A hefty snowstorm hit us yesterday, then slowly moved off to the east where it dumped an even heavier load. (We're just days short of the ten year anniversary of the snow, ice, and flooding that occurred when we lived in Wahpeton, and a couple days away from the anniversary of the huge Blizzard of '66.) Snow fell the night before last and through the morning hours and piled high enough to make me glad I'd worn my overshoes while driving a state car around town. My rider made a presentation at the Mandan senior center and, while waiting for her, I was able to do the prescribed "good deed daily" that some boy scout cartoon character prompted impressionable young boys to do when I was a young lad.
A lady riding in her motorized wheel chair exited the building to cross the street to her living quarters. The small front wheels of the chair mired in the loose snow ruts formed by car traffic, and there she sat. With gallant intentions I walked over to her in her moment of need and pulled at the chair and got her going again. Score one for the good guy!
Five minutes later another lady came out balanced on her walker. She walked slowly and appeared to wince in pain. Should I offer assistance? Some people do not care to be helped when they can do for themselves. I chose to wait and watch, but I was somewhat embarrassed by not jumping to her aid right away and averted my glance for a bit. She had struggled through the worst of the piled snow, but when I looked in the mirror I saw she had stopped and bent over to reach to the ground. Her keys had fallen from her hand. Should I wait just a little longer to see how she does? I did and finally she retrieved them and proceeded slowly again, reaching the cleared sidewalk. Today I still feel guilty for not offering to help. My score for good deeds - pulling out one wheel chair, plus one; not offering to help the second lady, negative one; score for the day, zero!
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Mortal Thoughts
Two Editor's Choice Awards from the International Library of Poetry hang on the wall in my study. Basically, they don't mean much. In fact, I spent quite a little time trying to locate on of them; I had thrown it into some drawer with little thought at the time. What they do, though, is attest to my belief in the worth of poetry. With such a few words I can paint a meaningful picture of my thoughts at the time, and the only way to write poetry, I've found, is to read recognized poets and decipher their styles and intentions.
One whom I'm reading lately is Donald Hall, the present Poet Laureate of the United States. He was married to the late poet Jane Kenyon who died before growing old, leaving him a lonely man. It's not hard to judge his emotions after reading much of his poetry written after her death - "I rise from the carseat and hobble to the grave of a woman who does not age" or "the hour we lived in, two decades by the pond, has transformed into a single unstoppable day."
Last night we attended the prayer service for a lady who at 65 years of age died too young. When it had concluded, I searched out my brother-in-law and said, "She was our age." He nodded and said something to the effect that we'd better hurry and get some good things done. Enough said.
One whom I'm reading lately is Donald Hall, the present Poet Laureate of the United States. He was married to the late poet Jane Kenyon who died before growing old, leaving him a lonely man. It's not hard to judge his emotions after reading much of his poetry written after her death - "I rise from the carseat and hobble to the grave of a woman who does not age" or "the hour we lived in, two decades by the pond, has transformed into a single unstoppable day."
Last night we attended the prayer service for a lady who at 65 years of age died too young. When it had concluded, I searched out my brother-in-law and said, "She was our age." He nodded and said something to the effect that we'd better hurry and get some good things done. Enough said.
Monday, February 26, 2007
The Movies
The annual Oscar show last night was a yawner for me. At ten o'clock I went to bed as usual even though it ran until eleven o'clock. I hadn't seen any of the movies or actors at work so it all meant little to me. Some years there is a great piece of music in a movie, but I didn't recognize any of that either. There are some great theaters in Bismarck with the new and comfortable style of stadium seating, but we just haven't been going much.
Movies used to be important, especially so when I was growing up. I bought lots of tickets at the Grand Theater in Enderlin, especially on Saturday nights. Westerns or war movies were a favorite, and the preliminaries added spice. Newsreels played events of the outside world, the Three Stooges made everyone laugh, Mister Magoo, blind as a bat, always avoided the pitfalls, and the Road Runner drove the coyote crazy.
The themes of the movies usually showed the good guys winning, sex beyond an occasional kiss never existed, and we felt like a good story got told. The graphic realism filmed today definitely influences many of our population negatively. I'm sure of that. We are what we eat, we are what we read, we are what we watch, etc., etc., etc.
Movies used to be important, especially so when I was growing up. I bought lots of tickets at the Grand Theater in Enderlin, especially on Saturday nights. Westerns or war movies were a favorite, and the preliminaries added spice. Newsreels played events of the outside world, the Three Stooges made everyone laugh, Mister Magoo, blind as a bat, always avoided the pitfalls, and the Road Runner drove the coyote crazy.
The themes of the movies usually showed the good guys winning, sex beyond an occasional kiss never existed, and we felt like a good story got told. The graphic realism filmed today definitely influences many of our population negatively. I'm sure of that. We are what we eat, we are what we read, we are what we watch, etc., etc., etc.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Bill's Weathered Stirrups
We don't need to read fiction to find interesting characters when so many walk among us in real life. Here is a poem I wrote over the course of a few days when I recalled a memory of him.
Bill's Weathered Stirrups
hung on the wall of the shed,
collectibles to cross
the auction block and pass
to new possession.
After life mostly crawled by
and Bill rode horses
only in his mind,
he gave them to Dad
who taped Bill's name on their edge
to save their history.
I often pondered that pair
of bent wood toe holds
Bill used to keep his seat
in the middle of a horse
when he rode
through tan sand hills
and around blue water sloughs.
I first saw him ride in the 50's,
some event Frieda dreamt up
at the Bohnsack ranch,
with his boots planted in those stirrups.
Oh, my, he stood so tall
in the saddle
with his hawk nose
reaching beyond the filmy glass orb
he wore for an eye.
The master of his own perspective,
he lived in a kind of splendid anonymity.
Few sought him out,
an exception being the evil game warden
who targeted Bill's fish traps in the Sheyenne
and his clandestine deer shining.
Bill always prevailed,
at least in legend.
Pursued at night,
wily Bill
took his poached deer
to bed under covers
to foil the probing eyes
of the warden
who so wanted to catch
him with his prey.
Wise in elemental ways,
he could witch a well,
drive a sand point,
or dehorn your cows,
but I often thought
his doing laundry
meant getting caught
in a rain shower.
Celebrated by the poet McGrath
who named him Bill Dee,
he will live on in that mythical sort
of immortality.
He still rides high in my memory,
sometimes in one of those Model A Fords
he kept coaxing into town
or on that horse
where he rooted his boots into those
weathered stirrups.
Bill's Weathered Stirrups
hung on the wall of the shed,
collectibles to cross
the auction block and pass
to new possession.
After life mostly crawled by
and Bill rode horses
only in his mind,
he gave them to Dad
who taped Bill's name on their edge
to save their history.
I often pondered that pair
of bent wood toe holds
Bill used to keep his seat
in the middle of a horse
when he rode
through tan sand hills
and around blue water sloughs.
I first saw him ride in the 50's,
some event Frieda dreamt up
at the Bohnsack ranch,
with his boots planted in those stirrups.
Oh, my, he stood so tall
in the saddle
with his hawk nose
reaching beyond the filmy glass orb
he wore for an eye.
The master of his own perspective,
he lived in a kind of splendid anonymity.
Few sought him out,
an exception being the evil game warden
who targeted Bill's fish traps in the Sheyenne
and his clandestine deer shining.
Bill always prevailed,
at least in legend.
Pursued at night,
wily Bill
took his poached deer
to bed under covers
to foil the probing eyes
of the warden
who so wanted to catch
him with his prey.
Wise in elemental ways,
he could witch a well,
drive a sand point,
or dehorn your cows,
but I often thought
his doing laundry
meant getting caught
in a rain shower.
Celebrated by the poet McGrath
who named him Bill Dee,
he will live on in that mythical sort
of immortality.
He still rides high in my memory,
sometimes in one of those Model A Fords
he kept coaxing into town
or on that horse
where he rooted his boots into those
weathered stirrups.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
The Fourth Estate
Thank goodness for the Fourth Estate! I don't know the history of that term when being used to identify the disciplines of print and broadcast journalism, but I'm glad it stands as a watchdog for the other three - the executive, judicial, and legislative branches of government. Sure, some journalists act in concert with "evil doers" in government, but enough of them see things for what they are and are not afraid to make the rest of us aware of the problems.
One of my favorite forums to hear journalists take on a variety of matters is the "Imus in the Morning" show that airs on MSNBC from 5:00 to 8:00 each weekday morning. Imus, an irascible curmudgeon, recognizes good stories and knows where to get answers. A major source for him is a widely diverse pack of wolves known as journalists who regularly visit his studio or call in to hash out topics. This week, Dana Priest, an investigative journalist for the Washington Post, wrote an article exposing the bad living conditions at Walter Reed Hospital's outpatient housing. The outrage here is how these veterans wounded in Iraq are being treated. She called Imus and they discussed it at length. The same show featured Tom Friedman of the New York Times and Jonathan Alter of Newsweek as guests, too. Without these people and their wide-eyed and open-eared postures, there are many things we common, tax paying citizens would never learn.
If we had only the President's view on the Iraq situation, we would be subject to whatever he told us. With journalists on the spot reporting, a different picture is painted. With the Fourth Estate's snooping and editorializing on matters such as the situation at the veteran's facility at Walter Reed, they have really reaffirmed two guaranteed freedoms - speech and press.
One of my favorite forums to hear journalists take on a variety of matters is the "Imus in the Morning" show that airs on MSNBC from 5:00 to 8:00 each weekday morning. Imus, an irascible curmudgeon, recognizes good stories and knows where to get answers. A major source for him is a widely diverse pack of wolves known as journalists who regularly visit his studio or call in to hash out topics. This week, Dana Priest, an investigative journalist for the Washington Post, wrote an article exposing the bad living conditions at Walter Reed Hospital's outpatient housing. The outrage here is how these veterans wounded in Iraq are being treated. She called Imus and they discussed it at length. The same show featured Tom Friedman of the New York Times and Jonathan Alter of Newsweek as guests, too. Without these people and their wide-eyed and open-eared postures, there are many things we common, tax paying citizens would never learn.
If we had only the President's view on the Iraq situation, we would be subject to whatever he told us. With journalists on the spot reporting, a different picture is painted. With the Fourth Estate's snooping and editorializing on matters such as the situation at the veteran's facility at Walter Reed, they have really reaffirmed two guaranteed freedoms - speech and press.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Farm Shows
This morning I drove over to Bismarck and wandered around a farm show sponsored by one of the local radio stations. I came away with one impression: the business of agriculture is nothing like I remember. The only reference to livestock on the schedule dealt with "starting a young horse under the saddle" and "equine dental care." Who but a hobby rancher would be interested in these topics? Most of the serious ranchers I know don't even own saddle horses let along work cattle with them. I'd guess the four-wheel ATV interests most of the active ranchers. Financial institutions and leeching insurance agencies abound of the list of exhibitors along with high-tech gadget salesmen. If there are any small farmers left, they wouldn't find much to fit their needs here.
The first agriculture show I attended as a young boy was the Valley City Winter Show. Now, that was a good show that lasted about ten days. Cattle, sheep, hogs, machinery, rodeos, entertainment, numerous display booths, etc. seemed more fun than any carnival midway. Hard times came to that show with the loss of small family farms, and their schedule runs only about half the length as it did previously. Big cattle show can be found still, but I presume it's the high-rollers that everything there caters to. I once attended a rodeo at the Denver Stock Show and remember large crowds roaming around and engaging in serious ag-related discussions in those exhibit areas. Large crowds might still attend, but I'll wager they come for the entertainment. I don't think there's any wisdom in the following statement, but I'll make it anyway: if things never changed, they'd stay the same. Adios.
The first agriculture show I attended as a young boy was the Valley City Winter Show. Now, that was a good show that lasted about ten days. Cattle, sheep, hogs, machinery, rodeos, entertainment, numerous display booths, etc. seemed more fun than any carnival midway. Hard times came to that show with the loss of small family farms, and their schedule runs only about half the length as it did previously. Big cattle show can be found still, but I presume it's the high-rollers that everything there caters to. I once attended a rodeo at the Denver Stock Show and remember large crowds roaming around and engaging in serious ag-related discussions in those exhibit areas. Large crowds might still attend, but I'll wager they come for the entertainment. I don't think there's any wisdom in the following statement, but I'll make it anyway: if things never changed, they'd stay the same. Adios.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Presidents' Day
The birthdays of Presidents Lincoln and Washington used to be red letter days on the calendar, but for reasons I've forgotten they have been combined into one Presidents' Day, a holiday when some of us celebrate with a day off from work while the rest of us don't give a darn. I can't make fun of these two men, though, since they are true icons of this country. Every day we're reminded of them whenever we jingle the change in our pockets with Washington's visage stamped on our quarters and Lincoln's on our pennies. Almost every city has landmarks where streets, schools, or other public sites bear the name of one of them. A year ago a trip we took to the northeastern U. S. put us closer to their historical roots.
Mount Vernon stands prominent on the banks of the Potomac River and walking through his house and grounds gives a person a broader perspective on Washington's life. Visiting the Washington Monument in Washington, D. C. still remains an interesting experience for me. It stands tall, slender, and inviting in the city landscape. A popular visitor destination, we had to wait in line for a time before riding an elevator to the top. I noticed riflemen standing on the rooftops of a couple of buildings, but with increased security being the new normal, I wasn't particularly intrugued by it. When we reached the visitors' deck in the monument, I looked northward to the White House. Soon I discovered the reason for the presence of the riflemen. A flight of three helicopters approached the White House, then two of them, decoys, abruptly veered off and a third one settled on the lawn. Sure enough, after a minute or two, out steps the President and First Lady Laura. The next time I looked the riflement no longer stood on the rooftops.
A visit to the Gettysburg Battlefield took us a bit closer to the spirit of Lincoln. Here he delivered his famous Gettysburg Address, something most of us were made to memorize in grade school. After walking on this killing field, I found his words taking on greater meaning. It would be hard to stand beside those cannons on the battlefield and not feel saddened by thoughts of the huge loss of life they caused. Monuments and plaques are plentiful, and they tell a big story that one could spend a great deal of time studying. For a souvenir I bent down to pick up an acorn. I've since thought maybe the roots of those trees have been nourished by the blood spilled on that ground. I'm reminded of that every time I hold it in my hand.
Mount Vernon stands prominent on the banks of the Potomac River and walking through his house and grounds gives a person a broader perspective on Washington's life. Visiting the Washington Monument in Washington, D. C. still remains an interesting experience for me. It stands tall, slender, and inviting in the city landscape. A popular visitor destination, we had to wait in line for a time before riding an elevator to the top. I noticed riflemen standing on the rooftops of a couple of buildings, but with increased security being the new normal, I wasn't particularly intrugued by it. When we reached the visitors' deck in the monument, I looked northward to the White House. Soon I discovered the reason for the presence of the riflemen. A flight of three helicopters approached the White House, then two of them, decoys, abruptly veered off and a third one settled on the lawn. Sure enough, after a minute or two, out steps the President and First Lady Laura. The next time I looked the riflement no longer stood on the rooftops.
A visit to the Gettysburg Battlefield took us a bit closer to the spirit of Lincoln. Here he delivered his famous Gettysburg Address, something most of us were made to memorize in grade school. After walking on this killing field, I found his words taking on greater meaning. It would be hard to stand beside those cannons on the battlefield and not feel saddened by thoughts of the huge loss of life they caused. Monuments and plaques are plentiful, and they tell a big story that one could spend a great deal of time studying. For a souvenir I bent down to pick up an acorn. I've since thought maybe the roots of those trees have been nourished by the blood spilled on that ground. I'm reminded of that every time I hold it in my hand.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Clouds of Steam
Today I'm one day past my 65th birthday. Yesterday Mother Nature laughed and threw a minus thirty-four degree morning in my honor. It's hard to think of ice water being warm, but the colder air temperature hitting patches of open water on the Missouri River created thick clouds of steam that rose from the riverbed and hung so that traffic on the Grant Marsh Bridge had to slow. Once through it, though, the usual speeding cars whizzed by, many of the drivers pressing their ever-present cell phones to their ears. Severe weather conditions used to be a barrier to easy living. We had respect for nature, a fear of winter storms. The recent snow storms in the eastern part of the country caught people unaware, so much so that a fifty mile traffic jam formed on a freeway that stranded people in their cars for more than a day.
