The Stockyards Cafe

The archives of the old hometown newspaper coughed this story up one time when I was poking around. This was how the editor's creative writing described the fact that hobos passed through town and hung around the stockyards because of its proximity to the train rails.

"The Southwestern Stockyards Cafe is serving excellent meals a la carte to transients of the hobo genus. The vicinity of the stockyards is a favorite rendezvous for tourists of the side door Pullman class and when the pangs of hunger begin to afflict them they repair hither for the purpose of replenishing the inner man. Every man is his own cook and furnishes his own eats."

The old folk singer Jimmie Rodgers, nicknamed The Singing Brakeman, sang this song about hobos, "All around the water tank/ waiting for a train/ a thousand miles away from home/ sleeping in the rain! . . .

Unless they've been living under a rock, everyone knows of John Steinbeck's stories of the hard life causes from drouth in the 1930's. In the very first paragraph of The Grapes of Wrath he wrote, "The sun flared down on the growing corn day after day until a line of brown spread along the edge of each bayonet. The clouds appeared, and went away, and in awhile they did not try anymore." This drouth set in motion a great migration to the west.

The well-regarded writer of rural life in Texas Elmer Kelton wrote in his novel The Time It Never Rained about the hungry wetbacks from Mexico who, coming north across the ranch of his story's protagonist, gladly accepted food from the rancher's wife. Just like today they were looking for something better.

The point to be made here is that it is happening again today. The so-called "Housing Bubble" burst and caused people to become homeless, too. The carrots held out by the real estate industry in cahoots with the bankers made houses too easy to buy. Some people bought too big, expecting inflation to increase the value of their homes, some treated their house like it was a piggy bank and dropped most of their money into the slot in its back. I find it heartbreaking whenever I see stories of homeless families forced to live in their cars, motels, with relatives, whatever. Anyone who reads history knows the displacement of people has occurred throughout history, but just knowing it doesn't make it any more pleasant.

Aftermath

It was necessary to visit my friendly prosthetist at Hanger Orthopedics yesterday for an adjustment, something I need to do a few times a year. The Hanger company came into existence during the first year of the Civil War. The story goes like this. In 1861 James Hanger's wound made him the first amputee of the Civil War. His biography tells that a suitable solution to walking again was not available. So he took to developing an artificial leg for himself, that first one being fashioned from barrel staves. Apparently it worked well enough to prompt the Virginia state legislature to commission Hanger to manufacture limbs for other veterans. Since its humble beginnings the company has grown to provide services from 600 locations.

One can only guess how many wartime wounds have caused amputations, but then we can only guess how many pails full of water are in the Pacific. I imagine dusty records in Washington could be tallied to an accurate number, but who cares. Whatever the count, there are too many. One source I read claims that among the Federal troops thirty thousand amputations were performed with a similar number among Confederates. The stomach turning facts tell of the high risk of infection and that due to frequent shortages of water, surgeons often went days without washing their hands or instruments. In spite of the conditions, 75% survived.

A company like Hanger can only grow. How many wars have we been involved in since the Civil War? Fresh client numbers are constantly being provided to them. Thankfully, the company and others like them keep developing new and better appliances and techniques to make life better for people who need them.

Sacred Sites

And our name shall be forgotten in time, and no man shall have our works in remembrance, and our life shall pass away as the trace of a cloud, and shall be dispersed as a mist, that is driven away with the beams of the sun, and overcome with the heat thereof. Wisdom of Solomon 2:4, New American Bible

Yesterday afternoon I attended another of the monthly "Conversations at BSC." The topic - Sacred Places on the Great Plains - reminded me of the Bible verse above. Things will be forgotten!

The discussion mostly centered on Native American sites in the region which they consider as sacred. So many of them were excluded outside the boundaries of the reservations, and they became forgotten or unusable by the Indians. One example pointed to the Medicine Rock site near Leith, ND, which is protected as a historical site by the North Dakota State Historical Society. A picture showed the rock with a small protective fence surrounding it; it's not big. In the Q & A session, an Indian gentleman in the audience stood up and told this story of how small the protected area was and how all the surrounding land belonged to a farmer who would not give permission for ceremonies to extend beyond the fence. For all practical purposes the site cannot be used by them for their traditional worship.

