...What we choose to recall

Merle Haggard sings a line “… everything does change, except what we choose to recall.” I heard it again this morning, and for some reason I have been running it through my head a bit today. When I attended graduate school I ran with a great group of guys who had lots of fun together. We hung out after hours at a joint called The Driftwood and enjoyed a carefree life. Since that time, however, I’ve only seen two of the guys one time each and neither was the same fellow I knew back then. I wonder if the Driftwood still stands to dispense the fun and drink. Probably not. It was in Greeley, CO, a town which has seen lots of growth since 1969. The way things sometimes go it was probably leveled to make room for a shopping mall.

A picture of Sheldon’s main street, taken about 1900, hangs on my study’s wall which shows at least two city blocks solid with store fronts with standing horse teams and buggies tied in front of them. I don’t have that particular memory, but the one I do have differs greatly from the reality of today’s main street. Only a few buildings still stand, and I have heard several of them are going to be taken down because of their vacancy and state of disrepair. A couple of years ago the old city hall and Newton’s cream station and feed store met with demolition. Each time I drive down that street I still picture how it used to look.

In any small town drive around a bit and then make your way out to the community cemetery. It’s usually the only that’s growing. Farms grew larger, families shrunk in numbers, the kids went off to the bigger towns for employment. I guess it is only the memory we choose to recall that stays the same.
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A Swede enters the bar in the town where he stopped for the night. He grabs a barstool and orders a drink. After sitting there for a while, he yells to the bartender, "Hey, you wanna hear a Norwegian joke?

The bar immediately falls absolutely quiet. In a very deep, husky voice, the woman him says, "Before you tell that joke, sir, I think it is only fair — given that you are new here — you should know five things:
1. The bartender is a Norwegian.
2. The bouncer is a Norwegian.
3. I'm Norwegian and a professional weightlifter.
4. The woman sitting next to me is Norwegian with a black belt in karate.
5. The man to your right is a Norwegian and a professional wrestler.

Now think about it seriously, Mister. Do you still wanna tell that joke? The Swede thinks about it for a second, shakes his head, and declares: "Nah, not if I'm gonna have to explain it five times."

July 4th Considered

Another July 4th has come and gone. I really believe that with each year I reflect a bit more on why we celebrate that day. Reminded of a recent book by David McCullough entitled 1776 when a local columnist in our daily paper made mention of it, and with lots of spare time that day I drove over to Barnes and Noble and bought a copy. McCullough proves himself a very readable historian; I think any history researched and written by him is worthwhile reading. I haven’t finished reading the book yet, but it gives a clear picture of the political and military workings of the period.

An event in England surprised me completely when I read that the House of Lords and the House of Commons did not, in their debate, wholly support King George III by voting for military action in the colonies. Approximately 1/3 of the members in each body voted nay, but with their country’s rule of law the majority prevailed and the war commenced.

In the colonies complicated feelings for or against freedom from England did not encourage simple actions in the colonies, but, driven by strong leadership, we all know the final outcome was independence and freedom from domination.

History and biography always take priority in my reading, and I’ve just finished a volume that illustrates the length that people go to protect freedom. The book - World War II on the Air, Edward R. Murrow and the Broadcasts that Riveted a Nation - tells of the CBS newsmen led by Murrow who invented on the spot reporting in the European war zones. Because of these men the world received news of Hitler’s armies and his attempts to dominate the world. The book and its companion CD of actual wartime recordings made by the reporters clearly draws the picture of the struggle and the lengths that the Allies went to to defeat the menace.

A quotation by Murrow stood out prominently, “Europe has no doubt that America is mighty in battle. Our nation, which was created by people who wanted to leave Europe, is the center of the hopes and some of the fears of millions who are in Europe today.”

Dear Mary

Dear Mary,

Things haven’t gone too badly since you’ve been gone again to Mpls to babysit our grandkids. Last time you went I filled the hamper and didn’t have anything to wear - well, I figured it out this time: I haven’t changed clothes. So when you come home you won’t have to worry about washing. Just throw these away!

I know how possessive you are of your lawnmower, so --- since mine is getting repaired --- I’ve left yours alone. The grass is getting long, but that will make it seem worthwhile mowing when you get home. After 35 years of marriage I know when to leave well enough alone.

I’ve been out to the ranch helping to put up hay. It’s really pretty out there, so green. Old flatlander that I am, I didn’t know how settled I’d be when we moved out here, but there’s a beauty in this country that really appeals to me. This morning, Tuesday, was very foggy as I drove south of town and the layers and patches of fog blended into the lay of the land. One sight was especially striking: Little Heart Butte was completely surrounded by the white haze except for its peak that stood up high and clear. It reminded me of Mt. McKinley, except for its smaller scale, of course.

On Monday at the dinner table Marty asked Angie to stick around this morning to give me any change in instructions. She drug her feet a bit since she likes to take a morning walk. I suggested she could just stand in front of the house and run in place. That didn’t go over well. Her sense of humor is something like yours.

Did you hear the one about the lady who after looking in the mirror got all depressed. She told her husband, “I’m not the woman you married. My face is wrinkled, I’ve got granny-flab hanging on my arms, bags under my eyes, etc. Please, honey, say something positive about me so I can feel better about myself.” He thought a minute and offered this, “Well, your eyesight is good.”

Well, I’m writing this Tuesday night so I can get a good start in the morning to come and get you at the Fargo airport. I’m tired and could use a good night’s sleep. My back gets stiff bouncing around in the tractor, my eyes get tired in the sun, I’ve got a bit of sunburn, etc. I wonder if you’ll say something good about me to make me feel better when I see you.”

Love,

Lynn

Channel Surfing

Sometimes, when I sit vegetating in my chair, I pick up the television’s remote control and start running through the few dozen channels cabled into my house. Once in awhile I land on a station that catches my interest and watch it through to the end. I channel surf in my thoughts, too, with a variety of images flitting in and out of my mind. Many of them get little attention and quickly pass, while others linger a bit longer to get mulled over a bit longer. I think I’ll do a little of that right now and see what pops into this screen in my head.

Channel 21 - Here comes one of Clark Douglas’s trucks with its stock rack rattling on the washboards on the gravel road. I can’t see it yet; it’s hidden in a cloud of dust, but I’ve been expecting it to come to pick up my 4-H heifer and take her to Lisbon for Achievement Days, so I know it’s him. The big Ford drives into the yard and Gene Jaster jumps out, pulls down the ramp, and my blue ribbon winning Holstein walks right up.

Channel 34 - My buddy and I pitch our tent in Manitoba, unload the boat, and proceed to do some fishing. Evening comes and some Canadians, camped near us, invite us over to drink some of their rye whisky. I drink too much and fall soundly asleep in the tent but am awakened by what I take to be my buddy’s loud snoring. I stumble out the next morning to discover our campsite has been torn to shreds by a marauding bear.