It's funny what clouds of steam can do to a 65 year old brain since they took me back to my youth. Clouds of steam rose, too, from the silage pile when the fork tore into it to fill feed pails, steam rolled out of the warm barn when the door opened, steam hung over the water tank after a drinking hole had been chopped into the ice, and when a herd of cows relieved themselves, columns of steam climbed skyward from their puddles and pies.
For whatever happened earlier in the day, one scene stood out the strongest. Driving in the country south of Menoken, a bald eagle flew low across the road, its white head and tail feathers glowing bright white against the gray sky. Eagles could hardly be found in years past, but with their comeback in this area, I still marvel at their beauty.
It's funny what clouds of steam can do to a 65 year old brain since they took me back to my youth. Clouds of steam rose, too, from the silage pile when the fork tore into it to fill feed pails, steam rolled out of the warm barn when the door opened, steam hung over the water tank after a drinking hole had been chopped into the ice, and when a herd of cows relieved themselves, columns of steam climbed skyward from their puddles and pies.
For whatever happened earlier in the day, one scene stood out the strongest. Driving in the country south of Menoken, a bald eagle flew low across the road, its white head and tail feathers glowing bright white against the gray sky. Eagles could hardly be found in years past, but with their comeback in this area, I still marvel at their beauty.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
North to Alaska
This past weekend one of the movie channels on TV played North to Alaska, a fact that does not cause the earth to tremble or even set a slight breeze to blowing. But it took me back, back to the time when I watched it at least four or five times. For reasons that lurk somewhere in my psyche that movie, coupled with Johnny Horton's catchy song by the same name, appealed to me. Alaska was being proclaimed in the media as the last frontier and the allure proved too much for me to resist, so in the fall of 1968, almost 39 years ago, I gassed and loaded my Impala to head out for the great adventure.
A lot of country lay ahead of me on that long road so I won't even begin to recount it here, even if I was inclined to. It took me seven days to reach Anchorage after driving through Montana, Alberta, British Columbia, Yukon Territory, and Alaska. The Alaskan Highway still consisted of several hundred miles of gravel surface. It rained steadily, reducing stretches of it to slippery muck. Literature is filled with wanderers, and I had become one. My previous employment had proven stifling. I wanted to get out and see the sea, climb some mountains, cross fast running rivers, and drive until I reached the horizon and then drive some more.
The story ended with my arrival in Greeley, Colorado where I enrolled in graduate school. There's lots of story between Anchorage and Greeley, but that can come another time.
A lot of country lay ahead of me on that long road so I won't even begin to recount it here, even if I was inclined to. It took me seven days to reach Anchorage after driving through Montana, Alberta, British Columbia, Yukon Territory, and Alaska. The Alaskan Highway still consisted of several hundred miles of gravel surface. It rained steadily, reducing stretches of it to slippery muck. Literature is filled with wanderers, and I had become one. My previous employment had proven stifling. I wanted to get out and see the sea, climb some mountains, cross fast running rivers, and drive until I reached the horizon and then drive some more.
The story ended with my arrival in Greeley, Colorado where I enrolled in graduate school. There's lots of story between Anchorage and Greeley, but that can come another time.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Citing Poetry
Op-Ed writers have started dipping into vats of poetry when trying to make sense of our present state of affairs. The New York Times makes available their headlines through a free on-line subscription. If something catches your eye you can download the article and read away. That is something I did yesterday when I read "What W. B. Yeats' 'Second Coming' Really Says About the Iraq War." The first stanza of that poem furnishes many quotable bits that writers are seizing on in their arguments. That stanza goes like this:
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
This op-ed writer argues that Yeats did not intend the poem to a scenario like the Iraq War. Little matter. The poem is fertile ground for writers to steal well-turned phrases from, and it takes only a little imagination to make appropriate connections. Then, in yesterday's local paper a local writer pointed to the beauty of language in poems like Wallace Stevens' "Peter Quince at the Clavier," T. S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," and W. E. Henley's "Invictus." These references sent me scrambling to my poetry anthologies to refresh my memory of them. In abrupt counterpoint, our local pundit said we will have to leave the "gentleness of pleasant
thoughts" and choose words with "the weight of blunt instruments, the keenness of Toledo steel" to fight the dangers that confront us. I know that attention to poetry rises and falls. It looks like the poets are being noticed again.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
This op-ed writer argues that Yeats did not intend the poem to a scenario like the Iraq War. Little matter. The poem is fertile ground for writers to steal well-turned phrases from, and it takes only a little imagination to make appropriate connections. Then, in yesterday's local paper a local writer pointed to the beauty of language in poems like Wallace Stevens' "Peter Quince at the Clavier," T. S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," and W. E. Henley's "Invictus." These references sent me scrambling to my poetry anthologies to refresh my memory of them. In abrupt counterpoint, our local pundit said we will have to leave the "gentleness of pleasant
thoughts" and choose words with "the weight of blunt instruments, the keenness of Toledo steel" to fight the dangers that confront us. I know that attention to poetry rises and falls. It looks like the poets are being noticed again.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Happiness
The clergyman at the church I attended Sunday asked the question "What is happiness?" He went on to read several examples proffered by various individuals, and in conclusion he defined happiness in accord with religious principles, something which I don't even remember now. But it is a provocative question and makes me try to define what I think happiness is. After debating this with myself for awhile I can verbalize what makes me happy. Happiness is possessing the emotional freedom to enjoy the moment. Everyone desires nirvana, and I'm probably closer to it now than at any other time in my life.
Happiness is a mighty elusive animal. It prowls around dark corners and hides in caves daring us to bag it in the always-open hunting season. When on the hunt I sometimes spotted it slinking along the far hill named Weekend, often times camouflaged on the one called Next Summer, and always well-hidden on the cloudy summit of Retirement. Wishing my life away by always looking to the future never provided the intended results. Now I've climbed Tomorrow. I'm a senior citizen. As of the first of this month I became a card-carrying Medicare recipient, and on the fifteenth I will turn 65 years old. Luckily, I have been freed from many fetters, and the view from this hilltop is great!
...
Slogan seen on a t-shirt: Lutefisk - the piece of cod that passeth all understanding.
Happiness is a mighty elusive animal. It prowls around dark corners and hides in caves daring us to bag it in the always-open hunting season. When on the hunt I sometimes spotted it slinking along the far hill named Weekend, often times camouflaged on the one called Next Summer, and always well-hidden on the cloudy summit of Retirement. Wishing my life away by always looking to the future never provided the intended results. Now I've climbed Tomorrow. I'm a senior citizen. As of the first of this month I became a card-carrying Medicare recipient, and on the fifteenth I will turn 65 years old. Luckily, I have been freed from many fetters, and the view from this hilltop is great!
...
Slogan seen on a t-shirt: Lutefisk - the piece of cod that passeth all understanding.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Unicameral System
An animal born and raised in a cage thinks of its world in terms of that space. If the keepers provide its basic needs of food and shelter, it is probably satisfied that that is all there is. I know lots of people who'd resent being compared to a caged animal, but I see little difference because we, too, get used to living within the confines of our space as defined by church, government, social class, etc.
A talk show host from this area loves to rattle cages. North Dakota's money surplus bulges with about six hundred million dollars, and he rails against our conservative state legislature since they spend a lot of time talking about establishing "rainy day funds" instead of returning the money to the taxpayers. His solution to making the state house and senate more responsive to the citizens' wishes would be to operate the state with a unicameral system of government, much like Nebraska's. I remember studying the unicameral system in a university political science class over forty-five years ago, so he is not plowing new ground here, but it's good we are reminded that something different exists out there.
My thesis in all this is that we become so comfortable in our cages that we feel uncomfortable in stepping out of the boundaries to try something different. At any rate, the debate would be invigorating. There are many other areas that could be scrutinized and updated such as our presidential electoral system, tax system, foreign trade issues, health care, social security, border issues, etc., but they will be fodder for another day.
A talk show host from this area loves to rattle cages. North Dakota's money surplus bulges with about six hundred million dollars, and he rails against our conservative state legislature since they spend a lot of time talking about establishing "rainy day funds" instead of returning the money to the taxpayers. His solution to making the state house and senate more responsive to the citizens' wishes would be to operate the state with a unicameral system of government, much like Nebraska's. I remember studying the unicameral system in a university political science class over forty-five years ago, so he is not plowing new ground here, but it's good we are reminded that something different exists out there.
My thesis in all this is that we become so comfortable in our cages that we feel uncomfortable in stepping out of the boundaries to try something different. At any rate, the debate would be invigorating. There are many other areas that could be scrutinized and updated such as our presidential electoral system, tax system, foreign trade issues, health care, social security, border issues, etc., but they will be fodder for another day.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Last Story from Texas
A mural in the capitol building in Austin depicts the five flags of different countries that owned or controlled the area of Texas at various times in its history: U.S., Republic of Texas, Mexico, Spain, and France. The early Spanish ownership with their language, in conjunction with the influence of the Catholic church missionaries, lent a lot of names and identity to places in that region. The city of Corpus Christi translates as the Body of Christ. San Antonio comes from St. Anthony. A creek named Santa Gertrudis gave its name to the breed of cattle developed on the King Ranch, the creek in turn named for St. Gertrude. (The fact that the parish church we were married in shares its name with this breed of cattle seems a bit humorous.) The Mexican dictator who led the onslaught and slaughter at the Alamo had the unlikely surname Santa Anna. Saint Anne was the mother of Mary, who in turn was the mother of Jesus.
The Brazos River ran through Waco. While walking over a suspension bridge there, I learned the full name of the river was Brazos de Dios, or the Arms of God. Our Waco guide told me that when this bridge got built, Waco earned the nickname of Six-Shooter Junction because of the increased lawlessness that came with more access across this bridge. The bridge was the prototype for the Brooklyn Bridge. Its designer did his practicing here.
With that I'm going to end my Texas stories. Texas is a big place and has many things to experience. I could go on and recall the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum, the aircraft carrier Lexington docked in Corpus Christi and converted to a museum, Dirty Al's on South Padre Island where I ate the best seafood ever, our day trip across the border to Metamoros, Tex-Mex cooking, walking on the sands of the Gulf of Mexico, the unseasonably cold weather down there, etc. But that trip has to end. I want to think about other things now.
The Brazos River ran through Waco. While walking over a suspension bridge there, I learned the full name of the river was Brazos de Dios, or the Arms of God. Our Waco guide told me that when this bridge got built, Waco earned the nickname of Six-Shooter Junction because of the increased lawlessness that came with more access across this bridge. The bridge was the prototype for the Brooklyn Bridge. Its designer did his practicing here.
With that I'm going to end my Texas stories. Texas is a big place and has many things to experience. I could go on and recall the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum, the aircraft carrier Lexington docked in Corpus Christi and converted to a museum, Dirty Al's on South Padre Island where I ate the best seafood ever, our day trip across the border to Metamoros, Tex-Mex cooking, walking on the sands of the Gulf of Mexico, the unseasonably cold weather down there, etc. But that trip has to end. I want to think about other things now.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Texas Story, # 5
One time I thought I would like to see the presidential libraries and/or memorial sites of each of the U. S. Presidents. I know now that will probably not occur, but I have been able to see some of them including the ones for Washington, Jefferson, Kennedy, Truman, Eisenhower, Coolidge, and now with this trip, LBJ. It would be hard to go to Texas and ignore LBJ's historical presence, and fortunately our tour included it.
The library and museum are located on the sprawling University of Texas campus. A very friendly and talkative volunteer met us when we entered. I asked her if she had known LBJ. "No," she answered, "but I feel like I did." In some ways I feel like I did, too. The museum is much like other presidential museums and includes a duplicate of the oval office he sat in at the White House. The building stands several stories tall to hold all the documents and memorabilia from his Presidency. Our stay was too short but informative.
The following day our guide directed us westward to the LBJ National Historical Park located fifty miles or more from Austin. I can still hear him as if it were yesterday when he spoke of the beloved hill country where he was born and raised. The park ranger drove us through this site in their own bus and showed us his humble beginnings. The buildings of his youth looked much like any other buildings where people need to work hard for a living, nothing fancy. Even the summer White House was rather plain. I came away most impressed with the family burial plot, his resting place, where we stood in the rain to see his tombstone set amidst the rest of his family's. It was a simple marker identical to the other grave stones except it dimensions measured only a bit larger.
The always present gift shop awaited, and we made our obligatory stop. I'm glad we did since I bought a copy of the book he had written, The Vantage Point, after leaving office. I believe he was a well-intentioned man but was drug down and out by the Vietnam War. I know he was strong on civil rights, and I enjoyed reading an anecdote he wrote that I believe illustrated his compassion for minorities. He wrote, "When I was in the Senate, we had an extra car to take back to Texas at the close of each congressional session. Usually my Negro employees ... drove the car to the ranch for us ... On one of those trips I asked Gene if he would take my beagle dog with them in the car." The employee did not act very willing to do so. Upon questioning, he told LBJ that the trip took three days, blacks had a hard time finding a place to eat and sleep in the segregated South, and their dog-sitting the Beagle would make it just that much harder. Here Johnson said, "I knew that such discrimination existed throughout the South. We all knew it. But somehow we had deluded ourselves into believing that the black people around us were happy and satisfied; into thinking that the bad and ugly things were going on somewhere else, happening to other people."
The library and museum are located on the sprawling University of Texas campus. A very friendly and talkative volunteer met us when we entered. I asked her if she had known LBJ. "No," she answered, "but I feel like I did." In some ways I feel like I did, too. The museum is much like other presidential museums and includes a duplicate of the oval office he sat in at the White House. The building stands several stories tall to hold all the documents and memorabilia from his Presidency. Our stay was too short but informative.
The following day our guide directed us westward to the LBJ National Historical Park located fifty miles or more from Austin. I can still hear him as if it were yesterday when he spoke of the beloved hill country where he was born and raised. The park ranger drove us through this site in their own bus and showed us his humble beginnings. The buildings of his youth looked much like any other buildings where people need to work hard for a living, nothing fancy. Even the summer White House was rather plain. I came away most impressed with the family burial plot, his resting place, where we stood in the rain to see his tombstone set amidst the rest of his family's. It was a simple marker identical to the other grave stones except it dimensions measured only a bit larger.
The always present gift shop awaited, and we made our obligatory stop. I'm glad we did since I bought a copy of the book he had written, The Vantage Point, after leaving office. I believe he was a well-intentioned man but was drug down and out by the Vietnam War. I know he was strong on civil rights, and I enjoyed reading an anecdote he wrote that I believe illustrated his compassion for minorities. He wrote, "When I was in the Senate, we had an extra car to take back to Texas at the close of each congressional session. Usually my Negro employees ... drove the car to the ranch for us ... On one of those trips I asked Gene if he would take my beagle dog with them in the car." The employee did not act very willing to do so. Upon questioning, he told LBJ that the trip took three days, blacks had a hard time finding a place to eat and sleep in the segregated South, and their dog-sitting the Beagle would make it just that much harder. Here Johnson said, "I knew that such discrimination existed throughout the South. We all knew it. But somehow we had deluded ourselves into believing that the black people around us were happy and satisfied; into thinking that the bad and ugly things were going on somewhere else, happening to other people."
Friday, February 02, 2007
Texas Story, # 4
The King Ranch in Texas spreads large on the prairie, about 825,000 acres large. A local down there told us ranchers don't usually speak in terms of acres, instead they talk about sections. Given that yardstick, the King Ranch contains about 1290 sections. Townships are a meaningful measurement to me with their standard area of 36 sections and with simple division I find the ranch is almost 36 townships big! Counties vary a lot in size but that must be about two or three North Dakota counties.