The picture above is Bear Butte in South Dakota, and the development in front resulted from the success of the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. The butte is considered very sacred, but they cannot keep sightseers and hikers from encroaching on their ceremonial ground. They have asked visitors to refrain from visiting the butte in the month of June without much luck. Of course, all of the Black Hills was given to the Indians in an early treaty, but the discovery of gold changed that.

Other modern developments take away sacred sites. The flooding of the Lakes Sacajawea and Oahe covered much, and this is not to forget the property of other cultures as well.

The two gentleman moderators, President Skogen of BSC and scholar Jenkinson, prefaced the afternoon with a brief rundown of a recent trip to Europe and their break-away jaunt from their group to track down some historical topics, one of which was to see the site of Mussolini's death in Italy. I think the whole afternoon was well setup when they said they asked around for information for the World War II era dictator, but couldn't get much satisfaction as they asked mostly younger 30ish people. This group wasn't any better informed about historical matters than 30 somethings anywhere else.

Maybe the George Santayana quotation I memorized years ago teaches a horrible truth: "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."

Culture Clash

I attended my last session at the Osher Institute last evening, the one dealing with the military frontier. The time goes too fast and all three topics I attended , Myths and Legends, History of Rock and Roll and this one, should have lasted longer. But I can always look forward to the new material next fall. In addition, free movies once a month have been shown. A few days ago we attended "Sweet Land." The blurb in our catalog read thusly: Norwegian-American farmer Olaf Torvik and his rural Minnesota community must struggle to overcome years of anti-German propaganda and prejudice when he discovers that his mail-order bride, Inge, is not only a German but also an accidental Socialist. . . . award winning tale of love's ability to triumph over ignorance. It seemed so true, especially since both my wife and I have knowledge of that happening in our families. In the movie, Inge found herself being shunned, talked about, ignored, whatever. The poor girl did not understand English, but headstrong, she made herself learn as quickly as possible. Olaf was a good man, a Norwegian bachelor farmer like Garrison Keillor often talks about on his weekly radio show, but felt the influence of his culture. They did come to love each other and everything worked out for the good.

Dad's family lived at Nome for a few years when he was young. Nome was a Norwegian community but Grandma, a German from Russia, never felt comfortable among the Norwegian speaking folks, sometimes thinking they were talking about her. Then it was that they relocated to Sheldon, and I - a result of the rest of the story.

Ma's family experienced cultural difficulties, too. Her father was drafted into the army in World War I while still a citizen of Norway. When he married Grandma she lost her citizenship because of it. He went to war and fought in bloody battles but no slack was shown to Grandma. She had to go through the citizenship application process when she wanted to receive social security payments.

Mary's parents, both from Raleigh, ND, were of different German cultures in Russia. For instance, the word potato was voiced as krumbera (sp?) by her mother and kaduffala (sp?) by her father. Some of the nuances in their respective cultures clashed a bit and were looked on as being a bit odd by the others.
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p.s. This blog is number 601. I've been bloviating a good deal, it seems. But there is still more to come, so why count.

The March Horse Sale in Mandan

The March horse sale in Mandan,
right at the edge of the West,
parking lot full, (and lots more),
horse trailers, pickups, and cars.
"Don't park three deep in a row,"
the sale catalog warns all.
Step inside - the hallway's full.
Sans boots and big hat, you feel
out of place. Climb the stairway,
look down in that arena.
A mare for sale and her rider
circle to the auction chant
that's unintelligible
to ears not schooled to its pleas.

Buddy enters the sale ring,
bay gelding quarter pony,
ridden by a lad, "The kids
use Buddy in the pasture
moving cows and checking fences,
handles any job you give."
Twelve hands high and twelve years old,
he brings four and twenty-five.

Here comes Twobuck Cracker Jack,
AQHA dun gelding,
"Cracker is a big, stout made
gelding that's a true ranch horse.
He has a true one hand neck
rein, pivots, side passes and
backs." A pretty little thing
rides him in, slips the halter
from his head and loops a loose
rein under his neck. Sure 'nuf,
he still does just what she asks.
The gavel raps, it's final,
four thousand dollars he brings!

Princess and Peggy enter -
a matched team of three year old
blue roan mares "that drive single
and double and also ride."
And such showy harnesses
they wear, dozens of nickel
studs shine, leather's deep-dyed
black with polished balls on hames.
Bid them separate times two -
they sell fourteen-fifty each.
From a colony down south,
their pitchman wears a full beard
and a black hat. His young son
comes with, apple not far from
the tree, suspender askew.
Now they sell the harnesses
almost half the horses' price,
six-fifty for each times two.