Channel 45 - The Sheldon Shadows are playing basketball in the old town hall. A time out has been called, and I’m a bench-rider standing on the outside edge of the huddle. Coach Grosgebauer, in one of his usual lapses of strategy to overcome a score deficit, looks about for someone to chew on. He spots me, “Bueling, I haven’t seen you doing anything yet!” I reply, “You haven’t put me in yet, Coach.”

Channel 53 - My first year out of graduate school and I’m the principal of Wind River High School in Wyoming. The car I drive is a 1966 Chev Impala that has served me well, taking me round trip to Alaska and through a year of grad school in Greeley, Colorado. Home for Christmas vacation I decide to treat myself by retiring the old steed and buy a new car, a 1971 Buick Skylark in which I fly off to the future.

Channel 72 - The girl who will be my future bride and I drive through the fall foliage of the Sheyenne River Valley near Fort Ransom, and she loves the scenery, brilliant colors, and my company. I think I’ll set the clicker down and watch this channel. It should be an interesting program.

A Great Find in Rummage

Saturday mornings around here often finds us searching out two or three garage sales; it’s not that we need anything, but the thrill of the hunt supersedes any needs. And, it is only once or twice during a summer that we stumble upon choice items. The treasure I uncovered last Saturday may have been my allotment for the year, and I found it in the unlikely place of a recently closed farm implement building on main street. Odds and ends of that business were being offered as well as household items that had been brought in. There, neatly placed on shelves were a couple hundred older hardcover books from which I chose two. One of them, a history entitled Red River Runs North!, contains information I had not run across before about my historical research interest of ox-cart freighting. A wealth of facts in it will feed my writing project regarding the trail from Fort Abercrombie to Fort Ransom.

The other find grabbing my attention that day was an autobiography written by North Dakota’s own Eric Sevareid, Not So Wild a Dream. I find Sevareid’s writing pretty irresistible; how can an old farm boy not keep reading after scanning the first two lines of chapter one: “The small brown river curved around the edge of our town. The farmers plowed close to its muddy banks and left their water jugs in the shade of the willows.” Having read this book previously, I am familiar with his story. It is this book that carries the oft-quoted passage regarding how people reacted when he told them he hailed from North Dakota. To them this state “… was a large, rectangular blank spot in the nation’s mind.”

Sevareid’s use of the English language was superb! I still remember his radio and television commentaries and how precisely his two minute’s worth of words described his topic of the day. Whenever he started talking I usually stopped to listen, and since it’s been a number of years since last I read him, I’m enjoying his penned words all over again.

As a young man he demonstrated an adventurous spirit and the places he went and the enviable experiences he gained shaped his world view and influenced his professional life. He was present in Europe working as a news correspondent prior to and during World War II and sent out breaking stories and bulletins, a feat few other correspondents were able to accomplish. He’d beg or bluster his way through the management of radio stations and get small doses of airtime to inform the world what Hitler was doing at the outset of this period. His report was the first indication to the outside world that France had capitulated, offering little resistance to the Nazi army. When things started getting dicey for him and his family he knew he had to get his wife and one week old twin boys out of Paris and safely home to the United States. That story alone raises goose bumps when he found out that procuring transportation made him compete with the thousands of refugees who wanted a place on available ships, too. After a time when he knew his own life to be in danger, he made his way to England to find and report to his boss Edward R. Murrow. He had left Paris without permission, something I suppose most of us would do if our lives were in danger, but worried whether or not Murrow might fire him for insubordination. Murrow’s response to the contrary, “This is the best news I’ve had for a long time … You have pulled off one of the greatest broadcasting feats there ever was.”

The book is long and wordy, but I enjoy every page of this great writer. A symposium on Eric Sevareid will be held in Bismarck next April, and a one night lecture is scheduled at the Heritage Center in November. I plan to attend both events.

Freedom of Speech

As aggravating and damaging as it can be at times, it is our duty as citizens of this country to promote and protect free speech. As a youngster I clearly remember how frustrating it was to be bullied and intimidated by older, stronger boys and then be forced to follow their dictates. Being made to “shut up” developed into strongly entrenched resentment and prevented useful, satisfying dialogue from ever developing. The present national political scene emulates this childish approach to important debate and I am sad for that. I always enjoy hearing the oft-repeated anecdote regarding Ronald Reagan and Tip O’Neill. During the day their ideological differences were topics of fierce debate, but occasionally at night they set their differences aside by enjoying each other’s company over drinks and story telling.

My history book tells me that the first attempt to codify personal rights came about with the Magna Carta signed into effect in 1215 by King John who was forced to do so because some of the English barons rebelled. The thought set down in that document became a guiding star our own forefathers borrowed from when they wrote the U. S. Constitution and guaranteed Freedom of Speech in the First Amendment. One of my sources states “The First Amendment, also called the Great Amendment, is in many ways the cornerstone of America’s free, open, and tolerant society… It guarantees that Americans can share the information they need for a robust public debate on the issues, and to act on those issues.”

I doubt whether the one-sided diatribes heard daily on television and radio shows meet the criteria for and add to a robust public debate and I have for the most part stopped listening. I choose to open my books and study them for the knowledge therein and not feel as though I’m being told to “shut up.” After drawing my own conclusions, I am grateful to have the freedom and opportunity to express myself on this humble web log.

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Family health concerns concerning our three surviving parents weigh heavily and take up quite a bit of our time and energies. A trip to Lisbon yesterday prevented my posting this blog. I am certain faithful readers of this blogsite will understand. We are glad the auction sale in Lisbon went well. It took lots of energy, but we were gratified by the large turnout, the good sales, and the great crew who came to help us load their possessions and haul and unload them at the site of the auction. We were also gratified to hear that their landlord was pleased with the clean condition of the property. My brother and his wife worked hard at cleaning when they came to visit, and anyone who knows my wife knows how hard she worked.

Random Thoughts on the 3rd of June

The auction sale is done! A nice crowd attended; some things sold well, others not so well. My mother expressed relief that a prized trunk built by her dad stayed in the family when one of the Devitt girls bought it. The saddest part of the sale is that the financial proceeds from it will be eaten up in about one month at the nursing home.
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Mary and I have an anniversary coming up, number 35. Those years have passed by quickly. I guess that’s what happens when you marry the right one.
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This Saturday marks the 65th anniversary of D Day. There are several good websites containing history of that battle. One of the good ones: www.militaryhistoryonline.com. A scene from that battle plays over and over. A few men are pictured coming ashore and one soldier is hit and goes down. I’ve always wondered if he survived his wound. Casualties that day amounted to 1,500 Americans killed with 3,200 wounded and 1,900 missing in action. A veteran told me once that the term "missing in action" often means being blown to bits by an explosion and no trace of the body could be found.
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Much is being made of the Republican party’s demise and how they can’t get it together. I presume they will in the future, but there sure is a lot of acid coming from the mouths of some of their commentators. It makes me think of Newton’s Law of Motion - To every action there is an opposite and equal reaction. Having just suffered through eight years of government ineptitude and corruption, this new administration’s approach to governing should have been expected.
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We heard of a Norwegian who was so dumb he thought the word “innuendo” was an Italian word for Preparation H.
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I watched the NBC special last evening of Brian Williams and crew roaming around the White House for a day. One thing that impresses me about Obama is that for his youth and inexperience he exudes a confident air. Whether or not his term(s) in office will be successful remains to be seen.