Our guide for the day, a longtime King Ranch employee, talked some about the profitability of their various animals and told us the surprising rank order of most profitable to least: 1. Bobwhite quail, 2. deer, 3. cattle, and 4. horses. They lease out huge tracts of land to large corporations for the hunting rights.
Water is the limiting factor in this part of the country. It took about 400 wells to fill their needs. They don't irrigate anything and don't even try to control cactus growth because cactus with the spines singed off serves as cattle feed in drought conditions.
To find a breed of cattle that did well they developed them with their own breeding program. Their Santa Gertrudis cattle (named from the nearby creek) consists of a cross of 5/8 Shorthorn blood and 3/8 Brahma. They have developed another breed, Santa Cruz, with 1/2 Santa Gertrudis genes and 1/4 each of Red Angus and Gelbvieh. All their cattle wear the desirable red color they say because it's more compatible with the climate. Their quarter horses, too, are sorrel colored for the same reason.
I wondered it they took credit for things they didn't do. Woven wire fenced their pasture land, and the guide said they on the ranch developed it in the early 20th century. Barbed wire scratched the animals and insects attacked the wounds. Woven wire was something I had always worked with, and I never would have dreamed it was developed down there. We used it to keep small pigs in the fence.
Sixty thousand cattle, 300 quarter horses, a huge farming operation with fields blackened as far as we could see, plus citrus groves in Florida, and other ventures they dabble in started to boggle my mind. Family members want more income, and they cast about looking for ways to get it. The ranch is in the hands of the sixth generation, and they intend to keep it viable.
Our guide for the day, a longtime King Ranch employee, talked some about the profitability of their various animals and told us the surprising rank order of most profitable to least: 1. Bobwhite quail, 2. deer, 3. cattle, and 4. horses. They lease out huge tracts of land to large corporations for the hunting rights.
Water is the limiting factor in this part of the country. It took about 400 wells to fill their needs. They don't irrigate anything and don't even try to control cactus growth because cactus with the spines singed off serves as cattle feed in drought conditions.
To find a breed of cattle that did well they developed them with their own breeding program. Their Santa Gertrudis cattle (named from the nearby creek) consists of a cross of 5/8 Shorthorn blood and 3/8 Brahma. They have developed another breed, Santa Cruz, with 1/2 Santa Gertrudis genes and 1/4 each of Red Angus and Gelbvieh. All their cattle wear the desirable red color they say because it's more compatible with the climate. Their quarter horses, too, are sorrel colored for the same reason.
I wondered it they took credit for things they didn't do. Woven wire fenced their pasture land, and the guide said they on the ranch developed it in the early 20th century. Barbed wire scratched the animals and insects attacked the wounds. Woven wire was something I had always worked with, and I never would have dreamed it was developed down there. We used it to keep small pigs in the fence.
Sixty thousand cattle, 300 quarter horses, a huge farming operation with fields blackened as far as we could see, plus citrus groves in Florida, and other ventures they dabble in started to boggle my mind. Family members want more income, and they cast about looking for ways to get it. The ranch is in the hands of the sixth generation, and they intend to keep it viable.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Texas Story, # 3
Today the northwest wind pushed hard on the front corner of our state car and tried to veer us into the ditch as we headed north to McClusky. More than a squall but less than a blizzard, the ground drifting did little to slow us up. I thought again of our recent trip and was taken to the scene of the horrendous explosion that destroyed the Federal Building in Oklahoma City.
We reached that site on the evening of our second day as we pressed south to Texas. The sun had set in a clear sky, and we watched stars begin to twinkle as we arrived in the city. After a hurried supper we traveled a short ten minutes to the National Memorial and Museum which honors the many who died there. Here occurred one of those incidents when a person can remember where he was and what he was doing when news of it spread. I was attending a meeting in Denver, and a crowd gathered in the hotel lobby watching a TV set where those live scenes aired and burned into our memories.
The memorial's lighting system copied itself on the still water of the reflecting pool. We walked silently past empty chairs placed in perfect rows, one for each person killed. A smaller version of them sat there for each of the small children who lost their lives. A gnarled, misshapen tree grew crookedly beside the pond. The blast had not killed it, only deformed it, and they have named it the Survivor Tree.
Across the street but not part of the memorial stood a statue that drew some of us to it. The Catholic church, rather than rebuild the rectory destroyed here by the blast, chose to mount a large likeness of Christ with his back turned to the destruction. He stands with his head buried in his hands and is aptly named from the shortest verse in the Bible "Jesus wept."
Never have I visited a more solemn place than this, all created by the senseless mindset of someone following his misguided and self-styled dogma.
We reached that site on the evening of our second day as we pressed south to Texas. The sun had set in a clear sky, and we watched stars begin to twinkle as we arrived in the city. After a hurried supper we traveled a short ten minutes to the National Memorial and Museum which honors the many who died there. Here occurred one of those incidents when a person can remember where he was and what he was doing when news of it spread. I was attending a meeting in Denver, and a crowd gathered in the hotel lobby watching a TV set where those live scenes aired and burned into our memories.
The memorial's lighting system copied itself on the still water of the reflecting pool. We walked silently past empty chairs placed in perfect rows, one for each person killed. A smaller version of them sat there for each of the small children who lost their lives. A gnarled, misshapen tree grew crookedly beside the pond. The blast had not killed it, only deformed it, and they have named it the Survivor Tree.
Across the street but not part of the memorial stood a statue that drew some of us to it. The Catholic church, rather than rebuild the rectory destroyed here by the blast, chose to mount a large likeness of Christ with his back turned to the destruction. He stands with his head buried in his hands and is aptly named from the shortest verse in the Bible "Jesus wept."
Never have I visited a more solemn place than this, all created by the senseless mindset of someone following his misguided and self-styled dogma.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Texas Story, # 2
When I think back on our recent trip to southern Texas, the images do not come in chronological order. Today I am thinking of San Antonio. The English translation of that name is Saint Anthony, the Catholic saint, but I will write more about the Spanish influence on that region's proper and common nouns another day.
We reached San Antonio late on the third day. An interesting stop in Fort Worth at the historic stockyards took up part of the day, and slow-moving evening rush-hour traffic through Austin ate up another hour. Heavy traffic does not seem to bother the bus driver for these Farmer's Union tours we take, a fact I can verify after riding with him in cities like New York, Boston, Seattle, etc. during other tours.
A city guide joined us in the morning. We learned from her that San Antonio is the nation's seventh largest city as we made our way to the SAS footwear factory. Who knew that SAS stood for San Antonio Shoes? It looked like 100% of the workers were Hispanics and most of them women. When we watched them work, it became obvious that the SAS brand is a high-quality product. A factory outlet store just happened to be located on the premises, and our group bought quite a few pairs. I asked the plant guide if there was any danger of this plant moving to the cheap-labor of China and was told that the owners were very adamant about staying right where they were. The last major activity of the day was a leisurely cruise on the San Antonio River that wound between the shops, restaurants, hotels, and condos that have developed along the water's edge.
The original development of this area can be traced to the establishment of missions by the Spanish priests. Our first stop on the following morning was the San Fernando Cathedral where the large back altar gleamed from the genuine gold used in its construction. Next, we walked through the Spanish Governor's Palace, a low, rambling limestone structure built in 1722. Rather primitive, it served as suitable shelter for the time. An IMAX film, "Thirteen Fateful Days in 1836" prepared us for the tour of the Alamo. That site is primitive and weathered, too, and still shows the cannon ball and musket ball holes in its sides. Its walls hold a wealth of history, myths, and legends.
A Tex-Mex dinner at the Mi Tierra cafe satisfied our appetites with an abundance of good food. A roving trio of musicians sang their songs and strummed their guitars, for a fee, under the extravagantly tinseled-ceiling that sparkled and danced in the low light. A last stop for the day's schedule was the San Jose Mission built in 1720. The several missions in this area were built in a line, each about one day's journey from the last. Shelter could be found in them for any weary travelers from the nighttime dangers that lurked outside the mission walls. The San Jose Mission exists yet as it looked then with its four walls still standing and enclosing a large area for livestock to be herded into. The cathedral needs lots of restoration work but remains an active parish and a very popular wedding site.
We reached San Antonio late on the third day. An interesting stop in Fort Worth at the historic stockyards took up part of the day, and slow-moving evening rush-hour traffic through Austin ate up another hour. Heavy traffic does not seem to bother the bus driver for these Farmer's Union tours we take, a fact I can verify after riding with him in cities like New York, Boston, Seattle, etc. during other tours.
A city guide joined us in the morning. We learned from her that San Antonio is the nation's seventh largest city as we made our way to the SAS footwear factory. Who knew that SAS stood for San Antonio Shoes? It looked like 100% of the workers were Hispanics and most of them women. When we watched them work, it became obvious that the SAS brand is a high-quality product. A factory outlet store just happened to be located on the premises, and our group bought quite a few pairs. I asked the plant guide if there was any danger of this plant moving to the cheap-labor of China and was told that the owners were very adamant about staying right where they were. The last major activity of the day was a leisurely cruise on the San Antonio River that wound between the shops, restaurants, hotels, and condos that have developed along the water's edge.
The original development of this area can be traced to the establishment of missions by the Spanish priests. Our first stop on the following morning was the San Fernando Cathedral where the large back altar gleamed from the genuine gold used in its construction. Next, we walked through the Spanish Governor's Palace, a low, rambling limestone structure built in 1722. Rather primitive, it served as suitable shelter for the time. An IMAX film, "Thirteen Fateful Days in 1836" prepared us for the tour of the Alamo. That site is primitive and weathered, too, and still shows the cannon ball and musket ball holes in its sides. Its walls hold a wealth of history, myths, and legends.
A Tex-Mex dinner at the Mi Tierra cafe satisfied our appetites with an abundance of good food. A roving trio of musicians sang their songs and strummed their guitars, for a fee, under the extravagantly tinseled-ceiling that sparkled and danced in the low light. A last stop for the day's schedule was the San Jose Mission built in 1720. The several missions in this area were built in a line, each about one day's journey from the last. Shelter could be found in them for any weary travelers from the nighttime dangers that lurked outside the mission walls. The San Jose Mission exists yet as it looked then with its four walls still standing and enclosing a large area for livestock to be herded into. The cathedral needs lots of restoration work but remains an active parish and a very popular wedding site.
Monday, January 29, 2007
First Texas Story
We made it home after our trip to Texas and points in-between. Time had started to drag because Mary and I both caught what we thought to be head colds but turned out to be, with a doctor's diagnosis, sinus infections. The weather was mostly cold, wet, and windy. Conditions were rife for colds, and within the confines of our tour bus there was much coughing and hacking to be heard. Some prescribed antibiotics and cough syrup seem to be doing their jobs, so everything should be back to normal soon.
Last night we ate fresh corn muffins, a treat baked from the flour we bought near Waco, Texas at an agriculture-based Christian community named Homestead Heritage located on a 350 acre patch of ground. They termed themselves non-denominational and used a lot of modern devices such as cell phones, computers, automobiles, etc. Their farming methods, though, were conducted by old, labor-intensive methods. Draught horses pulled their machinery, foot-pedaled potter's wheels turned clay for shaping into pots and vases, a running stream powered the mill stones to grind the flour, and carpenters used hand tools to craft their furniture.
This community started in 1973 with one of their goals being to escape the corporate world's pressures and demands and turn to this simpler way of life. They eagerly demonstrated their crafts and welcomed the business we gave them, including the cost of the noon luncheon they prepared for us using all-natural foods produced on their farm.
They freely admitted that they were learning as they went along. They illuminated a few old wise sayings that they had learned the meaning of. For example, "keep your nose to the grindstone" was important because when the clearance between the two millstones was correct, a certain odor emanated from the grain grinding process telling them things were right. "The rule of thumb" came when the miller took some flour and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. If a ball of flour sat as a small lump on the finger, the grind was good. "Strike while the iron is hot" came from the world of the blacksmith and basically speaks for itself. A blacksmith could tell from the color of the hot iron if it was at the proper temperature for working with his hammer on the anvil. The origination of the term "threshold" interested me most. (When a groom carries his bride over the threshold, he never thinks of this.) Shocks of grain were brought to an open shed and a flail knocked the kernels from the stalks. Then it was all winnowed or tossed into the air for the breeze to carry away the chaff, leaving the thresh or kernels on the floor. As the pile of grain built up, a board was placed across the bottom of the open door to hold the thresh in; thus the word threshold came into the vocabulary.
Last night we ate fresh corn muffins, a treat baked from the flour we bought near Waco, Texas at an agriculture-based Christian community named Homestead Heritage located on a 350 acre patch of ground. They termed themselves non-denominational and used a lot of modern devices such as cell phones, computers, automobiles, etc. Their farming methods, though, were conducted by old, labor-intensive methods. Draught horses pulled their machinery, foot-pedaled potter's wheels turned clay for shaping into pots and vases, a running stream powered the mill stones to grind the flour, and carpenters used hand tools to craft their furniture.
This community started in 1973 with one of their goals being to escape the corporate world's pressures and demands and turn to this simpler way of life. They eagerly demonstrated their crafts and welcomed the business we gave them, including the cost of the noon luncheon they prepared for us using all-natural foods produced on their farm.
They freely admitted that they were learning as they went along. They illuminated a few old wise sayings that they had learned the meaning of. For example, "keep your nose to the grindstone" was important because when the clearance between the two millstones was correct, a certain odor emanated from the grain grinding process telling them things were right. "The rule of thumb" came when the miller took some flour and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. If a ball of flour sat as a small lump on the finger, the grind was good. "Strike while the iron is hot" came from the world of the blacksmith and basically speaks for itself. A blacksmith could tell from the color of the hot iron if it was at the proper temperature for working with his hammer on the anvil. The origination of the term "threshold" interested me most. (When a groom carries his bride over the threshold, he never thinks of this.) Shocks of grain were brought to an open shed and a flail knocked the kernels from the stalks. Then it was all winnowed or tossed into the air for the breeze to carry away the chaff, leaving the thresh or kernels on the floor. As the pile of grain built up, a board was placed across the bottom of the open door to hold the thresh in; thus the word threshold came into the vocabulary.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Vocabulary
I often wish that my vocabulary were larger. Too many foolish years spent enjoying myself cut deeply into my serious side when I should have been learning more. I remember a couple of words from the early days that have stuck with me, one of which was the word ennui. That word came to light in Mrs. Vitus's English class; its simple definition is "boredom." Which classical story it sat in I've forgotten, maybe something by Hemingway. Anyway, it's stayed with me.
Another word came to me at quite a young age through my favorite radio drama, The Lone Ranger. Man, how I relished the adventures of him mounted on a horse named Silver and his trusty sidekick, Tonto, who rode obediently along with him. (In those days before political correctness, it was still all right to have an Indian sidekick.) One's imagination needed to be active to picture the scenes where he righted all the wrongs he found. Anyway, he used the word naive one time to describe someone in his world, and while I had an idea of its definition through its context, I had to clarify it as soon as I figured out how to spell it and get to a dictionary where I found it meant an "almost foolish lack of worldly wisdom."
English teachers loved to make the assignment for us to write new words in an original sentence. Here's one: I suffer ennui when I listen to naive politicians. With that I believe I will go on vacation to a warm climate. Check back in three weeks.
Another word came to me at quite a young age through my favorite radio drama, The Lone Ranger. Man, how I relished the adventures of him mounted on a horse named Silver and his trusty sidekick, Tonto, who rode obediently along with him. (In those days before political correctness, it was still all right to have an Indian sidekick.) One's imagination needed to be active to picture the scenes where he righted all the wrongs he found. Anyway, he used the word naive one time to describe someone in his world, and while I had an idea of its definition through its context, I had to clarify it as soon as I figured out how to spell it and get to a dictionary where I found it meant an "almost foolish lack of worldly wisdom."