A little taste of the West,
some shit on the shoes, sour arm-
pit smells of honest sweat, a
few hundred of these horses
sell, twice a year it happens
here: Hermanson-Kist Horse Sale.

Harvest Memories

Set back amongst the weeds and trees in Fort Rice, I spotted this old threshing machine. I think those iron and steel wonders might just last forever being that they've been constructed with so much galvanized metal. As we drove around the rest of that day I began reminiscing about my days as a custom combiner in Kansas and Nebraska. Mary found it interesting and insisted I write-up some of those experiences. Here is one of them.

In the spring of 1965 about to finish my first year of teaching, I was approached by a man asking if I would like to accompany him south to Kansas and work for him as a custom combiner. After giving it some thought, I agreed to accompany him during my summer break. To get to southern Kansas I had to drive an old truck on which was loaded a combine complete with its 14 foot header, a three-day, white-knuckle experience. We finally arrived in Medicine Lodge, Kansas, and began looking for acres to harvest. A patient man, the owner was content to wait until someone came up to ask for our services. Eventually one did.

It was a hard-luck story he gave. His wheat crop, located near Lake City, looked especially good until the Medicine Lodge River flooded and left it flat on the ground and strewn with branches and logs. No custom operators were interested in tackling the job because of the condition of the ground. Wanting to get started our boss accepted and we moved to Lake City. The story ended well for the farmer: we salvaged 60 bushels per acre for him. For us, it was a headache, what with stopping the machine to clear away branches, running the headers as low as we could to the ground to pick up the prone straw, and continuously getting stuck in muddy spots.

And rain fell occasionally which caused us to park our machines and wait for dry weather. What to do during our downtime stretched our imaginations some. We tried fishing one day and sat on the sandy bank where we had been cautioned to watch out for the bites of crayfish. We drove a few miles to Sun City and drank too many schooners of 3.2 beer. We sat in a little country store, the only business in town, eating cheese and crackers and listening to the yarns of the locals.

From a local we learned the sad story of the man whose acres we were combining. His only son and heir had committed suicide, his wife was losing her mind, and the maintenance of their house and buildings was being ignored. He drove a grand old Chrysler Imperial that had driven its best miles and his well-fitting clothes were soiled and neglected. Everything about him spoke of a well-to-do past, but now his only motivation seemed to be to survive a bit longer.

The success of our harvest work did please him and he said so. I often wonder how much longer he held on and what has become of that little collection of buildings that comprised Lake City. I still remember one encouraging sign as we drove out of town that last time and looked into my rear view mirror: a Case tractor plowing his red Kansas soil in preparation to plant another crop.

A few years back I wrote this poem in remembrance:

I recall another place,
another time: winter wheat
fields near Lake City, Kansas.

Summer, nineteen sixty-five.
A custom combine crew, we
sat parked in Medicine Lodge

looking for acres to whet
the appetites of famished
machines we hauled chained to trucks.

Russell Lake came - bottom land
flooded, bumper crop flattened,
now spurned by would-be cutters.

(Who'd take their machines to fields
of hidden driftwood and mud?)
He proffered, we accepted.

"Well, boys, we came to cut wheat.
Put your headers way down low.
Let's get his wheat harvested!"

A gentleman, Mr. Lake.
His world showed little future,
his heir shot himself, his wife

talked strangely to canaries,
and white paint peeled from his home.
Our work cheered him, though. Bushels

flowed at sixty per acre.
(I'll be able to pay bills.")
Fields harvested, I recall

my rear view in the mirror...
his Case tractor plowing red
Kansas dirt for next year's wheat.

Fort Rice, ND

Very few inhabited houses exist in the town of Fort Rice. This picture of the school and an outhouse illustrates the general appearance of the town. The only place I recall that could be termed a business was the junkyard located right along Highway 1806, as we turned in. Dead as the town is, it once held a place of prominence. Fort Rice came into existence as a fort in July, 1864 when General Sully passed through on his expedition to punish Indians who resisted the westward push and place them on reservations. It was named for a Civil War general killed in battle.