Recorded History

I’m getting ready to go to Lisbon regarding auction sale business for the last time; however, I’ll probably be there until Sunday this time and will be very glad when it is over. The next trips out there will be to just relax and visit with the folks. Going through their possessions gives one a handle on the passage of time. For instance, Ma’s wedding dress from 68 years ago was dredged up from the bottom of her beloved cedar chest and the shirt Dad wore at the time revealed itself, too. Pictures are especially interesting: who is this, when would that have been, where was this one taken, etc. The bedroom set they were given as a wedding present will have to be sold. No one has room for it. The “Box” built by Grandpa Sandvig in the 1920’s has to go. No one has room for it. The ornate china closet with side board has to go. No one has room for it.

The written word might be the best way to preserve things, anyway. I will have lots of stories to relay through my blog regarding my parents, but in the interest of time today (remember, I’m heading to Lisbon shortly) I’m going to bring out a story my father-in-law told from his past that was transcribed by my wife Mary. It recalls the time when Adam and his brother went out one morning to milk the cows and do other chores. Quite a little time passed and “still their younger sisters and father hadn’t come out of the two story farmhouse to get the milking started. ‘Na, wo siens ah?’ In German he says, ‘the cows stand here leaking milk; they have already let down their milk. Finish up here, Lazarus, I guess I’ll have to go wake them up-- they must have overslept. I could smell smoke before I even got close to the house.

Putrid smelling smoke from a collapsed chimney enveloped me when I opened the door. ‘Good God in Heaven! Mutta! Mutta!’ Mother was the first one I saw but I couldn’t pick her up off the bedroom floor; she was just too heavy for this 15 year old boy. Getting a grip under her arms I pulled her out of the house, left her on the front stoop and ran back into the house. I returned to find Dad still conscious enough to be able to walk. I grabbed him, blankets and all, and he walked out of the house with my help. ‘Go upstairs and get the girls,’ he whispered hoarsely. The smoke was so thick and noxious I thought I’d collapse, too. I grabbed a diaper and held it over my nose and mouth as I sprinted up the 16 foot staircase of our tall, two story farmhouse. ‘Helen, Katy, Clara, wake up! Wake up!’ They couldn’t be roused and one by one I pulled, tugged, dragged them down the steep, narrow staircase outdoors to safety. ‘Come on, Helen, we’ve got to get out of here!’ I had to pull them down backwards and once I almost fell. Klunk, klunk, klunk, their feet hit every step. [Several sentences here are omitted] Once Felix was outside the house he plopped down beside his family as they lay helpless and disoriented for a time, coughing like crazy until they came to and started throwing up. They were all terribly sick and Mother had a terrible headache that didn’t go away for a long time. I wanted them to go to the doctor but no they said, ‘we’ll be all right now.’”

Graduation

We attended a reception for a high school graduate on Sunday. When I congratulated her, I spotted a twinkle in her eyes which I presumed came from earning this accomplishment paired with her dreams for the future; she told me she plans to attend a good university. Young folks at this stage of their life begin to strongly think of independence. My wish for her and all high school graduates is to realize that with this freshly minted diploma all they have really done is open a gate. Now comes the tricky part; they have to decide how large the yard beyond will be. For some it will be small and thick with weeds growing alongside the fence line. Grass will grow ragged and unmown with lots of dandelions abloom. At the opposite, others will fertilize and maintain a huge yard, multi-colored and textured with flower beds, bushes, and trees where song birds and butterflies make their homes.

My high school class adopted the motto One goal reached, many beyond. I suppose that sufficed, but who cared much about mottoes then? The fallacy with those words is that not many people set goals. They take life day to day, or put another way, paycheck to paycheck.

A life’s motto that makes more sense to me - If you can dream it, you can achieve it.

Dream Big - Author unknown

If there were ever a time to dare,
To make a difference
To embark on something worth doing
It is now.

Not for any grand cause, necessarily –
But for something that tugs at your heart
Something that is worth your aspiration
Something that is your dream.

You owe it to yourself
To make your days count.
Have fun. Dig deep. Stretch.

Dream big.

Know, though,
That things worth doing
Seldom come easy.

There will be times when you want to
Turn around
Pack it up and call it quits.

Those times tell you
That you are pushing yourself
And that you are not afraid to learn by trying.

Persist.

Because with an idea,
Determination and the right tools,
You can do great things.

Let your instincts, your intellect
And let your heart guide you.
Trust.

Believe in the incredible power
Of the human mind
Of doing something that makes a difference.

Of working hard
Of laughing and hoping
Of lasting friends
Of all the things that will cross your path.

Next year
The start of something new
Brings the hope of something great.
Anything is possible.

There is only one you
And you will pass this way but once.

Do it right

Busy, busy, busy

I've been so occupied with other things that I almost forgot it's Wednesday, the day I usually write a blog. Writing is one of my favorite things, and I never intend to give that up. The primary draw for my time has been the auction sale we are preparing for in Lisbon on May 30. A reader of this might be interested in scanning the sale bill posted on the internet. A couple different versions of the bill are located on these sites: www.rdauction.com --- or --- www.globalauctionguide.com/rd.

When June comes I will finally be able to do other things, but what am I doing here, feeling sorry for myself? Dad expressed his thanks for our preparing the sale. I replied, I just hope that when I get old and unable to do for myself that someone will step up to take care of our affairs.

More Memories

The grass is greening up, shirtsleeves seem sufficient to keep the breeze off, and we got in a damn car accident yesterday - rear ended at a stop light. I went to the emergency room afterwards, had a CT scan and the doctor reported he saw a hollow chamber within the walls of my skull. Well, I am still mobile and the other party’s insurance will take care of the repairs (they say).

We will be heading to my aunt’s funeral tomorrow in Lisbon where I will be a pall bearer. This leaves my dad as the sole surviving offspring of Charles and Tillie Bueling. Eleven brothers and sisters have preceded him in death. He is 94 years old, now lives in a home, and still makes plans for the future. I am taking carving tools and wood along since he wants to start carving his creations again.

There is still work to do preparing for the auction sale, so any spare time tomorrow will be spent at that job. We’ve come across many items of interest when we sort and box things up, some to be sold, some to be kept as heirlooms. An example of this is an old postcard addressed to my grandmother Clara. The sender located at St. Cloud, MN said, “It is easy to go to the show here, just jump on the street car and away you go. The Birth of a Nation is coming … Saw Charlie Chaplin in the movies some time ago. He sure is some funny guy.” A long letter stamped with two one-centers to Grandma and a one cent postcard are written in Norwegian, a language I took a class in one time but still cannot read.