English teachers loved to make the assignment for us to write new words in an original sentence. Here's one: I suffer ennui when I listen to naive politicians. With that I believe I will go on vacation to a warm climate. Check back in three weeks.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
First Impressions
On thing on each week's must-do list requires my reading Newsweek magazine cover to cover. The current issue contains informative articles. One article caused me to stop and think things over. It was not one of the several pieces dealing with recent deaths: Gerald R. Ford, "Ford's Long Shadow"; nor Saddam Hussein, "Death of a Tyrant"; nor James Brown, "James Brown, 1933-2006. I paused to mull over the regularly featured "My Turn."
"My Turn" is a column inviting anyone to submit well-written essays with a topic of their choosing. A lady from Bend, Oregon penned "The Importance of Being Neighborly." She spoke of the friendship she formed with a neighbor after getting to know him even though "... he looked intimidating, with his full grizzled beard and scraggly hair, his seedy t-shirt, tattered flannel shirt and ragged jeans." He turned out to be good-natured and very helpful to her, something she discovered others thought of him, too. His unexpected death came as a shock to them and her young daughter said, "...it wasn't fair that we didn't get a chance to say good-bye."
This tale made me think of mistaken first impressions I've gotten when first meeting people. Fancy cars, big houses and flashy jewelry, I've learned, often indicate large debt with little positive worth. I suspect lots of worry and hand-wringing occurs each month when their bills arrive. I served on a jury that found guilty a man who bilked money from gullible investors. More than once in testimony, victims talked of the big car he drove and the large diamond ring he wore. They trusted him and his sure-fire money deals because he looked personally successful. His "bling" proved to be a set of decoys enticing this flock into his pond where he harvested without limit. His facade was rented!
I've known some pretty crusty coots who proved themselves to be great people. Old cliches or maxims like "beauty is only skin deep," "you can't judge a book by its cover," or "a diamond in the rough" describe some of them very well.
"My Turn" is a column inviting anyone to submit well-written essays with a topic of their choosing. A lady from Bend, Oregon penned "The Importance of Being Neighborly." She spoke of the friendship she formed with a neighbor after getting to know him even though "... he looked intimidating, with his full grizzled beard and scraggly hair, his seedy t-shirt, tattered flannel shirt and ragged jeans." He turned out to be good-natured and very helpful to her, something she discovered others thought of him, too. His unexpected death came as a shock to them and her young daughter said, "...it wasn't fair that we didn't get a chance to say good-bye."
This tale made me think of mistaken first impressions I've gotten when first meeting people. Fancy cars, big houses and flashy jewelry, I've learned, often indicate large debt with little positive worth. I suspect lots of worry and hand-wringing occurs each month when their bills arrive. I served on a jury that found guilty a man who bilked money from gullible investors. More than once in testimony, victims talked of the big car he drove and the large diamond ring he wore. They trusted him and his sure-fire money deals because he looked personally successful. His "bling" proved to be a set of decoys enticing this flock into his pond where he harvested without limit. His facade was rented!
I've known some pretty crusty coots who proved themselves to be great people. Old cliches or maxims like "beauty is only skin deep," "you can't judge a book by its cover," or "a diamond in the rough" describe some of them very well.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Today
The Gerald R. Ford funeral ceremonies concluded today. All of them understated the magnitude of the man and what he did during his short term in office: uniting the country after the Nixon storm wreaked damage. It has been gratifying to see political opponents come together to give kind words and oratory regarding his personal and political life. Jimmy Carter almost broke down with his concluding remarks, "I want to thank my predecessor for all he did to heal our land." Teddy Kennedy reportedly said at one time he was wrong for criticizing Ford when he pardoned Nixon. Some Presidents appear better in retrospect. Ford owns membership in that club. He endears with statements like this, "I'm a Ford, not a Lincoln."
I spent a bit of time in my shop today where it has been several months since I last worked. It has shelves full of several unfinished projects; even my annual Christmas carvings got neglected. Never fear, dear blog, for I shall return. This is not the first time my creative energy has gone on hiatus.
Much of our time now is directed towards our soon-to-be Texas trip, i.e. packing, banking, mail stop, etc. I wonder if I'll come back with a suntan.
I spent a bit of time in my shop today where it has been several months since I last worked. It has shelves full of several unfinished projects; even my annual Christmas carvings got neglected. Never fear, dear blog, for I shall return. This is not the first time my creative energy has gone on hiatus.
Much of our time now is directed towards our soon-to-be Texas trip, i.e. packing, banking, mail stop, etc. I wonder if I'll come back with a suntan.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Dear Blog
Dear Blog,
The time of the year has arrived to set some new year's resolutions. I have never resolved many in the past, but in your case I will set down a few. I will strive to use improved grammar when I write to you. I suffer the delusion of thinking I am a good writer; then you came along and started placing your demands upon me. It is time to step up and start opening my reference books. I know you like it best when I write nouns and verbs while using adjectives and adverbs sparingly.
Flaws show up after I let a piece of writing percolate in my sub-conscious for a time. Of course, you, dear blog, will never be a candidate for any awards, but you read best after revisions. I will work at avoiding the passive voice and straining to find the active voice where, I have learned, the best writing results.
Appropriate metaphors liven up the story line, so how about this one I stole from a liar's club contest: "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink. But if you grab it by its ears and hold its snout in the bucket long enough, it will either drink or learn to breathe through its eyes." I will learn to breathe through my eyeballs, dear blog, and attempt to keep the bucket full, too. You drink, I'll breathe.
One last resolution, dear blog, comes to mind. Why write to you daily if no topic paws at me begging my attention? Once or twice a week might suffice if written to a higher standard. Oh, by the way, when I go on a trip I won't blog at all. I will carry my notebook, though, and practice my resolutions.
The time of the year has arrived to set some new year's resolutions. I have never resolved many in the past, but in your case I will set down a few. I will strive to use improved grammar when I write to you. I suffer the delusion of thinking I am a good writer; then you came along and started placing your demands upon me. It is time to step up and start opening my reference books. I know you like it best when I write nouns and verbs while using adjectives and adverbs sparingly.
Flaws show up after I let a piece of writing percolate in my sub-conscious for a time. Of course, you, dear blog, will never be a candidate for any awards, but you read best after revisions. I will work at avoiding the passive voice and straining to find the active voice where, I have learned, the best writing results.
Appropriate metaphors liven up the story line, so how about this one I stole from a liar's club contest: "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink. But if you grab it by its ears and hold its snout in the bucket long enough, it will either drink or learn to breathe through its eyes." I will learn to breathe through my eyeballs, dear blog, and attempt to keep the bucket full, too. You drink, I'll breathe.
One last resolution, dear blog, comes to mind. Why write to you daily if no topic paws at me begging my attention? Once or twice a week might suffice if written to a higher standard. Oh, by the way, when I go on a trip I won't blog at all. I will carry my notebook, though, and practice my resolutions.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Recurve Bows & Curry Combs
With an active mind you never know what might pop into your head. Today I was driving along in my old pickup with the radio tuned to an AM station and heard an advertisement from a farm supply store that took me back to my youth. They wanted to sell me things like curry combs, shears, halters, etc. It's been a long time since I held a curry comb in my hand. I always liked using one in the spring when animals were shedding winter coats. Gypsy, the dog, looked especially good with her thick, matted fur combed away. I was probably too energetic while pulling it through those clumps since she'd turn around to snap at me whenever I pulled too hard. She always looked so much better, though, when I'd hurry her shedding process along.
An image of our silage pile popped up, too. And it wasn't the act of feeding cattle from it that came to me. It was me hanging one of Dad's empty red tin Velvet tobacco cans on the pile and shooting arrows into it. Rollie Sandvig sold me his 45 # aluminim recurve bow for a few dollars, and then I was Robin Hood shooting apples from somebody's head or maybe it was Fred Bear shooting grizzlies in Alaska. Memories of whom I became have dimmed.
The aluminum bow wasn't very accurate since it didn't pull evenly, but with some luck and minor windage adjustment, I could hit the can enough to satisfy my marksmanship. It took awhile before I concluded that my sore forearm resulted from the bowstring twanging against my skin, but when I started wearing buttoned, long sleeve shirts I solved that mystery. Target arrows weren't particularly expensive, neither was the waxed string, both of which I could buy in Enderlin at Bjerke & Nygaard's. I spent a good deal of time shooting arrows at cans, but somewhere along the line I decided to be done with archery. I don't remember who bought the bow from me, but I hope he had enjoyment with it, too.
An image of our silage pile popped up, too. And it wasn't the act of feeding cattle from it that came to me. It was me hanging one of Dad's empty red tin Velvet tobacco cans on the pile and shooting arrows into it. Rollie Sandvig sold me his 45 # aluminim recurve bow for a few dollars, and then I was Robin Hood shooting apples from somebody's head or maybe it was Fred Bear shooting grizzlies in Alaska. Memories of whom I became have dimmed.
The aluminum bow wasn't very accurate since it didn't pull evenly, but with some luck and minor windage adjustment, I could hit the can enough to satisfy my marksmanship. It took awhile before I concluded that my sore forearm resulted from the bowstring twanging against my skin, but when I started wearing buttoned, long sleeve shirts I solved that mystery. Target arrows weren't particularly expensive, neither was the waxed string, both of which I could buy in Enderlin at Bjerke & Nygaard's. I spent a good deal of time shooting arrows at cans, but somewhere along the line I decided to be done with archery. I don't remember who bought the bow from me, but I hope he had enjoyment with it, too.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Just Another Day
Today I took my regular swing through town, first to Barnes and Noble to look for something I might buy with the Christmas gift card I received as a present from Brandon and to the Bismarck Public Library to return books. While in the library I checked out the Montana writer Ivan Doig's Heart Earth, A Memoir. I've read several things by him and find he speaks in a very down-to-earth style. I read an article about him in one of the recent Montana magazines. He lives on Puget Sound near Seattle, and a picture of him shows him outlined against the enviable view from his large office window. His goal is to write 400 words each day.
So often I have heard it said that if you want to be a writer, you have to write every day. Part of my goal in writing this web log each day is to get back into practice. I write to meet a self-imposed schedule. My grammar suffers from disuse, and my copies of Strunk and White's The Elements of Style and the Harbrace College Handbook get a regular workout.
After leaving the library I drove up to the North Dakota Heritage Center to wander through an art show. Much of what is called art is actually a form of craftsmanship, but there were several exhibitors present who create true art. I admire that quality in artists. They conceive and render something in an original format that no one else has thought of or does. In effect they become the models for the rest of us to copy.
So often I have heard it said that if you want to be a writer, you have to write every day. Part of my goal in writing this web log each day is to get back into practice. I write to meet a self-imposed schedule. My grammar suffers from disuse, and my copies of Strunk and White's The Elements of Style and the Harbrace College Handbook get a regular workout.
After leaving the library I drove up to the North Dakota Heritage Center to wander through an art show. Much of what is called art is actually a form of craftsmanship, but there were several exhibitors present who create true art. I admire that quality in artists. They conceive and render something in an original format that no one else has thought of or does. In effect they become the models for the rest of us to copy.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Gerald Ford 1913-2006
I'd fallen asleep with the earphones of a Sony Walkman radio in my ears last night and awoke at 11:00 PM with the words that President Ford had died. My thoughts before falling asleep for the night were of his association with Richard Nixon. This morning's television is full of the news of his passing, and I am able to recall my admiration for this man. He was this country's only non-elected President. After Spiro Agnew, under pressure, left the office of Vice President vacant, Nixon eventually appointed Ford to the position, and Congress approved which set the pieces in place for Ford's ascendency.
Ford pardoned Nixon from any criminal action which I remember created a bit of a furor, but everyone got over it. A cynic would probably think that an agreement to do just that had been set in place prior to Nixon's appointment of him. I think the legacy of Ford is that he was a very decent man. He'd had many years of legislative experience as a Representative and as minority leader had learned the valuable art of compromise.
Comedians had a great time with the clumsy mishaps of Ford: hitting errant golf balls into a crowd, stumbling down stairs, falling off stages, and whatever else struck them as humorous. All in all, it will be hard to find much fault with the man. May he rest in peace.
Ford pardoned Nixon from any criminal action which I remember created a bit of a furor, but everyone got over it. A cynic would probably think that an agreement to do just that had been set in place prior to Nixon's appointment of him. I think the legacy of Ford is that he was a very decent man. He'd had many years of legislative experience as a Representative and as minority leader had learned the valuable art of compromise.
Comedians had a great time with the clumsy mishaps of Ford: hitting errant golf balls into a crowd, stumbling down stairs, falling off stages, and whatever else struck them as humorous. All in all, it will be hard to find much fault with the man. May he rest in peace.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
The End of the World
Another year, another Christmas, only a few days left of 2006. It seems like yesterday when everyone was uptight about the Y2K scare which if it came to fruition would bring chaos to the computerized business world we are all a part of. Now there is a concern about the Mayan calendar that ends with the year 2012. Centuries ago the Maya culture devised their own calendar system and scholars have determined it ends with 2012; therefore doomsayers think the implication is that since they saw nothing beyond that year, it constitues their prediction of the end of the world. Hang on for lots of flotsam and jetsam as we draw nearer to that day.
Some in the early Christian church thought the world would end soon after Christ's crucifixion and many lived their lives accordingly. It must have been hard for them to live very well without making preparations for their worldly future. If crops weren't raised and cattle weren't bred, they may well have gone hungry for awhile. As far as I can tell the end of the world will come with the last breath I take. Too many metaphors get taken literally.
Well, I'm off to join the crowds and exchange something I received as a gift, and it will just be the end of the world if I don't get what I want.
Some in the early Christian church thought the world would end soon after Christ's crucifixion and many lived their lives accordingly. It must have been hard for them to live very well without making preparations for their worldly future. If crops weren't raised and cattle weren't bred, they may well have gone hungry for awhile. As far as I can tell the end of the world will come with the last breath I take. Too many metaphors get taken literally.
Well, I'm off to join the crowds and exchange something I received as a gift, and it will just be the end of the world if I don't get what I want.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Events of the Day
Sometimes I'm tempted to isolate myself from the daily world so that no "news" reaches my eyes or ears. Events swirl around with or without me. I did receive some good news, however, this week when my urologist informed me that my recent PSA test came out very favorable with a reading of less than 1/10 of one percent. The surgeon told me that men have female hormones that still give off a miniscule reading under normal conditions. Therefore, I understand that I am cancer free and will probably die from something other than prostate cancer.
Most news is not good, however. This week's issue of Newsweek magazine printed a bit of a year-end synopsis and has a collection of memorable political cartoons. One of them sums things up pretty well, I think. George Bush, the Senior, stands very large and distinquished looking and holds a note that says, "Didn't occupy Iraq because I knew what would happen." George Bush, the Junior, stands no higher than his father's belt level, red-faced with jackass ears. Two bystanders, everyday citizens, watch and the woman says, "I'm watching a total eclipse of the son..."
Cartoonists have a way of simplifying things and getting to the heart of the matter. I don't know the name of this particular one, but he has been drawing Junior with those ears for some time. One other cartoon caught my eye. Rumsfeld stands jabbing his finger at a room full of be-medaled generals and lectures them, "Generals, do whatever it takes to win this war..." The second panel shows their reaction. They have picked him up and are heading to an open window to toss him out.
Most news is not good, however. This week's issue of Newsweek magazine printed a bit of a year-end synopsis and has a collection of memorable political cartoons. One of them sums things up pretty well, I think. George Bush, the Senior, stands very large and distinquished looking and holds a note that says, "Didn't occupy Iraq because I knew what would happen." George Bush, the Junior, stands no higher than his father's belt level, red-faced with jackass ears. Two bystanders, everyday citizens, watch and the woman says, "I'm watching a total eclipse of the son..."