The ground hadn't dried enough yet at the actual site of the fort to allow us to drive in, but a bit of searching turns up some facts of how it looked. Sully ordered his men, several companies of the 30th Wisconsin Infantry, to build a stockade of cottonwood logs measuring 510 feet by 500 feet, two log blockhouses 20 feet square, and a number of log buildings with sod roofs.

I learned a new term with the following information. The Wisconsin troops were replaced with six companies of the 1st U.S. Volunteer Infantry who, in reality, were Confederate prisoners of war to whom were given the name Galvanized Yankees. Of the choices these men were given to be repatriated, they chose service on the western frontier.

As with service on any of the frontier forts, life proved harsh. That first year, 81 men died from scurvy, diarrhea, typhoid fever, or miscellaneous other diseases, and seven died in combat.

Fort Rice served as Sully's base of operations when he led his men out on expeditions in 1864-65 and hosted several Indian council meetings. Indian attacks did occur on the men of the fort, while probably not from frontal attacks they needed to be alert for attacks on the hay and logging crews as well as raids on the horse and cattle herds.

Cannonballs

On Saturday the temperature reached into the 70's and the whole town and countryside seemed to come alive. Just as the grass knows when to grow or the geese know when to nest, so too do the fishing boats on the Missouri know when to slide into the water. I think I saw at least three dozen of them, along with some shore fishermen.

We drove south twenty miles on a short camera safari past Huff onto Fort Rice. We saw lots of shacks and junk cars which I think make interesting subjects, but we also saw quite a few "cannonballs" that, over the past, people have taken from the river. Those in the picture set close to the road along someone's sidewalk as ornaments.

In 1804, the Lewis and Clark expedition came upon numerous cannonballs at the confluence of the Cannonball and Missouri Rivers. Captain Clark, on Thursday, October 18, 1804 wrote in his journal: "Set out early proceeded on at 6 mls passed the mouth of la Boulet (French for Cannonball River). . . above the mouth of the river Great numbers of Stone perfectly round with fine Grit are in the Bluff and on the Shore, the river takes its name from those Stones which resemble Cannon Balls. . ."

As I know the story, scavengers have pretty well cleaned out the river of the "cannonballs." They have been moved to ornament people's yards. If they had survived nestled in their natural state, they probably now would be under the protection of some official park designation, but too late is too late.

The river originates in rough country north of Amidon, and like many of the rivers and creeks in that part of the state, it resembles a long snake in a big hurry with nary a straight line in its wriggling back.

The Post

On a visit to the Barnes and Noble store I picked up a new book on Eisenhower: Eisenhower in War and Peace. A big book, it seems to give a fairly balanced account of the man, warts and all. I ran across one amusing anecdote in the biography that occurred after he moved his office across the channel to France after D-Day. Some farmers made a gift to him of a milk cow to furnish his office with fresh milk. Three of his staff members sat down with a pail, but their efforts to turn the spigots on were to no avail. Ike came by and after seeing them struggle told them to step back, sat down on the stool, and easily filled the bucket. He said something like city guys don't know anything. Stories in history like that one make it interesting.

The picture above is a historical boundary marker from mile 91 that may well have come from the North-South Dakota border. It sticks in the ground at "The Post," just a couple miles south of our house and makes an ironic statement. The history behind it just might be lost and I don't know where a person could find the information. A couple years ago I was steered to the North Dakota State Water Commission website where they have access to the original survey of North Dakota and the comments in the handwriting of the surveyors. Randomly I clicked into a spot of Ransom County near the present site of Sheldon and an entry dated August 10th, 1870 came up. Here is one entry: Drove charred stake and post in mound for quarter section corner. Another comment: Land low, level & wet. Another: First rate land, level, low and sandy.

I intend to study these surveys a bit more in the future since I think an interesting story can come from them, if I only live long enough, that is. This country had a lot of growing to do after this date. To think that Custer didn't get his due for another six years. A survey crew consisted of several men with various duties.

A while back I'd d0ne some research of the original surveys. It was in 1784 that Thomas Jefferson proposed the pattern of squares, and on 1785 Thomas Hutchins, the first official geographer of the U.S., unfurled a 22 yard long surveyor's chain on the west bank of the Ohio River. The Northwest Ordinance had been passed that year that called for "disposing of lands in the western territory" and required him to lay out lines running east to west 6 miles apart, make a grid of squares which were our townships 36 miles square.