Yellowed newspaper clippings abound, some announcing engagements, some obituaries, some four or five generation family pictures, etc. Lots of beautiful old Valentine cards of outstanding quality were saved, crafted with a quality you just don’t see in today’s. Loose pictures, mostly of relatives and acquaintances who have passed on (which makes me stop to think of my own mortality). After all is said and done with this transition period there will be many more stories to tell and pass on. This blogging effort of mine has always been intended as a method of letting my sons and their descendants know more about me and my thoughts.

To conclude, the most yellowed clipping I’ve run across in this memory trip speaks to my folks' life period probably the best way it can be stated. It is a poem entitled “The Old Milk Cow.” Its first verse goes like this: When crop failure hits / And we’re down to two bits, / With our creditors we’re in for a row. / To another crop it appears / We will have to shift gears, / And go back to the old milk cow.

Dad's Memory

Sitting at this keyboard the day after we returned from Lisbon after another two-day stay I can take time to think about the people I am descended from. My folks now reside there in the Parkside Home, and Mary and I each week have been taking regular trips to their apartment to sort and pack things in preparation for an auction sale on May 30. We’ve come across many things of a high-interest nature such as old cards, letters, and pictures, and during the 3:00 coffee hour at Parkside we sit and ask questions about them.

The ladies at the home were all a-twitter yesterday because it was their inaugural organizational meeting of a “Red Hat Society.” It so happened I had taken to Dad a red cap emblazoned with “Sheldon Shadows” so Ma able to wear that until we shop for something more appropriate. I had wheeled Dad down there too because we thought we were going to have our coffee with them, but, no, they kicked us out, ladies only. So we returned to the spot where the men were being served. Their discussion turned to weather and Dad started remembering the spring of 1936 when he said he and a hired man put in the crop with horses, and it was so cold they had to walk behind the horses to keep warm. A question arose: was it the year the dust blew so bad? No, that was 1934.

I had taken pictures to the folks so they could identify for posterity the people on them. While we were waiting for the ladies to crown their queen and finish with festivities we went down to his room and looked at pictures. I found that I couldn’t write fast enough because of the wellspring of information that flowed by the gallons. A picture of his brother Leslie holding four work horses brought this comment: That’s Queen, Topsy, Bird, and Dolly, and Queen was a daughter of Topsy. I eventually got Bird and Russell got the two white ones. The memory was pretty strong. I’d guess that photo was seventy-five years old.

A photo, about 85 years old, of a threshing scene we’d blown up to fit on an 8 ½ by 11 sheet soon filled completely on the back side with written reminisced information. It was snapped about 1927 and pictured his Dad’s threshing machine, a Nicholson-Shepard Red River Special that was worn out by the time Dad worked with it and consequently seemed like it was always broken down. Two men shown were Nels Bjerke on the left with horse team of Sam and Molly, and Ludvig Davidson on the right with Cub and Jesse. The tractor powering the machine was an Allis-Chalmers 20/35. The facts kept pouring forth. The 1924 Model T touring car had been modified into a pickup and Grandpa came to own it by trading his Willys 6 to Richard Fritz even-up. Oh, by the way, when Dad was ten years old the Model T was the first car he ever drive.

The earlier mentioned Ludvig Davidson once hired Dad to help him haul hay for two days and paid him $4 for his labor. Grandma Bueling, his mother, was so happy because then Dad could buy a pair of Star Brand shoes to wear while, at nine years of age, he ran a McCormick binder. Otherwise, he would have had to work barefooted in the grain field.

Dad has always had a soft spot for the heavy work horses did during this period and told of a time he hauled grain on a gravel road and how sore their feet got. It also was hard on the wooden wagon wheels so at the end of the day he ran the wagon into some water so the spokes would soak and tighten up a bit. The memories never stopped coming. I am going to start carrying my recorder so I don’t have to write so fast. Then, the ladies came back energized from their Red Hat gathering so our history lesson drew to a close.

Nightcrawlers

Last Friday on Katie Couric’s CBS news program I watched a feature that brought back a memory. Steve Hartman has been doing similar things on the show that Charles Kuralt used to do before he passed away, and he revisited a place called Sopchoppy, Florida. Kuralt had talked to people who did “worm grunting,” whereby a wooden stake was driven into the ground and a steel bar was rubbed across the end grains to produce a loud vibrating or grunting sound. The racket caused night crawler worms to come out of their holes where they could be picked up by would-be fish bait salesmen. It is thought the worms feared a mole was burrowing for them, so they climbed up into the daylight to escape the predator. During Kuralt’s interview with one of the hunters he got him to admit making about $200 per week gathering the little critters. Unfortunately, for him and others like him it got the attention of the IRS people who came and made them claim the income. When Hartman repeated the same question 25-30 years later, no one would confess to the income they made. They had become “media-savvy,” but they were still rasping the steel across the end grain and gathering buckets of the bait.

The memory revived in me had to do with gathering night crawlers, too. We were students at Valley City State when someone suggested we gather some bait. Immediately, I had visions of “snipe hunting” and feared they would try to make me the butt of some outlandish joke. I’m pretty sure we were fueled and fired up with beer in our bellies so I let myself get talked into the adventure. The city park became the scene, and we were cautioned to walk quietly watching the ground carefully while the experienced one shone a flashlight down. Here’s where I suspected the snipe-hunt: we were told that when we saw a night crawler stretched across the ground, yet anchored with one end of his body in his hole, that we were to dive for it, that they were very quick. Disbelief and skepticism overtook me then. How could a worm move quickly? “There’s one, see ’im? You were too slow! He disappeared.” Not seeing it, I knew then I was being toyed with. But a couple of the others kept diving to the ground on their knees and, sure enough, they were coming up with the prize. The whole episode struck me as being so ludicrous and funny that all I could do was double up with laughter; I doubt that I ever did catch one. Gradually, as the night wore on, I became a believer, but it’s an episode from carefree youth that brings a smile to my face each time I think back on it.

This, too, Shall Pass

Spring has come all at once! Every slough, creek, and river has filled to overflow and race down any route it can find. In the hill country around here the water runs out of all the ravines and gullies, collects into larger flows, and really makes its presence known. But because it is hilly it will be over just as fast as it started. Interstate 94 got shut down between us and Jamestown for a day. After the spring of ’97 road crews constructed higher road beds on it in a couple of spots, and now, since other water-vulnerable spots have shown up, that road equipment will probably be at it again. I heard on local radio about the hardships that have been created out in the countryside: washed out railbeds, washed out gravel roads, washed out bridges, etc. The after effects of all this water will be felt for some time.

Last week I spent a couple of days in Lisbon for family business and saw lots of activity there in anticipation of the Sheyenne River’s rise. Lots of dump trucks hauled dirt to build dikes; flat bed trailers loaded with pallets of sandbags traveled through town all day; National Guard equipment, vehicles and personnel were in abundance; and evacuation plans were being made for the hospital and soldier’s home. Ironically, just a couple weeks previous to this, Lisbon facilities housed some evacuees from the Fargo flood. My parents now both reside in the Parkside Lutheran Home in Lisbon which, fortunately, sits on high ground.