Cartoonists have a way of simplifying things and getting to the heart of the matter. I don't know the name of this particular one, but he has been drawing Junior with those ears for some time. One other cartoon caught my eye. Rumsfeld stands jabbing his finger at a room full of be-medaled generals and lectures them, "Generals, do whatever it takes to win this war..." The second panel shows their reaction. They have picked him up and are heading to an open window to toss him out.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Seven Ages
Yesterday, at my place of employment, I drove for the last time this year. Last week I informed the lady whom I'm driving for that I would do it one more calendar year. It has proven to be good part-time employment for me, but like every other period of my life that has ended, this needs to end, too. I plan to enter a stage of life called full retirement where I carry along all the baggage, mental and physical, I've accumulated plus all the future plans and dreams I hold.
When I was earning my college degree with the English major, I had to memorize a poem in one of those classes that came to mind when I started writing this: Shakespeare's All the World's a Stage. It never meant much to me at the time, but now it's taken on a great deal of meaning.
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like a snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
When I was earning my college degree with the English major, I had to memorize a poem in one of those classes that came to mind when I started writing this: Shakespeare's All the World's a Stage. It never meant much to me at the time, but now it's taken on a great deal of meaning.
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like a snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
People of Influence
From time to time I purchase a copy of The Atlantic magazine because of some high interest article they promote on their cover. I was broke when in Barnes and Noble bookstore this morning, but Mary came along and loaned me a little cash so I could lay out the $5.95 plus tax and buy one. The article I want to read carries the title "The 100 Most Influential Americans of All Time." Now, I can't think of a topic that can be more subjective than that, but they gathered together a panel of ten important historians to make their pronouncements of their choices. One thing I like about these kinds of lists is they foster a debate and make one think of whom he thinks should or shouldn't have been on the list. In fact the magazine invites readers to add names that they think have been left off and will print a compiled top ten list in the next issue.
The top five Americans of influence listed in order of appearance are Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and Alexander Hamilton. The list ends at #100 with the author Herman Melville who the magazine terms as the American Shakespeare. After I read the lengthy article I'll have more thoughts regarding the choices, but a quick glance tells me one thing: very few contemporary, still living people find themselves listed. In fact, I find only one at number 54, Bill Gates, who is called here the Rockefeller of the Information Age.
I suppose the question goes begging, but does it mean that we need to stand back with the perspective of time's passing to determine a person's influence, or does it mean that few people today match up?
The top five Americans of influence listed in order of appearance are Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and Alexander Hamilton. The list ends at #100 with the author Herman Melville who the magazine terms as the American Shakespeare. After I read the lengthy article I'll have more thoughts regarding the choices, but a quick glance tells me one thing: very few contemporary, still living people find themselves listed. In fact, I find only one at number 54, Bill Gates, who is called here the Rockefeller of the Information Age.
I suppose the question goes begging, but does it mean that we need to stand back with the perspective of time's passing to determine a person's influence, or does it mean that few people today match up?
Monday, December 18, 2006
My Stuff
Many pictures of artifacts and old people (mostly ancestors) hang on wall or sit on shelves in our house. I prefer objects of that nature over glitzy home decorator items. In my study hangs my favorite - "Found" - a picture of an English Shepherd dog standing by a young lamb and howling into a blizzard wind for his master to come. I grew up with that picture since my parents had purchased that scene when they first married, and I can remember as a very young boy looking up at it and into it.
On another spot on my study walls is a crucifix of San Damiano that Mary brought back per my request from Italy. The ancient artist painted so many images on its surface that I couldn't begin to list them. Just below it hangs a relief scene of Jesus kneeling and praying in the garden. It's something I'd given my mother years ago, and when they moved from their large house to the smaller apartment she let me have it again.
Several black and white photos hang, one of which shows my Grandpa Bueling as a young man standing with a team of horses in Plum City, Wisconsin. He worked with horses all his life, and it seems fitting to honor that legacy with this picture. Below it is one of my dad holding the reins of a team, too, but this one includes me, and I'm all of two years of age. Thankfully, I didn't have to sweat working behind teams of them.
Other things sit around: a shadowbox frame filled with arrowheads, a 1/12 scale model of a farm wagon I built, some 3-D carvings of mine, an unfinished desk clock on which I've carved the head of a draft horse, and lots of books and miscellaneous that makes my life complete. This room is a nightmare for someone as neat and orderly as wife Mary is, but what the heck, it's what brings me pleasure and verifies the old saying that opposites attract.
On another spot on my study walls is a crucifix of San Damiano that Mary brought back per my request from Italy. The ancient artist painted so many images on its surface that I couldn't begin to list them. Just below it hangs a relief scene of Jesus kneeling and praying in the garden. It's something I'd given my mother years ago, and when they moved from their large house to the smaller apartment she let me have it again.
Several black and white photos hang, one of which shows my Grandpa Bueling as a young man standing with a team of horses in Plum City, Wisconsin. He worked with horses all his life, and it seems fitting to honor that legacy with this picture. Below it is one of my dad holding the reins of a team, too, but this one includes me, and I'm all of two years of age. Thankfully, I didn't have to sweat working behind teams of them.
Other things sit around: a shadowbox frame filled with arrowheads, a 1/12 scale model of a farm wagon I built, some 3-D carvings of mine, an unfinished desk clock on which I've carved the head of a draft horse, and lots of books and miscellaneous that makes my life complete. This room is a nightmare for someone as neat and orderly as wife Mary is, but what the heck, it's what brings me pleasure and verifies the old saying that opposites attract.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Imagine a Barnyard Scene
I've submitted another poem to the international contest from which I won a bronze medal two years ago. Maybe they'll respond favorably about this one, too. Sometimes poems come easily, and then, sometimes I struggle for a long time to write another. Since this is copyrighted by me, I think I'll print it here:
Imagine a Barnyard Scene
where a boy straddles the neck
of a calf and dunks her head
deep into a silver pail
filled with sudsy milk. The calf,
hesitant, sucks on fingers.
Expectation of soft teats
gives way to resignation.
She is an opportunist
making the best of her fate.
She will grow, give birth to calves,
and see them taken from her.
Then, one day, chewing her cud
in thoughtful contemplation,
she will see the fence and think
the other side looks greener.
Imagine a Barnyard Scene
where a boy straddles the neck
of a calf and dunks her head
deep into a silver pail
filled with sudsy milk. The calf,
hesitant, sucks on fingers.
Expectation of soft teats
gives way to resignation.
She is an opportunist
making the best of her fate.
She will grow, give birth to calves,
and see them taken from her.
Then, one day, chewing her cud
in thoughtful contemplation,
she will see the fence and think
the other side looks greener.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Frontierless
Being interested in history I remember well the writings of Frederick Jackson Turner and his themes of westward migration into the frontier. One of his major points centered around the idea of the West being a relief valve for undesirable characters to go to who did not fit well into law-abiding communities.
Another historian, Theodore H. White, states a similar theme, even though it's a different class of people he refers to. White's Jewish ancestors suffered in the ghettos of eastern Europe for generations and prayed to God for deliverance from their travails. As news of American opportunities reached them, they saw they might be able to save themselves by their own efforts. Therefore, many of them saw the relief valve and came here.
Today, lands are taken up and controlled by someone and a topographical frontier no longer exists. Unfit or dissatisfied people can't keep moving westward. We reached the western shoreline some time ago. Frontiers of space and the oceans exist, but they are reserved for the educated team players to explore. Misfits cannot move into these areas. They will just have to self-medicate, clog the social service systems, or inhabit the prisons.
Another historian, Theodore H. White, states a similar theme, even though it's a different class of people he refers to. White's Jewish ancestors suffered in the ghettos of eastern Europe for generations and prayed to God for deliverance from their travails. As news of American opportunities reached them, they saw they might be able to save themselves by their own efforts. Therefore, many of them saw the relief valve and came here.
Today, lands are taken up and controlled by someone and a topographical frontier no longer exists. Unfit or dissatisfied people can't keep moving westward. We reached the western shoreline some time ago. Frontiers of space and the oceans exist, but they are reserved for the educated team players to explore. Misfits cannot move into these areas. They will just have to self-medicate, clog the social service systems, or inhabit the prisons.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Shibboleth or Sibboleth?
I'm sensitive to word usage, pronunciation, and semantics and have always been fascinated by a story in the Bible's Old Testament. The reference is to Judges 12:6 and a war between Gilead and Ephraim. To quote from the New International Version, "The Gileadites captured the fords of the Jordan leading to Ephraim, and whenever a survivor of Ephraim said, 'Let me cross over,' the men of Gilead asked him 'Are you an Ephraimite?' If he replied 'No,' they said, 'All right, say Shibboleth,' If he said Sibboleth, because he could not pronounce the word correctly, they seized him and killed him at the fords of the Jordan. Forty-two thousand Ephraimites were killed at that time."
I don't think this is too much of a stretch, but isn't something approximating that occurring in Iraq? Shias and Sunnis slaughter each other on a daily basis, enemies because they accuse each other of not knowing the proper interpretation of something Mohammed said centuries before. Apparently it is an offense worth killing for because they go at it vigorously.
The clever use of semantic "spin" in the political world can and does catch many people unawares. Thankfully, the loyal opposition and media reporters are quick to point it out, that is if they recognize it. Differing meanings have been applied to current terms such as "Cut and run," "Stay the course," and "A new beginning." They have become head-scratchers.
I don't think this is too much of a stretch, but isn't something approximating that occurring in Iraq? Shias and Sunnis slaughter each other on a daily basis, enemies because they accuse each other of not knowing the proper interpretation of something Mohammed said centuries before. Apparently it is an offense worth killing for because they go at it vigorously.
The clever use of semantic "spin" in the political world can and does catch many people unawares. Thankfully, the loyal opposition and media reporters are quick to point it out, that is if they recognize it. Differing meanings have been applied to current terms such as "Cut and run," "Stay the course," and "A new beginning." They have become head-scratchers.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Hog Man
One summer, I think it was 1966, I raised a crop of pigs. In the back of my mind I still thought of myself as a farmer and got the inclination to do something like this. Allen Wall from Owego Township and I had gone to high school for a year, and I knew him fairly well. He advertised bred sows for sale so I drove down to the sandhills to look at them.
He had no barn for them, and they ran foraging for acorns or whatever else they could find in the woods around his farmyard. Some of the sows had started farrowing, and I remember him saying, "They're just full of pigs." He had a truck to haul them, so I picked out 15 of them at $100 apiece.
I had no experience with this but was full of the energy of youth. Dad let me use a 5 acre patch of fenced ground, and, after unloading them, I had become a hog farmer. I let the sows roam freely, too, in that patch, but I did buy some black plastic from Newton's Feed Store and set up a shaded shelter.
It did not take many days before they started in giving birth to their litters. I soon had pigs all over the place. Allen told it like it was, they were full of pigs. Because conditions weren't the best, some of the little pigs didn't survive, but when finished they still averaged eight per litter. They nursed well and the sows quickly brought their litters to weaning weight. I sold the sows and then had to buy commercial feed for the young ones. I needed to feed them until they could be sold as feeder pigs, about 35 pounds. The summer passed by and each night I listened through the open window to the growing sounds of pigs grunting and squealing. It took many sacks of feed before I could sell them, but when I did, I made a few hundred dollars for my effort. Thus ended my experience with hogs.
He had no barn for them, and they ran foraging for acorns or whatever else they could find in the woods around his farmyard. Some of the sows had started farrowing, and I remember him saying, "They're just full of pigs." He had a truck to haul them, so I picked out 15 of them at $100 apiece.
I had no experience with this but was full of the energy of youth. Dad let me use a 5 acre patch of fenced ground, and, after unloading them, I had become a hog farmer. I let the sows roam freely, too, in that patch, but I did buy some black plastic from Newton's Feed Store and set up a shaded shelter.
It did not take many days before they started in giving birth to their litters. I soon had pigs all over the place. Allen told it like it was, they were full of pigs. Because conditions weren't the best, some of the little pigs didn't survive, but when finished they still averaged eight per litter. They nursed well and the sows quickly brought their litters to weaning weight. I sold the sows and then had to buy commercial feed for the young ones. I needed to feed them until they could be sold as feeder pigs, about 35 pounds. The summer passed by and each night I listened through the open window to the growing sounds of pigs grunting and squealing. It took many sacks of feed before I could sell them, but when I did, I made a few hundred dollars for my effort. Thus ended my experience with hogs.
Monday, December 11, 2006
The Buffalo Sale
The North Dakota Buffalo Association held their annual fall consignment sale Saturday in Mandan. I drove past the Kist sale barn on Memorial Highway and decided to stop in for a little auction atmosphere. I've always enjoyed being around livestock sales and wanted to check one out again. A line from a western song sings "the auctioneer's gavel, how it raps and it rattles." The untrained ear might think the lingo coming out of an auctioneer's mouth is pure jibberish, but with a little concentration, it's pretty easy to understand him. I didn't stay long but watched a few yearling and two-year old bulls sell. A board above the sales ring listed their weights, and I could easily see from the fact that the selling price per head was about equal to their weight so that they sold at about one dollar a pound.
Buffalo need extra investment to maintain as a ranch animal. They require a double-high fence to contain them in a pasture, and fencing costs run expensive. Breeding animals a few years back reached very high price levels, and ranchers wanting to get into the business really extended themselves financially. Therefore, I don't think a dollar a pound stretches very far. Buffalo meat always runs higher priced per pound in a meat counter so we've never bought very much of it.
Nevertheless, there they were having their annual sale. The sale catalog promised consignments of over 700 head, and I paged through it finding animals from the four states of North Dakota, South Dakota, Montana and Minnesota. Wild and predictably unpredictable,
they carry about them an air of wanting to be free. They look clumsy but are very athletic and fast. A couple of years back I saw one try to jump out of the sales ring when he made an unbelievable vertical leap against the iron railings. When they leave the ring to return to the stockyard pens, you can hear the staccato beat and pounding of their hooves on the floor. I wouldn't want to work around those beasts, but it's enjoyable to watch them as a bystander.
Buffalo need extra investment to maintain as a ranch animal. They require a double-high fence to contain them in a pasture, and fencing costs run expensive. Breeding animals a few years back reached very high price levels, and ranchers wanting to get into the business really extended themselves financially. Therefore, I don't think a dollar a pound stretches very far. Buffalo meat always runs higher priced per pound in a meat counter so we've never bought very much of it.
Nevertheless, there they were having their annual sale. The sale catalog promised consignments of over 700 head, and I paged through it finding animals from the four states of North Dakota, South Dakota, Montana and Minnesota. Wild and predictably unpredictable,
they carry about them an air of wanting to be free. They look clumsy but are very athletic and fast. A couple of years back I saw one try to jump out of the sales ring when he made an unbelievable vertical leap against the iron railings. When they leave the ring to return to the stockyard pens, you can hear the staccato beat and pounding of their hooves on the floor. I wouldn't want to work around those beasts, but it's enjoyable to watch them as a bystander.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Chinook Wind
We've often heard in this part of the country that if you don't like the weather, just be patient and it'll change. The past two days were cold and windy. Now we're experiencing a warm-up; temperatures are comfortable again. A NWS meteorologist was quoted today in the paper, "It's coming from a nice flow of air over the Rocky Mountains off of the Pacific Ocean. We call that a chinook. It's a classic chinook flow."
The most famous example of yearning for a chinook to bring an improvement in the weather was in the artwork of the Western artist Charlie Russell. In the winter of 1886-87 he drew a picture of an emaciated, hunch-backed, u-necked steer and titled it Waiting for a Chinook. He had been asked for his assessment of the conditions on the rangeland by somebody, and this picture was his wordless response.
A couple of years ago we were on a tour bus in the Rocky Mountains of Alberta. I had noticed something that looked like a wavy jet trail hanging just above the peaks. Our step-on guide called everyone's attention to it and said it was called a chinook arch. It was a phenomenon I'd never seen before. My favorite western singer, Ian Tyson, named his backup groupd The Chinook Arch Riders. I had always thought they were named after some rock formation. My dictionary etymology of the word chinook states it is a Salish name for the Chinook tribe in the Columbia River Valley. It doesn't say how it got associated with this warming wind, but we will go on enjoying it anyway.
