

Fort Abraham Lincoln

We had been wanting to go to Fort Abraham Lincoln all summer, but for reasons since forgotten we never did until today, Sunday. It was the short tour, the one where we drove to the top of the hill to where the infantry post was located and climbed the ladders inside the blockhouses to their observation decks. The Missouri and the confluence of the Heart River flow far below this vantage point. One looks out over the flat plain below and to the cavalry post positioned on it and sees how accessible water was for the needs of the large herd of horses kept as mounts.

Standing atop the blockhouses I thought of the history associated with this site. Only recently I learned how harsh life would have been for the infantry. About 160 of them marched from here on foot, of course, as guards for the slow moving wagon train accompanying the 7th Cavalry as they headed for the Little Big Horn. Harsher yet was the suffering of the seventy or so cavalrymen who had no horses to ride. Their riding boots caused blisters and sore feet to form as they walked along.

Three riders brought their horses from Steele to ride the grounds and hills of the park's acreage. They asked us to take pictures of them with their cameras, and I just happened to have mine along to snap one for myself.


Mary thought this scene of a blockhouse with the state capitol building in the background to be picture worthy. The old and the new? No one standing lookout at the fort could ever have envisioned this modern building standing tall against the sky. What they would have seen would have been the old Edwinton with a small cluster of bars, whorehouses, and dwellings.


Here is my darling wife. I was so proud of her since she climbed the ladders to the top, too. A few years ago she would not do it, but today I suppose she did not want me to have all the fun. The river bed from this point appears desolate now with all the drowned, dead brush, the layer of silt covering the area, and the newly deposited, shapeless sandbars rising above the water.