The high water lets me appreciate a period of local history I’m presently studying; it is the freighting industry where carts and wagons pulled by ox teams served Forts Abercrombie and Ransom. Two routes were established to get from one place to the other - a low water route and a high water route. When able to travel the low water route, they could have forded the Sheyenne in a couple of spots to follow a direct route. Obviously this spring they would have had to take the longer high water route which departed in a southerly direction from the Owego settlement to follow a large bend in the Sheyenne River and then headed westward to what is now Lisbon and then beyond to Fort Ransom. It would have taken longer, maybe a couple of days. Today, if farm families aren’t completely cut off they may have to find longer high water routes, also.

Forty Years Ago

Yesterday I rummaged through a drawer where some of my keepsakes lay which are, for the most part, seldom looked at. After I left graduate school I decided to purchase for myself a college class ring. Well, there it sat looking pretty much like a new one since I never wore it that much. The year of graduation inscribed on it made me take notice, and I’ve been reminiscing about those days ever since. Nineteen sixty-nine was the year, and when I did a little simple math I realized it has been 40 years since I graduated with my master of arts degree. I remember that year with pleasure; along with studies we had a great social time. There were about a dozen of us taking classes in the administration department; we were a diverse lot who established the Driftwood Lounge in Greeley as the headquarters for our shenanigans, story-telling, and general all-around shiftless behavior.

Colorado, still not over-populated at the time, possessed many scenic wonders, and I got around to see them as much as I could. Looking westward from the campus the Rocky Mountains rose high and sharply serving as a source of eye-candy for this flatlander. I still remember the time when large flakes of snow floated on the air, and a girl who had never seen snow fall sat transfixed in front of the student union’s west windows. She probably remembers seeing snow for the first time in her life; I remember the total scene: the girl, the snow, the mountains.

How can I forget to mention the odor of manure that swept the campus each time the wind blew from the northwest. The Monfort Feed Lot with 100,000 head of cattle fattening in its pens reminded us of their presence, and as they always said in Wahpeton with its foul smell of sugar beet processing, that’s the smell of money. I believe Monfort’s capacity has grown, but it has also relocated its operation to a more favorable position as regarding its wind-borne odors.

Forty years! So much has transpired over that period of time. A wife, two sons, grandchildren, jobs, and now retirement. The responsibilities a person assumes can almost hobble him at times, and the scars a man bears have been earned. I just typed and framed a quotation from Tennyson’s poem Ulysses:

“Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are…”

No matter what I wish now that I would have done or shouldn’t have done with my life, I will continually remind myself “that which we are, we are.” Colorado was one of the bright spots, and it came at the end of an odyssey similar to Ulysses' when I drove to Alaska searching for great things, ended up in Greeley in graduate school, and lived the first days of the rest of my life.

Is It Spring Yet?

We’re experiencing the kind of winter that the rest of the country thinks we always have. Here it is April 1 and it’s still here. In my limited travels it has never been unusual for people, upon learning I live in North Dakota, to make off-the-cuff statements like “It’s cold up there, isn’t it,” “Those winters you have aren’t for me,” or “We sure laughed when we saw that electric plug-in cord hanging from the front end of your car.” I hope this isn’t the first of a series of bad winters again. When I was a young lad it seemed as it we were always blocked in during the winter. I remember when cars were often left sitting out at the head of the driveway because we couldn’t drive into the yard.

The flood threat seems to have passed for now, at least in the Fargo and Bismarck areas, but we’ve got a heck of a lot of snow to melt again since this last blizzard dumped a pile. In fact, the snow had melted right down, but now we have to start all over again with the thaw. The record keepers say we are just within an inch or two of having the most snow ever.

We live close to the Heart River which feeds into the Missouri River, which is also close. Water rose to high levels in those rivers, mostly attributed to ice jams. A week ago I couldn’t get over how high and wide the Heart River was running. It was packed with chunks of ice and tree branches. It reminded me of a herd of four-legged critters running through a chute, and it moved me to versify:

March 22, 2009

Heart River water
ran wide, deep, and fast beneath
the Sitting Bull Bridge
carrying grinding ice floes,
a stampeding herd
of buffalo choked into
a closing canyon.
Hunters crouched, aiming cameras
from the banks, marksmen
intent on bagging trophies
to boast while seated
around family room fires.
Then, as that deluge
passed, those foot thick carcasses
lay strewn on the banks and fields
to melt under the spring suns.

Letter to Mary

Dear Mary,

Not much has happened since you flew off to Minneapolis for a few days to help take care of our new granddaughter. Not much, that is, until Sunday. I got up as usual, made coffee, read the paper, and watched some news shows. Then I wandered on down to my study to look for a book and ran into one that’s been on my shelf for some time that I hadn’t even read yet, a Jim Harrison book of poetry named Saving Daylight. Harrison’s the one you might remember who wrote Legends of the Fall which was later made into the movie starring Brad Pitt. At any rate his poems always make me think of the outdoors and living the strenuous life. His style of writing is what made me take off in my younger days to search out that better world. Then I got to wondering about all the other books I’ve started to read and had laid aside planning to get back to later. I found some: John Adams by David McCullough, Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner, All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy, One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, plus a couple of others. I’ve brought them all up and set them in my little cabinet and promised myself I will read them now. I also just bought the Norman Maclean Reader. He wrote A River Runs Through It. Remember, that’s the one you didn’t like too well because the younger brother kept getting into jams and then got murdered at the end.

Around 10:00 a.m. I decided to get a cup of coffee at McDonald’s and was I ever surprised when I drove down our hill: that eighty acre alfalfa field on the river bottom looked like an ocean. I blamed it on snow thaw, but a quarter mile down the road when I crossed the Sitting Bull Bridge on 1806 I found out where it came from, from water backing up on the Heart River. Boy, talk about a placid little stream gone wild! It ran high, wide, and filled solid with chunks of ice and tree branches picked up along the way. It reminded me of a herd of buffalo, close-packed and running through a canyon. And rubberneckers, lots of people parked along the roadside to gawk and take pictures.

I made it for coffee and in there I noticed a few cowboys with their high top boots and remembered the horse sale scheduled to continue Sunday. I drove by on Saturday and saw how full the lot around Kist’s sale barn was, so I never even tried to go in. But Sunday morning, I thought, I’ll just run down there for a look see. I climbed the bleachers and sat behind an Indian fellow with a big hat. (You’ve probably noticed that Indians dress like cowboys nowadays.) The vent holes in his Stetson were on the back of the hat and were in the shape of a cross. On its side he wore a gold pin in the shape of a coup stick that had four little feathers hanging from it. I wondered if he was counting coup or scalps, but I digress.

The auctioneer rattled off his chant, a side man took the mike occasionally to inject a little information, and horses were ridden in singly and put through their paces in that little twenty foot diameter sales ring. Taunts like “She’ll please ya’, she enjoys what she’s doin’,” “Boy, here’s a horse that needs buyin’,” or “Excellent disposition, no buck in ‘im” were uttered between bids. With the last one, the gelding’s rider slid off the rear end of the horse to prove the side man told no lies. I could only think that with the way the boy’s legs were spread how the thought of emasculation might flash through his mind if the horse decided to kick.