The most famous example of yearning for a chinook to bring an improvement in the weather was in the artwork of the Western artist Charlie Russell. In the winter of 1886-87 he drew a picture of an emaciated, hunch-backed, u-necked steer and titled it Waiting for a Chinook. He had been asked for his assessment of the conditions on the rangeland by somebody, and this picture was his wordless response.
A couple of years ago we were on a tour bus in the Rocky Mountains of Alberta. I had noticed something that looked like a wavy jet trail hanging just above the peaks. Our step-on guide called everyone's attention to it and said it was called a chinook arch. It was a phenomenon I'd never seen before. My favorite western singer, Ian Tyson, named his backup groupd The Chinook Arch Riders. I had always thought they were named after some rock formation. My dictionary etymology of the word chinook states it is a Salish name for the Chinook tribe in the Columbia River Valley. It doesn't say how it got associated with this warming wind, but we will go on enjoying it anyway.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
The Big Dig
Today I was on the road again, the first stop being McClusky. About one mile west of the town the highway crosses a government project, seemingly abandoned, called the McClusky Canal. Each time I cross over, I can't help but think of the waste of money that has been dumped into it. I've forgotten most of the specs for it such as length in miles, length of construction time, cost, etc., but the ditch is enormous, deep, wide, and long. As the Great Wall of China can be seen from outer space, I think there's a chance this canal could be seen, too.
When it was under construction news articles kept us abreast of its progress and its purpose, but now it has passed from public interest and scrutiny and is mostly forgotten about. Water never flowed down its length, and who knows how much money would be needed to make it operational today.
Much was made of the Alaskan senator who recently tried to get federal funding for a bridge that came to be known as the "Bridge to Nowhere." I wonder how many projects have sneaked by without any public outcry. The McClusky Canal never got enough. We have one other boondoggle - the Garrison Dam. Lake Sacajawea, formed by the dam, is mostly a huge fishery and recreational facility. Its turbines do generate some electricity, but on a cost basis I doubt that it is very efficient.
When it was under construction news articles kept us abreast of its progress and its purpose, but now it has passed from public interest and scrutiny and is mostly forgotten about. Water never flowed down its length, and who knows how much money would be needed to make it operational today.
Much was made of the Alaskan senator who recently tried to get federal funding for a bridge that came to be known as the "Bridge to Nowhere." I wonder how many projects have sneaked by without any public outcry. The McClusky Canal never got enough. We have one other boondoggle - the Garrison Dam. Lake Sacajawea, formed by the dam, is mostly a huge fishery and recreational facility. Its turbines do generate some electricity, but on a cost basis I doubt that it is very efficient.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
And Then the Train Came
During one of my spontaneous stops to shop at a thrift shop, I came across a Sears catalog-sized book by Bill Moyers. I always enjoyed his thoughtful presentations on public television, so I couldn't resist picking it up. It's titled A World of Ideas and contains 42 interviews, or conversations as he calls them, with accomplished people in a wide variety of fields.
In his introduction I liked the statement when he said ideas can liberate us from prisons we built within ourselves. Just then I felt the urge to find a bathroom while I sat waiting outside a house in Hebron where my rider called on a client. En route to the Cenex station I was delayed at the railroad tracks when the crossing arms came down for an oncoming coal train. Dispensing with the world of ideas, I sat counting the number of cars in that train - 115.
It wasn't ten minutes before, as we entered town, that we met another coal train pulled by three engines running on the track parallel to the highway. Another loaded coal train sat sidelined: three trains, 345 cars loaded with coal, nine diesel engines, all headed eastward. Something happened to the world of ideas. I sat in the real world doing simple math. Twenty trains per day, 2300 coal cars, 60 diesel engines, one big hole somewhere, .............
In his introduction I liked the statement when he said ideas can liberate us from prisons we built within ourselves. Just then I felt the urge to find a bathroom while I sat waiting outside a house in Hebron where my rider called on a client. En route to the Cenex station I was delayed at the railroad tracks when the crossing arms came down for an oncoming coal train. Dispensing with the world of ideas, I sat counting the number of cars in that train - 115.
It wasn't ten minutes before, as we entered town, that we met another coal train pulled by three engines running on the track parallel to the highway. Another loaded coal train sat sidelined: three trains, 345 cars loaded with coal, nine diesel engines, all headed eastward. Something happened to the world of ideas. I sat in the real world doing simple math. Twenty trains per day, 2300 coal cars, 60 diesel engines, one big hole somewhere, .............
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
More Hell Without the Heat
One cannot forget Teddy Roosevelt and his Dakota ranching experience during the Winter of 1886-87. He invested heavily in his Badlands operation (over eighty thousand dollars) and though I don't know how to compare it to today's dollar, it must have been a hefty amount. Apparently he did not have much investing sense but was headstrong and went ahead with his ideas. Beef prices were low and a drought scorched the grasslands, factors precluding any chance for profit.
In an interesting business arrangement, he had a couple of partners who always were a bit skeptical of the cattle venture, but Roosevelt made it attaractive for them. He promised a share of any profits to them and would stand any losses by himself. How could they lose? Luckily for Roosevelt, they were highly principled and wouldn't be a part of spending Roosevelt's inheritance in such a hopeless cause, so they parted with him and returned to their homes in Maine. To compound TR's money problems, his estate in New York required a good deal of financial support, too.
When the heavy winter losses were occurring, Roosevelt was spending his honeymoon with his wife in Europe. When he returned and was able to get out to his ranch, he noted, "The land was a mere barren waste; not a green thing could be seen; the dead grass eaten off till the country looked as if it had been shaved with a razor." The tourism people here in North Dakota have glommed onto Roosevelt's time spent here and are fond of repeating his quote: "If it had not been for my years in North Dakota I never would have become President of the United States." Just maybe he meant, "I lost my ass in North Dakota and had to get out of there."
In an interesting business arrangement, he had a couple of partners who always were a bit skeptical of the cattle venture, but Roosevelt made it attaractive for them. He promised a share of any profits to them and would stand any losses by himself. How could they lose? Luckily for Roosevelt, they were highly principled and wouldn't be a part of spending Roosevelt's inheritance in such a hopeless cause, so they parted with him and returned to their homes in Maine. To compound TR's money problems, his estate in New York required a good deal of financial support, too.
When the heavy winter losses were occurring, Roosevelt was spending his honeymoon with his wife in Europe. When he returned and was able to get out to his ranch, he noted, "The land was a mere barren waste; not a green thing could be seen; the dead grass eaten off till the country looked as if it had been shaved with a razor." The tourism people here in North Dakota have glommed onto Roosevelt's time spent here and are fond of repeating his quote: "If it had not been for my years in North Dakota I never would have become President of the United States." Just maybe he meant, "I lost my ass in North Dakota and had to get out of there."
Monday, December 04, 2006
Hell Without the Heat
A recent interest of mine is reading about the winter of 1886-87. A succession of blizzards raged through the west and resulted in bringing about the freezing and starvation deaths of hundreds of thousands of cattle that were fending for themselves on the open range. No restrictions stopped ranchers from overloading the grasslands which soon became overgrazed. Still, investors kept sending eastern cattle onto the ranges because of the promise of quick, easy profits. The scene was set for what was called by one source as "The Great Die-Up." Another source said that in wintering cattle on the open range without supplemental feed, even in a mild winter, was "nothing less than slow starvation."
Omens were present if anyone wanted to heed them. Summer fires had burned much of the grass, the dry summer did not produce much grass growth, beavers and muskrats built their walls thicker, ducks and geese headed south earlier than usual, and white snowy owls - rarely seen in that area - swooped and flew in great numbers.
Only one hundred and twenty years have passed since this winter event. I say only because it illustrates how sparsely settled this part of the country was at that time. My trip to the Heritage Center at the state capital yielded no news sources west of Bismarck for that time. Much of the reporting had come from east or south of here. In-depth tales of the blizzards came from books written years later by participants in the drama. A poignant depiction of the whole affair said that in the end, the only men who made much money on the northern ranges that spring were scavengers gathering bones to sell to fertilizer companies.
Omens were present if anyone wanted to heed them. Summer fires had burned much of the grass, the dry summer did not produce much grass growth, beavers and muskrats built their walls thicker, ducks and geese headed south earlier than usual, and white snowy owls - rarely seen in that area - swooped and flew in great numbers.
Only one hundred and twenty years have passed since this winter event. I say only because it illustrates how sparsely settled this part of the country was at that time. My trip to the Heritage Center at the state capital yielded no news sources west of Bismarck for that time. Much of the reporting had come from east or south of here. In-depth tales of the blizzards came from books written years later by participants in the drama. A poignant depiction of the whole affair said that in the end, the only men who made much money on the northern ranges that spring were scavengers gathering bones to sell to fertilizer companies.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Fresh Views
One of the best ways I know to broaden my thinking whenever I feel the need is to read a foreign author. Much good writing comes from Latin America. Eduardo Galeano resides in Uruguay. For some reason he had lived in exile and returned only after a ten year absence. His absence probably meant he stood on the politically incorrect side of the issue he writes about.
He writes passionately for the need of the masses in Latin America to become literate. But there are obstacles such as if only 5% of them can afford to buy a refrigerator, what percentage of them can buy books. He says the educated ruling elite in these countries recognize this and do little or nothing to correct it so as to maintain their power. He wonders how much potential talent has been lost.
I think one of his most profound points asks if a country's people doesn't know who it is or where it came from "how does it know what it deserves to become?" A country needs writers to exhibit and display its literature and history, and it takes literate readers to understand, appreciate and apply the knowledge to their lives.
He writes passionately for the need of the masses in Latin America to become literate. But there are obstacles such as if only 5% of them can afford to buy a refrigerator, what percentage of them can buy books. He says the educated ruling elite in these countries recognize this and do little or nothing to correct it so as to maintain their power. He wonders how much potential talent has been lost.
I think one of his most profound points asks if a country's people doesn't know who it is or where it came from "how does it know what it deserves to become?" A country needs writers to exhibit and display its literature and history, and it takes literate readers to understand, appreciate and apply the knowledge to their lives.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Hunters
The recent issue of Newsweek magazine carried an article about hunting titled "The Elusive Hunter." The author wrote that the number of hunting license holders has decreased by two million hunters over the last 20 years in the face of substantial population growth. He gave several reasons for the decline in the number of hunters: less hunting land - the growth of urban America removes acreage, more restrictions - landholders are charging for access or hunters are outright buying land, and more couch potatoes - home entertainment devices such as video games create vicarious thrills for younger people. To add to the mix, groups such as PETA and the Humane Society bring extra pressure.
I am not a hunter but am always glad to see the deer population thinned by hunting. I have had the experience of colliding with a deer that put a nice dent in the hood of my car. I was lucky since more serious accidents than that occur frequently. I find little to argue about in the article. It's easy to witness urban sprawl, land being reserved by people with money, and couch potatoes gaining weight.
The last time I tried to shoot a rifle, the cataract in my eye stood between the sights of the gun and the prairie dog. They weren't in much danger and were probably amused to hear the bullets whizzing overhead. In my teens I owned a Model 97 Winchester shotgun, but Ma wouldn't fix the game it hit. When elk hunting in the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming, I got stuck carrying out a quarter of meat belonging to someone else.
Hunting passed from being a necessity to being a luxury: the thicker the wallet, the better the hunting, it seems. I live in the potato couch category, and as long as someone else thins the deer population, I'm okay with that.
I am not a hunter but am always glad to see the deer population thinned by hunting. I have had the experience of colliding with a deer that put a nice dent in the hood of my car. I was lucky since more serious accidents than that occur frequently. I find little to argue about in the article. It's easy to witness urban sprawl, land being reserved by people with money, and couch potatoes gaining weight.
The last time I tried to shoot a rifle, the cataract in my eye stood between the sights of the gun and the prairie dog. They weren't in much danger and were probably amused to hear the bullets whizzing overhead. In my teens I owned a Model 97 Winchester shotgun, but Ma wouldn't fix the game it hit. When elk hunting in the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming, I got stuck carrying out a quarter of meat belonging to someone else.
Hunting passed from being a necessity to being a luxury: the thicker the wallet, the better the hunting, it seems. I live in the potato couch category, and as long as someone else thins the deer population, I'm okay with that.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Pet Peeve
In a short time something has become a pet peeve with me - cell phones. The damn things ring all over the place at anytime: church, library, business places, traffic, etc. I don't think anyone likes being drawn into another person's often petty business when they are trying to concentrate on their own. Yesterday I encountered two traffic situations because of them. One man was concentrating on his call, drove too slowly, and held up a whole string of cars behind him. Another darted across the street to enter the opposite lane and blocked my lane while he stopped for an opening. Here is where I laid on my horn in disgust.
I'm taken back to the time when telephones weren't such an oppressive gadget. One phone per home was the standard. We were on a party line with several others. To reminisce I still remember our number - 5542. It rang with our assigned signal of three shorts. "Rubbernecks" knew and recognized everyone's ring and could pick up the receiver to listen in on conversations. We were not slaves to the phones. Why, you could even leave home and not hear a phone ring.
Maybe there are enough emergency situations or urgent business matters that justify all of these contraptions, and I know the rush and push of society moving forward will continue to bring out inventions like these. Since I do not wish to dig a hole and escape from the world just yet, I guess I'll have to put up with it all.
I'm taken back to the time when telephones weren't such an oppressive gadget. One phone per home was the standard. We were on a party line with several others. To reminisce I still remember our number - 5542. It rang with our assigned signal of three shorts. "Rubbernecks" knew and recognized everyone's ring and could pick up the receiver to listen in on conversations. We were not slaves to the phones. Why, you could even leave home and not hear a phone ring.
Maybe there are enough emergency situations or urgent business matters that justify all of these contraptions, and I know the rush and push of society moving forward will continue to bring out inventions like these. Since I do not wish to dig a hole and escape from the world just yet, I guess I'll have to put up with it all.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Riding the Rails
Something about a family gathered around a table inspires good talk and reminiscing. So it was on Thanksgiving Day. One story told by my father-in-law needs to be passed on to his young descendants. I've forgotten why but the subject of railroads and hoboes came up. Adam related a story of the time he hoboed, too. Stories of this kind usually harken back to the Depression with its hard times and was the case in his tale. He and others jumped on a freight train headed to Fargo where the Red River Valley and its hoped for potato-picking wages drew them. My ears perked up when he talked about the bull who would come to kick them off at layovers. I remember from my reading of history that many of these railroad employees carried clubs and used strongarm tactics to clear a train of vagrants. Adam said when this bull came around they would get off, wait by the side of the tracks until the train started rolling again, and then quickly jump back on. Many of the details of the journey have been forgotten, but when they go to Fargo he remembered, "There were more of us there to pick potatoes than there were potatoes." He had counted 27 hopeful laborers on the train he rode. After hanging around 3 or 4 days, he caught another train back home.
Yesterday we continued the Thanksgiving celebration at my parents' place where Dad added his anecdote to the hobo story. He talked of the stockyards that stood in Sheldon at one time, and bums hung around there. His dad Charles would go there and hire a couple of them at harvest time, but after working only a day or two, they'd hop another freight train and be off with those few dollars in their pockets.
Railroads were important then, and a good deal of the literature about them was expressed in song. Jimmie Rodgers' song - Waiting for a Train - opens with this line: "All around the water tank waiting for a train, a thousand miles away from home sleeping in the rain." The highly optimistic song The Big Rock Candy Mountain carries the line where "the railroad bulls are blind." Johnny Cash's song Folsom Prison Blues sings of the prisoner who hears the train whistles blowing and wants to be on one. More examples would start to bore a reader since it would take thousands of words to list them all.
Yesterday we continued the Thanksgiving celebration at my parents' place where Dad added his anecdote to the hobo story. He talked of the stockyards that stood in Sheldon at one time, and bums hung around there. His dad Charles would go there and hire a couple of them at harvest time, but after working only a day or two, they'd hop another freight train and be off with those few dollars in their pockets.