Wednesday blank

Sometimes a guy just draws a blank. Nothing much comes to mind. An empty wagon illustrates it better than anything. We had two beautiful days, almost balmy feeling, and now, today it's cold and blustery again. The seven day forecast holds promise for more nice days, though. Mary puttered around in the yard already. Her fingers itch to get out there to dig, plant, and scratch mosquito bites.

The Repubs held their caucus in North Dakota last night; Santorum won. I thought it amusing when Santorum's people started crying today that they wish Gingrich would drop out because he prevented their man from winning a couple states where Romney won. Romney struts around in faded blue jeans trying to look like a common man but when he was asked if he knew some race car driver a few days ago he responded that he didn't but did know a couple men who owned the team. Foul-mouthed Rush Limbaugh found a limit to his rants about a woman testifying about contraception when many advertisers pulled their ads from his show.

Jokin' around

Yesterday I listened a bit to Garrison Keillor's show which featured sick jokes. He told this one on Ole. Lena got to thinking Ole hadn't been amorous enough of late so she got him an appointment with a therapist. When he returned he started singing love songs to his John Deere tractor. Lars drove up, "Vat in the world are yoo doing, Ole?" "Vell, Lena sent me to the doctor and he said I should do something romantic to a tractor." :-) ---Yeah, I know, it took me a couple seconds to figure it out, too.
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We were in Staples on Saturday, and as we left, I had to wait a bit to get into my car because an older couple parked beside us had their doors open to load their purchase. As I stood there I noticed the lettering on the back of his jacket saying something like Senior Athletics of Utah. I mentioned it and he said he's participated many times and has won lots of medals. "I don't know how much longer I'll be able to do it, though. I'm in the 90 to 95 age bracket." Then he got in his car and drove off.
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My wife stayed with her dad yesterday so I went off to a movie that she did not want to see: Act of Valor. It's a good thing we saved the price for her ticket. That movie had received quite a bit of attention lately because they used actual Navy Seals as actors and followed them through made for the screen scenarios. It appealed to the lowest common denominator. I saw more guys getting shot through the brains with blood spattering the wall behind them than I've ever seen. A lady hostage had a drill bit drilled through her hand to make her talk. A Seal fell on a grenade to muffle the blast and we saw his body rise from the explosion. The story line was weak. It tried to follow the personal life of one whose wife was expecting. Of course, he was killed in action. I give two thumbs down on this one. I thought it would have some value because of its controversy. Some ex-Seals thought it gave away too much of their tactics. Wrong.

The Pine Tree Patch

I've been enjoying a bit of research and reading about the army division my Grandpa Sandvig served in during World War I. The patch of a pine tree was worn on this division's uniform sleeve, being adopted because the men in this unit came from states where pine trees grow (so goes the legend). Therefore they were called the Pine Tree Division. The 91st Division had another nickname, though, that was much more interesting: the Wild West Division. Men from California, Oregon, Washington, Utah, Idaho, Nevada, Montana, and Alaska comprised the 27,000 men of this group who trained in Fort Lewis, Washington.

Presently, I am working on a magazine article and am finding a good deal of information that I never knew where to find before. North Dakota soldiers were never mentioned as being part of the 91st and I often wondered how Grandpa found his way in there. An answer came when I saw his regiment, the 362nd, contained mostly Montana cowboys. So the stretch wasn't too great then that they reached into the neighboring state to find a few.

The 91st adopted as their motto, "Powder River, let 'er buck!" Supposedly this came from the Wyoming cowboys where the Powder River runs. I've been interested in this topic for several years, but with the movie and book War Horse, I made myself reacquaint with it. When this outfit got into France they were transported part ways in railroad cars called "40 et 8" which meant 40 men or 8 horses could be hauled in them. One source said that with these broad-shouldered cowboys, though, 40 were too many.

One story told by a family member told of the time when Grandpa was on the troop train headed for training camp in Washington. The train stopped at a station in Montana to pick up some men. There, a sergeant started barking orders at them. One cowboy, not yet schooled in the ways of insubordination, hauled off and decked the sergeant. Apparently, whenever the train stopped after that armed guards stood ready.

The war effort made on these plains has many facets to it, one being that many thousands of horses were gleaned from the countryside to be shipped overseas to serve on the battlefields. Many thousands of these animals died from wounds and disease. Another story I want to tell is that of one named Tipperary, a horse too wild to be accepted for army duty but went on to be a famous rodeo horse.