Of course, it wasn’t only fat or skinny cowboys that rode the horses into the ring. A leopard marked appaloosa ridden by a gal with long blonde tresses changed the scenery for a bit. Others must have been watching closely, too, because that horse seemed to bring more money. I had to laugh at a little Shetland pony that trotted in being ridden by a skinny, long-legged fellow whose feet dangled way below the stirrups. It brought $750.

I decided to leave after awhile and paid a visit to the men’s restroom. I passed some private deals being made in the hallway, saw the café jammed to capacity, and entered the toilet to find it really smelly. Two fellas stood at the urinals where one said to the other, “I think your boots smell better than this!” About then a stool flushed and a tall dude stepped out all red-faced embarrassed saying, “I had a rough night last night.”

When I drove out of the lot I noticed license plates from all over the midwest: South Dakota, Montana, Minnesota, Nebraska, and Wyoming. It’s a popular sale, what more can I say. I always enjoy sitting there for a spell. I’ll never forget the time I went to a buffalo sale and saw a young bull leap ten feet straight in the air trying to get over the sale ring fence. Talk about athletic ability!

I drove back home and the water had gotten deeper and more people sat parked alongside the road gawking at it. I haven’t forgotten, and I know you haven’t either, how deep the water got in '97 when we lived in Wahpeton. I sure hope Fargo can keep ahead of the flood water this spring, but it doesn’t look good.

Later, in the afternoon I went to a movie: Julia Roberts in Duplicity. Not too bad. I decided to buy a popcorn because I hadn’t been eating too well, but it was so salty I had to go buy a pop, too. It cost $6.50 for a ticket, $3.00 for the corn, and $2.00 for the drink. $11.50. You always say I’m the cheap one, but you didn’t give me a very big allowance this month and now I’m broke.

I’m getting tired of eating TV dinners and di Giorno frozen pizzas. Maybe when you get home you might whip up a nice batch of those cowboy beans that taste so good. Well, I’d better close for now. I’ve got some books to read.

Love,

Lynn

p.s. The clothes hamper is full.

Censorship

A news article regarding my one of my favorite comedians, Steve Martin, hit the pages of our local paper a couple of days ago. He wrote a full-length play back in 1993 entitled Picasso at the Lapin Agile (Nimble Rabbit). It deals with Albert Einstein and Pablo Picasso who are both depicted at the point of making breakthroughs in their respective fields. I think it would be an interesting play to sit through; it has been produced over a hundred times in various venues and has been well received. Well received, that is, until a few weeks ago when a group in Oregon protested their high school drama group from presenting it. Seems they thought it uses too much adult language and themes for a high school group to deal with.

Given the fact that that since 1993 the play had not met resistance, it seems outrageous that it’s deemed inappropriate now. Of course, money can’t buy all the publicity and free advertising that the commotion is stirring up; therefore the intended result of the protesters is opposite of what they wanted. Recently in our own state, I think it was in Beulah, the parents of one student asked for a book to be removed from an English reading list - Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. The school board complied with their request but soon backtracked out of the storm they had created when their action received national attention with negative accusations of censorship. The word came out shortly thereafter that this book became extremely popular in North Dakota and booksellers had trouble keeping it in stock.

Censorship does not work! History proves that. I’ve liked reading about the scientist Copernicus who determined that our earth was not the center of everything, but instead we circled the sun. The Catholic Church’s hierarchy charged him with blasphemy against their accepted teachings. It contradicted the Bible: “Thou hast fixed the earth immovable and firm” as proclaimed in Psalm 93. Mr. Copernicus became very sensitive to the criticism and did not publish his book with his findings until the end of his life. In effect, he self-censored his work. Galileo accepted the Copernican findings but the church forced him to declare, against his better judgment that the earth was the center of the universe. So on and on the arguments went until recently I believe the church finally stated the principles set forth by the scientists were correct. The unwillingness of people to change their thinking if confronted with facts to the contrary is a pet peeve of mine.

Where'd 50 Years Go?

A few days ago one of my old classmates suggested we should start thinking about celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of our high school graduation in 2010. A reunion would be a great time, and if it can be organized, I will be in attendance. I got to thinking how fast these forty-nine years have passed by and all that has transpired.

When we graduated in 1960 Dwight D. Eisenhower sat in the Oval Office. Since then ten others have been elected, one being assassinated, one resigning in disgrace, and a couple more who probably should have.

It’s hard to count the number of wars we’ve fought in, but Vietnam ranks as the toughest one, evidenced by the black wall with the names of over 50,000 dead inscribed on it. We’ve gone to Iraq twice, Bosnia once, and now Afghanistan. Our forces have also been involved in little skirmishes in South America and Africa and have gotten our noses bloodied by Castro in the Cuba Bay of Pigs fiasco. And I still remember getting the daylights scared out of me when Kennedy and Khrushchev faced off with atomic missiles pointing at each other over another Cuban matter.

Periods of prosperity come and go, and now we are facing a serious downturn of the economy. On a personal note, I’ve reached the age where I have retired and, thankfully, did not stick too much of my savings into stocks in spite of those around me who kept bragging about how much money they were making in the market. (He who laughs last laughs best?) I have married one woman, raised one family, built one new home, bought a few cars, and could never figure out what people were doing who were building all the large mansions. It turns out they didn’t know either since they have to figure out how to pay for them in this economy. Well, that’s enough of a blog for now, but that’s where I stand.

Wisdom of the Elders

I like to listen to people who look at things in a different light. This past weekend I tuned into “Book TV” on C-Span2, something I occasionally do on weekends because I find their discussions stimulating. One of the authors during a panel discussion contended in his book, the name of which I didn’t get, that there seems to be little or no room for adult or mature voices in the digital media where today’s youth spend much of their time. They live in a horizontal world where their learning and information come from each other, sort of a blind leading the blind. Not enough time or interest gets paid in vertical character formation where older people, knowledge, stories, and wisdom exist such as that found with parents, grandparents, clergy, neighbors, books, etc.


One time I remember reading that when an old person dies it can be likened to a library burning down taking with it all the information stored within. I have explored that concept a bit in my poetry and plan to delve into it even more deeply. That thought came to me again when I recently attended a funeral where I wondered to myself how much of her life has been lost because she never shared it with her family. Stories she never got around to telling have now disappeared into a deep, dark void and can never be retrieved.