Railroads were important then, and a good deal of the literature about them was expressed in song. Jimmie Rodgers' song - Waiting for a Train - opens with this line: "All around the water tank waiting for a train, a thousand miles away from home sleeping in the rain." The highly optimistic song The Big Rock Candy Mountain carries the line where "the railroad bulls are blind." Johnny Cash's song Folsom Prison Blues sings of the prisoner who hears the train whistles blowing and wants to be on one. More examples would start to bore a reader since it would take thousands of words to list them all.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Giving Thanks
Yesterday we celebrated Thanksgiving Day with Mary's sister and her family at their ranch south of Mandan. The drives in the country to their place always satisfy me when I take notice of little things. An east wind pushed tumbleweeds bouncing across the road in front of our car. (Cares of the past are behind, nowhere to go, but I'll find - just where the trail will wind, drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds.") A flock of geese rested in a stubble field. With little cold weather here, they haven't felt the need to fly south yet. A herd of cattle walked across a dry pasture and each hoofstep kicked up a little cloud of dust. Seeing the little things of the fabric of life seems to fit in well with Thanksgiving.
The only thing I missed seeing yesterday was lefse. I cannot fault my sister-in-law for that since German blood runs in her veins, but the thought of my Grandma Sandvig's lefse at Thanksgiving came to mind. She had few of today's conveniences, but she knew how to make lefse on that wood cookstove in her kitchen. Into this scene comes Grandpa strolling to the stove, lifting the lid of the firebox, and spitting a big stream of Copenhagen juice into the flames. It would snap and crack when it hit the hot coals, Grandma would holler at him, and he would amble away giving no sign that he heard what she said. They kept a milkcow, and I remember spreading homemade butter on that warm lefse. Show me anything better than that!
The memories of family gatherings and Thanksgiving Day sit strong in my mind, those of the far past and those of yesterday. Good food always waited for us on the table, and a mighty satisfied feeling came over me after I ate my fill.
The only thing I missed seeing yesterday was lefse. I cannot fault my sister-in-law for that since German blood runs in her veins, but the thought of my Grandma Sandvig's lefse at Thanksgiving came to mind. She had few of today's conveniences, but she knew how to make lefse on that wood cookstove in her kitchen. Into this scene comes Grandpa strolling to the stove, lifting the lid of the firebox, and spitting a big stream of Copenhagen juice into the flames. It would snap and crack when it hit the hot coals, Grandma would holler at him, and he would amble away giving no sign that he heard what she said. They kept a milkcow, and I remember spreading homemade butter on that warm lefse. Show me anything better than that!
The memories of family gatherings and Thanksgiving Day sit strong in my mind, those of the far past and those of yesterday. Good food always waited for us on the table, and a mighty satisfied feeling came over me after I ate my fill.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Where's Winter?
Warm weather stayed here. Yesterday the temperature in Bismarck reached 61 degrees. Out of curiosity I looked in this morning's paper at some representative temperatures around the country where I'd expect to see it much warmer: Miami Beach - 63, Jacksonville - 61, Santa Fe -60, Dallas - 67, New Orleans - 57, and Birmingham - 52. We have no snow, a reflection of the drought we're experiencing in this central part of the state. Rainfall and snow melt lack about 5 1/2 inches from normal.
Through the years winter normally would have settled in by now with snow, cold, wind, smoke rising out of chimneys, eyeglasses fogging, ice, etc. If global warming is a reality, maybe we're living with the new normal. The last winter of consequence was 1997, the year of the big flood. Living in Wahpeton just a stone's throw from the head of the Red River we witnessed severe conditions first hand. The Red flows north and melting snow from our area met the iced-up riverbanks downstream. Water backed up and flooded us. I watched as our house was about to be swamped with the water inching toward our basement windows when weather changed, rapidly. It turned cold and the water froze again. Luckily we suffered no flooding damage while neighbors all around us did.
Winter stories accumulate. I remember especially the three day blizzard in 1966. I was a teacher in Bowdon, ND and saw a snowdrift as tall as the peak on the gym roof. The National Guard came to help clean streets. The late 40's and 50's brought lots of snow, and the snow removal equipment we've become accustomed to did not exist. When we could get to school and town we travelled through canyons of snow that old Vern Loomer had bulldozed open with his Caterpillar tractor. I don't know when that kind of weather will return, I hope it doesn't, but I'm sure it will.
Through the years winter normally would have settled in by now with snow, cold, wind, smoke rising out of chimneys, eyeglasses fogging, ice, etc. If global warming is a reality, maybe we're living with the new normal. The last winter of consequence was 1997, the year of the big flood. Living in Wahpeton just a stone's throw from the head of the Red River we witnessed severe conditions first hand. The Red flows north and melting snow from our area met the iced-up riverbanks downstream. Water backed up and flooded us. I watched as our house was about to be swamped with the water inching toward our basement windows when weather changed, rapidly. It turned cold and the water froze again. Luckily we suffered no flooding damage while neighbors all around us did.
Winter stories accumulate. I remember especially the three day blizzard in 1966. I was a teacher in Bowdon, ND and saw a snowdrift as tall as the peak on the gym roof. The National Guard came to help clean streets. The late 40's and 50's brought lots of snow, and the snow removal equipment we've become accustomed to did not exist. When we could get to school and town we travelled through canyons of snow that old Vern Loomer had bulldozed open with his Caterpillar tractor. I don't know when that kind of weather will return, I hope it doesn't, but I'm sure it will.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Wisdom and Youth?
A short five-lined poem titled "Alexander Throckmorton" in the Spoon River Anthology gives me pause to think and write. He says:
In youth my wings were strong and tireless,
But I did not know the mountains.
In age I knew the mountains
But my weary wings could not follow my vision -
Genius is wisdom and youth.
The author Edgar Lee Masters wrote about 244 fictional characters buried in the Spoon River cemetery, and this is one of my favorites, not because it is short (they all are), but because it portrays the reality for most of us.
I think back to a dreamy youth filled with unreachable goals. If it looked good at the time, I thought I could achieve it. Now, with all of the life experiences that have accumulated, I am more realistic; I know what's out there, but I do not have the energy to move on them.
In youth my wings were strong and tireless,
But I did not know the mountains.
In age I knew the mountains
But my weary wings could not follow my vision -
Genius is wisdom and youth.
The author Edgar Lee Masters wrote about 244 fictional characters buried in the Spoon River cemetery, and this is one of my favorites, not because it is short (they all are), but because it portrays the reality for most of us.
I think back to a dreamy youth filled with unreachable goals. If it looked good at the time, I thought I could achieve it. Now, with all of the life experiences that have accumulated, I am more realistic; I know what's out there, but I do not have the energy to move on them.
Monday, November 20, 2006
My Cars
A current TV commercial sponsored by Cadillac catches my eye. In rapid progression they show many of the models they have produced through the years. It sounds like Ringo Starr singing the background vocal, the sound of which drew my attention to the ad in the first place. I've never owned a Cadillac and don't plan to, but the ad makes me reminisce to the cars I've owned. I wonder if I can even remember all of them. My first car was a 1948 Chrysler four-door sedan. That was in the days when the teens were customizing their Fords and Chevies. Mine stood out in that crowd, but it was a solid, comfortable automobile with a fluid drive that let me drive with the recent disability I had acquired. It sat and rusted in the last owner's pasture, and when I inquired about it to go take a last look, he told me it had just been crushed and hauled away.
Next I drove a '53 Chevy with a mismatched dark green hood, a replacement for the one the previous owner had damaged somehow. It got me where I wanted to go until I graduated from college in 1964 when I felt flush enough to buy a '62 Ford Galaxy. Next was a '66 Impala that took me up the Alaska Highway and back down to Colorado long enough to get me through graduate school in Greeley. Money jingled in my pocket from my high school principals's salary in Wyoming, and I traded my '66 for a new 1970 Buick Skylark. This sporty two-door coupe was one of my favorites, and I put lots of miles on it.
From this point the models are mostly unremarkable: a '73 Volkswagon Super Beetle; an American Motors Hornet, the year of which I don't remember but was undoubtedly the worst car I've owned; a 1978 Oldsmobile Cutlass; a big, used Pontiac; an '82 Buick; a Chevy Lumina; and most recently a string of three Ford Tauruses. We'd settled on the Taurus model as a good one, and now the company has announced it will no longer be in production. There are a couple of cars I wouldn't mind having again, such as the 1965 Ford Mustang that Mary brought to our marriage, but they all need upkeep and proper storage space. I've still got my memories.
Next I drove a '53 Chevy with a mismatched dark green hood, a replacement for the one the previous owner had damaged somehow. It got me where I wanted to go until I graduated from college in 1964 when I felt flush enough to buy a '62 Ford Galaxy. Next was a '66 Impala that took me up the Alaska Highway and back down to Colorado long enough to get me through graduate school in Greeley. Money jingled in my pocket from my high school principals's salary in Wyoming, and I traded my '66 for a new 1970 Buick Skylark. This sporty two-door coupe was one of my favorites, and I put lots of miles on it.
From this point the models are mostly unremarkable: a '73 Volkswagon Super Beetle; an American Motors Hornet, the year of which I don't remember but was undoubtedly the worst car I've owned; a 1978 Oldsmobile Cutlass; a big, used Pontiac; an '82 Buick; a Chevy Lumina; and most recently a string of three Ford Tauruses. We'd settled on the Taurus model as a good one, and now the company has announced it will no longer be in production. There are a couple of cars I wouldn't mind having again, such as the 1965 Ford Mustang that Mary brought to our marriage, but they all need upkeep and proper storage space. I've still got my memories.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Idiots and Dummies
One of the books I recently checked out of the library is titled Improving Your Memory for Dummies with the subtitle Sharpen Your Memory Skills the Fun and Easy Way. Over the past several years a large number of this type of book reached the shelves of bookstores and libraries. I confess to owning a few: Guitar for Dummies, French for Dummies, Philosophy for Dummies, Complete Idiot's Guide to Philosophy, Complete Idiot's Guide to Theories of the Universe and Complete Idiot's Guide to Understanding Catholicism.
The upshot to owning and/or reading this collection is that I'm still an idiot and a dummy in all of these fields. I find it enjoyable, though, to skim over these subjects in a light reading format, and, at the least, gain appreciation for the people who do excel. Let's see now, what did I start with? Oh, yes, improving your memory.
The disease of Alzheimer's frightens me. I don't think I'm exhibiting any of the symptoms and hope I never do, but if there are things a person can do to forestall its onset, it would be prudent to do so. Chapters of the book are grouped into units: Understanding Memory, Establishing Memory Power, Preserving Your Memory, and Exercising Your Memory Every Day.
A chapter named Ten Best Ways to Improve Your Memory says to consume a balanced diet, relax your brain, exercise your memory, take supplements, stimulate your mind, focus on memory, stay organized, associate-pair-connect, use memory aids, and keep the right attitude.
Now if I can figure out a way to remember them, I'll be in good shape.
The upshot to owning and/or reading this collection is that I'm still an idiot and a dummy in all of these fields. I find it enjoyable, though, to skim over these subjects in a light reading format, and, at the least, gain appreciation for the people who do excel. Let's see now, what did I start with? Oh, yes, improving your memory.
The disease of Alzheimer's frightens me. I don't think I'm exhibiting any of the symptoms and hope I never do, but if there are things a person can do to forestall its onset, it would be prudent to do so. Chapters of the book are grouped into units: Understanding Memory, Establishing Memory Power, Preserving Your Memory, and Exercising Your Memory Every Day.
A chapter named Ten Best Ways to Improve Your Memory says to consume a balanced diet, relax your brain, exercise your memory, take supplements, stimulate your mind, focus on memory, stay organized, associate-pair-connect, use memory aids, and keep the right attitude.
Now if I can figure out a way to remember them, I'll be in good shape.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
I Don't Need a Thesaurus
The small paperback thesaurus I carry on my driving job furnished some words to describe today's scarlet sunrise. I formed a list of words like grand, splendid, noble, radiant, superb and magnificent. After thinking it over, I decided my using these words would not be in character. I generally speak in the vernacular, so it suffices to say that it was one damn, beautiful sunrise.
My present occupation lets me drive through a countryside where I've had chances to view many remarkable sights. Two winters back near Wing I drove past the largest convention of whitetail deer I've ever seen, numbering at least a hundred. Maybe they had gathered to relax and see who had survived the hunting season. That same day driving while driving between Turtle Lake and Underwood, the mother of all pheasant flocks, probably two hundred, materialized alongside the road near a shelterbelt. I have seen coyotes loping along the horizon, two bald eagles arguing over a carrion rabbit in a stubble field, mule deer, antelope, ducks, geese, summer weasels and winter ermine.
And there's always the river - the Missouri - with its wandering sand bars, today's thin-skinned ice that comes and goes with the temperature, and the hills and buttes where the river finds its course. I guess one doesn't really need a thesaurus to describe it when you can be there to feel it.
My present occupation lets me drive through a countryside where I've had chances to view many remarkable sights. Two winters back near Wing I drove past the largest convention of whitetail deer I've ever seen, numbering at least a hundred. Maybe they had gathered to relax and see who had survived the hunting season. That same day driving while driving between Turtle Lake and Underwood, the mother of all pheasant flocks, probably two hundred, materialized alongside the road near a shelterbelt. I have seen coyotes loping along the horizon, two bald eagles arguing over a carrion rabbit in a stubble field, mule deer, antelope, ducks, geese, summer weasels and winter ermine.
And there's always the river - the Missouri - with its wandering sand bars, today's thin-skinned ice that comes and goes with the temperature, and the hills and buttes where the river finds its course. I guess one doesn't really need a thesaurus to describe it when you can be there to feel it.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Corporate Power
In a second hand thrift store I recently bought an old 2002 issue of "Sierra" magazine for a quarter because it featured an essay written by Wendell Berry. He wears many hats - college professor, farmer, conservationist, author, poet, maybe more. I find him to be thought-provoking whenever I read from one of his writings. I have met him and sat in an audience where he gave a reading.
He makes a statement that validates a belief I've begun to hold, so this makes at least two of us who think this: "The massive ascendency of corporate power over democratic process is probably the most ominous development since the start of the Civil War, and for the most part the 'free world' seems to be regarding it as merely normal." Hah, a zoo animal born in a cage probably thinks that's normal, too.
There's an ant army of lobbyists crawling through all levels of government influencing lawmakers to do their bidding, many of them representing corporate power. Where is the democratic process when a President commits military forces to fight a war? Eisenhower warned to beware of the Military-Industrial Complex that likes to sell war machines and yearns to see a good war so they can sell even more. I've begun to wonder what powers lawmakers have over the industries of petroleum, drugs, health care, etc. Maybe we are like those zoo animals and our cage just keeps getting smaller.
He makes a statement that validates a belief I've begun to hold, so this makes at least two of us who think this: "The massive ascendency of corporate power over democratic process is probably the most ominous development since the start of the Civil War, and for the most part the 'free world' seems to be regarding it as merely normal." Hah, a zoo animal born in a cage probably thinks that's normal, too.
There's an ant army of lobbyists crawling through all levels of government influencing lawmakers to do their bidding, many of them representing corporate power. Where is the democratic process when a President commits military forces to fight a war? Eisenhower warned to beware of the Military-Industrial Complex that likes to sell war machines and yearns to see a good war so they can sell even more. I've begun to wonder what powers lawmakers have over the industries of petroleum, drugs, health care, etc. Maybe we are like those zoo animals and our cage just keeps getting smaller.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Liver and Onions
Last week we read a sign on the side of a restaurant, "Today's Special -- Liver and Onions." I've never been real fond of liver and usually prefer it as liverwurst sausage as a sandwich filler. When we saw that sign we right away thought of the last time that Mary had prepared liver and onions at home. I used to keep a journal in those days, and I quote from that time.
"June 2, 1980 - We had a bad scare with Brandon. He bloated up really bad and we took him to the emergency room at the hospital. He had some sort of intestinal blockage and he was in misery. The doctors were concerned and a surgeon was called in. If he didn't improve by himself, he would have operated to relieve the problem. Luckily, he did get better and passed gas and had a bowel movement so that surgery wasn't needed then. His mother was hovering over him and said something about it being all right to cry when it hurt. He responded, 'Like the Blessed Mother when Jesus was on the cross?' I noticed everyone in the room was affected deeply by that statement. Clinton stayed with us for awhile while it was all happening. But I finally found a babysitter for him as we didn't know how long we would be tied up. He was affected by the whole episode and was quite emotional when I left him."
The stove had been turned off before we left for the hospital, the liver and onions were thrown away, and Mary's never fixed them since.
"June 2, 1980 - We had a bad scare with Brandon. He bloated up really bad and we took him to the emergency room at the hospital. He had some sort of intestinal blockage and he was in misery. The doctors were concerned and a surgeon was called in. If he didn't improve by himself, he would have operated to relieve the problem. Luckily, he did get better and passed gas and had a bowel movement so that surgery wasn't needed then. His mother was hovering over him and said something about it being all right to cry when it hurt. He responded, 'Like the Blessed Mother when Jesus was on the cross?' I noticed everyone in the room was affected deeply by that statement. Clinton stayed with us for awhile while it was all happening. But I finally found a babysitter for him as we didn't know how long we would be tied up. He was affected by the whole episode and was quite emotional when I left him."
The stove had been turned off before we left for the hospital, the liver and onions were thrown away, and Mary's never fixed them since.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Veteran's Day, Belatedly
We watched a powerful movie Saturday - Flags of Our Fathers. It was a riveting story of World War II's battle for Iwo Jima, and the battle scenes were horrific. I thought they were as powerful as those in the movie Saving Private Ryan. Since I am not a veteran I can only live war stories vicariously. I can attest to a degree of the pain experienced by a war-wounded veteran because of my own injury, but that would pale in comparison to the hell some of the vets must have gone through. As a young man I remember going into the local tavern and seeing old soldiers lined up at the bar. One did not need classes in psychology to recognize that they were still fighting battles in their troubled minds. I've thought about them a lot through the years.
It was not enough that we had that generation of conflicted lives, we developed even more. Remember Korea, Viet Nam, Afghanistan, Iraq plus a number of almost forgotten smaller ones. Certainly, some military engagements seem necessary to preserve our culture and its ideals. Unfortunately, whether or not military action is necessary becomes a debatable issue and often it is a highly subjective decision rendered by an oligarchy, as is the case in the recent war.
I have seen a picture of the cover of this week's Newsweek magazine. It is a strong depiction showing the first President Bush as a large figure in the foreground with the current Bush a small receding figure in the background. It is a striking metaphor of the elder Bush's philosophy of pragmatism superceding the younger's ideology.
It was not enough that we had that generation of conflicted lives, we developed even more. Remember Korea, Viet Nam, Afghanistan, Iraq plus a number of almost forgotten smaller ones. Certainly, some military engagements seem necessary to preserve our culture and its ideals. Unfortunately, whether or not military action is necessary becomes a debatable issue and often it is a highly subjective decision rendered by an oligarchy, as is the case in the recent war.
I have seen a picture of the cover of this week's Newsweek magazine. It is a strong depiction showing the first President Bush as a large figure in the foreground with the current Bush a small receding figure in the background. It is a striking metaphor of the elder Bush's philosophy of pragmatism superceding the younger's ideology.
Friday, November 10, 2006
People We Meet
Any trip of a few day's duration introduces the traveler to interesting personalities, and our recent Branson journey did just that. In Kansas City we toured and ate lunch at the Bingham-Waggoner Estate built in 1855. Lunch was served in the carriage house which adjoined the mansion. Several ladies graciously waited on us. My table was served by a lady who loved following the careers of rodeo bulls, and she began to tell us North Dakotans all she knew about Little Yellow Jacket, which was quite a lot. She laughed that her husband thought her hobby a bit odd, but it was what it was. Then she went on to talk about Bodacious, another past champion bucking bull. To validate to us her love of bulls she went and dug her car keys out of her coat pocket to show us the little bull dangling from the key ring.
Next, our bus stopped at the 30 room Vaile Mansion, built in 1881 by a mail contractor. Architecture buffs would have been drawn to its Second-Empire Victorian design. To me it looked as if Count Dracula might come out to meet us, but unfortunately no one did. The fact of our scheduled visit had not been passed on to its volunteer staff who were inside busily decorating for the Christmas season. Luckily we were treated to the hospitality of a welcoming lady who said to come in anyway, even though we'd have to step around the boxes of decorations. She proceeded to give a great tour of the rooms with their ceiling murals and lavish furnishings. She did not act put out by our seemingly unscheduled stop and made it every bit as rich as we could have expected.
The Arabia Steamboat Museum in Kansas City, made possible by the tenacity of its founders, told an interesting story. The Arabia ran the Missouri River from St. Louis to Kansas City until it sunk in 1856 after striking a submerged log. None of its passengers drowned, but a valuable cargo of supplies for the burgeoning westward movement sank. As the days passed the vessel sunk lower and lower into the yielding sand of the riverbed making salvage impossible. Through the decades the channel of the river changed and the steamboat's resting place was found under a cornfield. We met one of the partners who doggedly stayed with the discovery and salvage effort. Their initial plan was to sell the recovered cargo as antique items for profit. When they realized how good its quality and condition was, they felt it all needed to be kept together as a museum collection. They went deeply into debt to make the museum possible. Their persistence was admirable.
Next, our bus stopped at the 30 room Vaile Mansion, built in 1881 by a mail contractor. Architecture buffs would have been drawn to its Second-Empire Victorian design. To me it looked as if Count Dracula might come out to meet us, but unfortunately no one did. The fact of our scheduled visit had not been passed on to its volunteer staff who were inside busily decorating for the Christmas season. Luckily we were treated to the hospitality of a welcoming lady who said to come in anyway, even though we'd have to step around the boxes of decorations. She proceeded to give a great tour of the rooms with their ceiling murals and lavish furnishings. She did not act put out by our seemingly unscheduled stop and made it every bit as rich as we could have expected.
The Arabia Steamboat Museum in Kansas City, made possible by the tenacity of its founders, told an interesting story. The Arabia ran the Missouri River from St. Louis to Kansas City until it sunk in 1856 after striking a submerged log. None of its passengers drowned, but a valuable cargo of supplies for the burgeoning westward movement sank. As the days passed the vessel sunk lower and lower into the yielding sand of the riverbed making salvage impossible. Through the decades the channel of the river changed and the steamboat's resting place was found under a cornfield. We met one of the partners who doggedly stayed with the discovery and salvage effort. Their initial plan was to sell the recovered cargo as antique items for profit. When they realized how good its quality and condition was, they felt it all needed to be kept together as a museum collection. They went deeply into debt to make the museum possible. Their persistence was admirable.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Master Sophist
One of the great sophists in history resigned his position yesterday - Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld. He fits well the definition of a person practicing clever, specious reasoning. Specious because his arguments seemed to be good, sound, correct, logical, etc. without really being so. I've lost track of how many competent generals retired or were forced to bite their tongue so as not to publicly take issue with him. I still think of Colin Powell's resignation as Secretary of State, an action that smacked of his disgust with the thinly disguised in-fighting with Rumsfeld.
Many's the time Rumsfeld stood at a podium and laid out his arguments for Iraqi strategy and tactics. Cowed reporters phrased their questions so as not to ruffle his temper. Everyone seemed to be highly intimidated by the man. We knew a monumental problem existed when retired generals who no longer had need to fear began calling for his resignation. Recently a major armed services publication called for him to resign. And with the election ... the citizenry demanded change.
He'll retire like any deposed person, probably continue to practice his sophistry in a book of memoir, and make a pile of money from it. Meanwhile, three thousand military personnel have died over there, and the consensus taking form seems to say it was all a mistake.
Many's the time Rumsfeld stood at a podium and laid out his arguments for Iraqi strategy and tactics. Cowed reporters phrased their questions so as not to ruffle his temper. Everyone seemed to be highly intimidated by the man. We knew a monumental problem existed when retired generals who no longer had need to fear began calling for his resignation. Recently a major armed services publication called for him to resign. And with the election ... the citizenry demanded change.
He'll retire like any deposed person, probably continue to practice his sophistry in a book of memoir, and make a pile of money from it. Meanwhile, three thousand military personnel have died over there, and the consensus taking form seems to say it was all a mistake.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Talkin' Sheep
It's not often I get into a discussion about sheep, much less with a rancher's widowed wife, but there we were in the Petro Truck Stop in Fargo waiting to board the bus for the last leg home from our trip to Branson. I was using my ears as antennae to ferret out interesting conversation, and I picked up that signal and tuned in. We talked breeds. She liked the Rambouillets because you could grab them by their horns and wrestle them to where you wanted them to go. Her son and his wife operated the place now, but she still helped out. They leaned to the Suffolk breed of sheep, a disappointing fact to her: they were too stubborn and were poor mothers besides. I asked if there was any money to be made now in sheep, and she shook her head no. They had to haul their last wool crop to Billings to sell at an almost give-away price.
I thought back to my life with sheep as a boy. Dad liked to buy inexpensive broken-mouthed Columbia bred ewes from Montana. Broken-mouth meant they were old and had lost many of their teeth. They usually proved to be a sound purchase, however, since we'd get one crop of lambs and one clipping of wool from them, then sell them again, the whole affair usually earning some profit.
One time Dad thought he'd like to buy a Southdown buck for breeding and found one that had won a blue ribbon at the Red River Valley Fair. It was a nice looking animal, and he got turned in with the ewes to earn his keep. Alas, something went wrong. He got sick and died. There was no way of telling how many ewes he'd bred, so another buck of lesser quality took his place. In the spring the results of the high-powered breeding plan proved meager. Only one lamb of recognizable Southdown characteristics roamed about the barnyard. Luckily, it was a young buck, and he grew to be his father's replacement.
I thought back to my life with sheep as a boy. Dad liked to buy inexpensive broken-mouthed Columbia bred ewes from Montana. Broken-mouth meant they were old and had lost many of their teeth. They usually proved to be a sound purchase, however, since we'd get one crop of lambs and one clipping of wool from them, then sell them again, the whole affair usually earning some profit.
One time Dad thought he'd like to buy a Southdown buck for breeding and found one that had won a blue ribbon at the Red River Valley Fair. It was a nice looking animal, and he got turned in with the ewes to earn his keep. Alas, something went wrong. He got sick and died. There was no way of telling how many ewes he'd bred, so another buck of lesser quality took his place. In the spring the results of the high-powered breeding plan proved meager. Only one lamb of recognizable Southdown characteristics roamed about the barnyard. Luckily, it was a young buck, and he grew to be his father's replacement.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Truman Presidential Museum
We stopped in Independence, MO as our recent bus tour headed north to home and visited the Truman Presidential Museum. Each time I visit my watch seems to run too fast, and it's time to go again having left unseen or unstudied many artifacts and documents. My knowledge of this man's Presidency tells me that history turned on his term in office, good or bad, and I'm always left wanting to know more. Harry S (without a period) Truman was the first President I remember. He impressed upon this young mind his ability and need to stand stalwart in difficult situations.
On entering the building you see the large mural painted by Thomas Hart Benton, "Independence and the Opening of the West." A portal opens in the middle of the painting through which the museum lies beyond. His famous desk plaque stating The Buck Stops Here greets you as the first exhibit. Our guide told us the term originated with the card game of poker when a marker, a knife with a buckhorn handle was used to indicate whose turn it was to deal. If the player did not wish to deal he could pass the job on by passing the "buck." Truman said as President he couldn't pass the buck to anybody.
One exhibit hanging from the ceiling stopped me, enough so that I nudged Mary to look up. Hundreds of tiny model planes hung suspended in a flight pattern. The guide saw my interest and said they represent the nearly 600 planes that flew each day for fourteen months to supply the Berlin Air Lift. The eagle on the Presidential seal met with Truman's displeasure, so much so that he had the eagle's head turned to face the olive branches in its claws instead of the bundle of arrows. And, of course, the museum gave attention to the screw-up of the Chicago Daily Tribune's erroneous headline blaring "Dewey Defeats Truman."
Truman was the last President to retire without the perks of a pension or a security detail and lived modestly in his Independence home until his death in 1969. Time and space don't allow me to write of his decisions regarding the atom bomb, the Marshall Plan, Korea, labor, race, etc. For good or bad, his was an important Presidency.
On entering the building you see the large mural painted by Thomas Hart Benton, "Independence and the Opening of the West." A portal opens in the middle of the painting through which the museum lies beyond. His famous desk plaque stating The Buck Stops Here greets you as the first exhibit. Our guide told us the term originated with the card game of poker when a marker, a knife with a buckhorn handle was used to indicate whose turn it was to deal. If the player did not wish to deal he could pass the job on by passing the "buck." Truman said as President he couldn't pass the buck to anybody.
One exhibit hanging from the ceiling stopped me, enough so that I nudged Mary to look up. Hundreds of tiny model planes hung suspended in a flight pattern. The guide saw my interest and said they represent the nearly 600 planes that flew each day for fourteen months to supply the Berlin Air Lift. The eagle on the Presidential seal met with Truman's displeasure, so much so that he had the eagle's head turned to face the olive branches in its claws instead of the bundle of arrows. And, of course, the museum gave attention to the screw-up of the Chicago Daily Tribune's erroneous headline blaring "Dewey Defeats Truman."
Truman was the last President to retire without the perks of a pension or a security detail and lived modestly in his Independence home until his death in 1969. Time and space don't allow me to write of his decisions regarding the atom bomb, the Marshall Plan, Korea, labor, race, etc. For good or bad, his was an important Presidency.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Points South
We returned from Branson, Missouri finding the weather milder here than there. When asked by a native Missourian where we hailed from, our answer usually got a response something like "Y'all came down here to get away from the cold?" I thought it was chilly down there. This trip was our fourth one to Branson, and we have seen a total of about 20 different shows. This time we saw five: Moe Bandy, Daniel O'Donnell, Doug Gabriel, Presley Family, and the Dixie Stampede. Side trips included a ride on the Branson Scenic Railway, two Civil War era mansions, a steamboat museum, and the Truman Presidential Museum.
The top three attractions in my estimation were Moe Bandy, Daniel O'Donnell, and the Truman Museum. O'Donnell, because of his many appearances on public television, should be pretty well recognized by everybody for his talent and showmanship. He gave us almost three hours of entertainment. Our trip to the Truman Museum was my third time there, and I will comment on it tomorrow. Moe Bandy deserves a little of my attention here. One probably needs be a country music fan to recognize him and his body of songs, one of which is a favorite of mine - Too Old to Die Young.
The strong lyrics of this song have always appealed to my sense of good song writing. It starts "If life is like a candle bright, death must be the wind," and the chorus says to "Let me watch my children grow to see what they become. Oh, Lord, don't let that cold wind blow 'til I'm too old to die young." Lucky for me I have found that song translated into a simple three chord melody that my limited guitar playing ability can handle. I've been reading lately that country music has reached a high state of popularity again because it's lyrics connect with more people. Moe's is not a new song but represents just that idea.
The top three attractions in my estimation were Moe Bandy, Daniel O'Donnell, and the Truman Museum. O'Donnell, because of his many appearances on public television, should be pretty well recognized by everybody for his talent and showmanship. He gave us almost three hours of entertainment. Our trip to the Truman Museum was my third time there, and I will comment on it tomorrow. Moe Bandy deserves a little of my attention here. One probably needs be a country music fan to recognize him and his body of songs, one of which is a favorite of mine - Too Old to Die Young.
The strong lyrics of this song have always appealed to my sense of good song writing. It starts "If life is like a candle bright, death must be the wind," and the chorus says to "Let me watch my children grow to see what they become. Oh, Lord, don't let that cold wind blow 'til I'm too old to die young." Lucky for me I have found that song translated into a simple three chord melody that my limited guitar playing ability can handle. I've been reading lately that country music has reached a high state of popularity again because it's lyrics connect with more people. Moe's is not a new song but represents just that idea.
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