Dad tells stories of old days that I always enjoy listening to. While visiting him last Friday he told a tale of a man whose descendants may never even have heard it. It was a story of Johnny Anderson, a man who, when I knew him, lived just north of Sheldon on a farmstead he’d built, the place now occupied by Joe Bartholomay, his wife, and their Arabian horses. We were talking about a recent weather event in the Bowman, ND area, and Dad was reminded of the time when Mr. Anderson rode horseback to Bowman from Sheldon to visit a brother out there and check on homestead opportunities. Few other facts of this journey are known to Dad, but it made me think about things like how and where did he cross the Missouri River, how many days the trek may have taken, when did he go, did he return in the same manner, etc. We decided he may have ridden straight west to the Fort Yates area where I know a ferry operated and probably rode about 40 miles per day which would then have taken him at least five or six days. What else can be conjectured about a journey of this length? Maybe he preserved his memories of that journey in some manner, but I have to doubt it. Old timers like him took facts of a hard life for granted, no big deal!

A passage in Arnold Toynbee’s history book states: “The Greek historian Herodotus reports that the Persian emperor Xerxes wept after he had reviewed his immense expeditionary force because he realized that not a single member of it would still be alive one hundred years later.” I can stand in any cemetery and wonder about all the knowledge and wisdom that lies buried there just as Edgar Lee Masters did when he wrote The Spoon River Anthology. In it he twines and interrelates each buried person to the other, showing all their strengths and weaknesses. Some were scoundrels, some had illegitimate children by someone buried nearby, some were stalwarts in the community, some were just average people, but each had his or her own story. It’s a fictional account loosely based on the actual town where Masters lived.

When I was young I went about my merry way playing cowboys and Indians or whatever. Now I wish I would have paid more attention to older family members as they told their stories. I would be richer for it.

All This on Feb. 25

We made a trip to Lisbon on Saturday to visit my parents at the Lisbon medical facility and hosted a small gathering of relatives and friends who dropped in for cake to celebrate their birthdays and anniversary. Dad turned 94, Ma turned 89, and being married in 1941, they marked their 68th anniversary. From there it was off to Richfield, MN to make the acquaintance of our new granddaughter Lily Grace who, of course, we found to be perfect.

Sad news often accompanies good news. My cousin’s wife called this morning to tell us that Violet Bueling passed away early this morning. I am glad that I stopped in to see her several times in the hospital and that she was always in good spirits those times.

I will be off shortly to pick up the new computer I bought at Best Buy yesterday. While this humble laptop still does the job, it does it just barely, and I thought it was time for an upgrade, especially since I started publishing some of my written efforts.

I began writing this as President Obama gave his first address to the U. S. Congress. Much had been said in anticipation of what he would say and how he should say it. I have confidence in his ability as an intelligent and independent thinker to believe that he would give the right message. As with all previous presidential addresses where I remember watching the minority party sit on their hands with almost comic reactions of not cheering or standing in union with the boisterous assent of the majority party, so it was with this address. I noticed, however, that as his speech developed through carefully chosen words and phrases the minority party felt they were given the openings to stand and cheer in bi-partisan support of many of his plans. I am still confident that he will bring about an improved nation.

The Pendulum Swings

I heard a talking head make a point of interest the other day that just might have some truth in it. He said people like Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, John McCain, etc., all U.S. Senators, seem to be more than ready to assume other roles besides that of Senator. The Senate has become such a dogpile of argument, stalemate, petty maneuvering, and individual feelings of powerlessness that other jobs look attractive. In the history of this world it is only occasionally that lone figures stand out to steer their constituents towards a new direction of thought or action, be it good or bad. A list of examples is unnecessary since everyone can remember some from high school history classes. In our state I am reminded of a man who started a movement for change with his willingness to put himself on the line, organize support, and wring change from the status quo.


In 1916 this prepossessed man and a fleet of Model T Fords transformed the politics of North Dakota with a new political reality. His name was A. C. Townley, the organizer of the Non-Partisan League in North Dakota. By 1917 the movement he led had taken control of the state legislature, but after 1923 it diminished to become just a memory. The time was right for change since farmers experienced hard times, a fact fostered by the railroad monopoly, eastern grain millers, and a puppet state legislature. Townley was a bankrupt farmer who studied socialist ideas to create better times in his way of thinking. Many farmers in this state were first generation Europeans who came from backgrounds where socialistic thought was thought the standard. When Townley found organizers willing to go out to recruit farmers he furnished them a Model T car so they could range about the countryside at large. The farmers listened to the pitch and signed on.

The effort worked — for a time, that is. But in-fighting developed and the overly ambitious Townley set his sights on and became involved in a national movement which weakened North Dakota’s because without his leadership no one stepped up to take his place. Looking back one historian wrote “All that was left of the League in 1923 was its office furniture, a large volume of uncollected postdated checks, and a fleet of old Ford cars...” Vestiges of the NPL’s accomplishments remain here, namely the State Bank of North Dakota and the State Mill and Elevator. Todays’s national politicians probably do not look to our small bit of history and our socialist institutions, but I note with interest the current discussion of nationalizing the nation’s banking system. Auto industry? Housing industry? The cover of the February 16 Newsweek proclaims “We Are All Socialists Now.”

Roll Up Your Sleeves

Ole honest Abe Lincoln will soon celebrate his 200th birthday. It seems to be a given that he ranks as one of this country’s best presidents. Even though his Emancipation Proclamation was considered a great act, I believe his greatest achievement was the preservation of the Union. Without accomplishing that fact we would have divided into two separate countries with unknown futures. Lincoln’s generals, at the outset, provided little success in battles. Finally, Lincoln chose U. S. Grant to head the army because he had confidence that Grant would engage with the Confederate Army and aggressively fight to the finish. Previous generals gave Lincoln too many excuses why they weren’t able to win victories or even enter into battle. His estimation of Grant was correct.

Teddy Roosevelt worded it the best when he gave his “Man in the Arena” speech. He said in part “The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood ... his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat.” His entire statement can be found on the internet with a search for his “Man in the Arena” speech.

I stick with President Obama in his efforts to improve this country’s economy. He is rolling up his sleeves and engaging in the battle. I think back to times when I tried to make changes and got battered by naysayers who wanted to stay comfortable in their old ways of doing things. Even though I failed at times, I do not regret the effort and the sincerity of thought I put into the issues. NPR’s website carried an article that interested me a great deal this past weekend. The headline “Is America Weighed Down By Dead Ideas?” really jumped out at me because of my past experiences. The gist of the article stated “... while many of our current notions of economic and social well-being made sense when they first gained traction 50 years ago, they don’t hold much water today.” In the article he says “In every era, people grow comfortable with settled ideas about the way the world works. It takes an extraordinary shock to expose the conventional wisdom as obsolete...” The writer goes on to name what he thinks are dead ideas: 1. Your kids will earn more than you, 2. Free trade is good, no matter how many people get hurt, 3. Your company must fund and manage your health and pension benefits, 4. Taxes hurt the economy, 5. Schools are a local matter, and 6. Money follows merit.


It looks like we are being extraordinarily shocked with the present economic crisis. The concept of socialism often gets lumped with the word Communism in our discussions , but my February 16 issue of Newsweek magazine proclaims on its front cover “We Are All Socialists Now.” The sub-heading says, "The perils and promise of the new era of big government." I don’t know how we’ll emerge from this situation, but I’ve been doing some reading of high interest into how citizens of North Dakota once took over the reins of state government throught the Non-Partisan League. It’s a fascinating story, and I’ll write of it next week.

Drawing Blanks

Sometimes it's hard to be creative. Recent events puts one's mind into a mode of taking care of business. My father is in a Fargo hospital after having fallen and breaking his hip. At the same time we put my mother in the Lisbon swing bed facility because she is unable to live alone with her ailments. So, until the future, adios.

Spring Will Come

Often times when I walk across the street to get the mail in the cold air with deep snow covering the ground I tote back seed and garden catalogs addressed to my wife. I don’t have a green thumb, but she does, is included on several mailing lists, and now shows signs of itching to get out and start digging. Just the other day our thermometer registered 20 below, and she was rummaging around to find her little starter flats. She had seen to it a couple of weeks ago that I buy potting soil at Menard’s, and her seeds were already on hand. With a planter rack placed by the sunny patio door, we now watch the tiny seeds sprout into skinny little tendrils. I’m reminded of an Indian snake charmer who blows melodies on his flute to entice a cobra to slowly uncoil and rise from its basket. There are probably two dozen little compartments in that starter flat and each is properly identified with a little name tag, namely geranium - hot pink, geranium - red, spinach, and lettuce. Now, mind you, this is only the beginning of her seed germination efforts. Before she is done that rack will groan with the weight of as many flats as can be reasonably squeezed onto its crowded shelves.

Long ago when I was the little boy I remember watching with fascination Dad’s placing of grain seeds into a damp, rolled cloth and setting the bundle in the southern window of our house. I learned an early lesson at that time about percentages; he counted the number of seeds he placed in the roll and after a few days could see how many of them had sprouted compared to the duds and came up the the percentage of germination, a figure that is still important for a farmer to know. It’s been a long time since I’ve inspected the tag on a bag of seed grain, but the last I saw that number is listed.

I know Mary’s dreaming about making the yard come alive with her plants and flowers which in turn draw lots of bees, birds, butterflies, etc. We watched a great program on public tv last night that focused on the migration of the Monarch butterfly. They are a remarkable creature. In the fall they migrate 2,000 miles from Canada to a small spot in Mexico, and nobody knows how they do it. Their targeted spot has been set aside as a reserve by the Mexican government, but, of course, thieves come and go with their illegal cutting down of the trees the butterflies depend on. It so happened the night before my old college friend Jens called from Nebraska. We hadn’t visited for a few years so we reminisced about quite a little. One event came back regarding a summer school session we attended: he was enrolled in an entomology course and needed to collect bugs to identify and display. We had the perfect solution. He drove along a country road and I held a net out the passenger window over the tall grass on the shoulder. Occasionally we would stop and inspect our catch and usually caught up quite a collection, butterflies included. To lubricate this scenario we several times took an empty gallon jug into a little hide-away bar where the bartender filled it with tap beer for a dollar and away we’d go. Those were the days we talk about.

With all past things aside, this summer we again look forward to our little property coming alive with growing things and beating wings.

A New President

What else could be more interesting to write about than yesterday’s presidential inauguration, an event of historic proportions that really gripped the country as evidenced by that huge mass of people who gathered standing in the cold to witness it first hand. I watched on television much of the day from the comfort of an easy chair with a computer on my lap so I could write and record these thoughts. The throngs of people expressed high spirits of hopefulness and expectations of a better future. To me it is obvious that common folks feel an empowerment that they had not felt for some time and that they will be well represented in the Office of the President by an honest, intellectual executive.

From my read of history I couldn’t help but be reminded of the stories surrounding the inauguration of Andrew Jackson. A well-known name, Daniel Webster, made this observation: “Persons have come five hundred miles to see General Jackson, and they really seem to think that the country is rescued from some dreadful danger!” Jackson didn’t want much commotion since his wife had died not long before this, but he couldn’t stem the enthusiasm of the people. Right after he was sworn in the crowd pressed upon him so tightly that he had a difficult time escaping. A near riot developed and they headed to the White House, entered without being invited and proceeded to wreck the place looking for food and drink. After a time White House servants baited the revelers to withdraw from the building by serving wine and ice cream on the lawn.

When Teddy Roosevelt assumed the presidency after the assassination of McKinley he created a fury shortly thereafter. He invited Booker T. Washington to dine with him in the White House. Some southerners thought this was a terrible affront. What would they think now that Obama sits in the Oval Office?

A book in my personal library contains all the presidents’ inaugural addresses. I have looked at them and thought as I listened to Mr. Obama’s speech that it was of average quality. More ear-catchy statements have probably been made by others, i.e. Kennedy’s “... ask not what your country can do for you— ask what you can do for your country,” FDR’s “...the only thing we have to fear is fear itself,”or Lincoln’s “With malice toward none, with charity for all... .” However, Obama uttered solid words which he will now need to back with deeds and action. He has told us repeatedly that there is much to do and it will take a long time before improvement can be seen, but I remember one of his statements where he implored America to get up, dust themselves off, and begin again.

I couldn’t help interjecting myself into Washington after I saw a news item this weekend. Cameras caught Bush landing for the last time onto the White House lawn in his helicopter. In the background stood the Washington Monument, tall and white in the distance. I made sure to look to the top of the spire and note the tiny window just under the roof line. Only a few years ago I, the tourist, peered through that window towards the White House and saw the same helicopter land where Bush and his wife stepped onto the grass. Now I can say I’ve seen the event from two different directions.

My hope for the future is that at the end of eight years there will be as great a feeling of good will towards President Obama as there is presently.

Remember the Memories

With some mild respite from the weather, I can think about other things this morning, even though after I’m done writing I will go out to move some snow around, such as that which has piled up on our deck, our roof line, and other piles that don’t belong where they lay. I experienced a bit of synchronicity last night as I sat reading with one eye and watching a public tv program with the other. The chapter in the book I was reading from bore the title “Writing from Memory;” the tv program’s title was “Colorblind.” It was about an elementary school class from Detroit, MI that experienced the tutelage of a great teacher who happened to be African-American. One of the class members, prompted by her curiosity, started contacting members of the class to reminisce about their experiences in school and how their teacher guided them through their mixed feelings of racial problems during the time of Martin Luther King’s murder.

It might be a bit of a stretch to compare the theme of the program to the material I was reading, but the relationship stood out for me. One quote from the book states, “If you are open to a short safari into the Country of Memory just fifteen minutes will give you enough things to write about to last all morning.” Like those students mentioned above who revived strong memories, I know I can conjure up images and feelings from the past without much trouble. For example, I saw myself as maybe a six or seven year old on a Saturday night when a fellow youngster told me there was a bum sleeping in the old stockyards on the west edge of town. We wanted to go see in the worst way, but parental influence dissuaded us from that. Another time someone told of laying a nickel on the railroad tracks, then after the smoke-belching steam engine and its train had passed, picking it up all squashed and flattened. They, trying to talk me into doing it, met resistance; a nickel bought a single-dip ice cream cone. I wasn’t going to waste it on a train. One other time, the school superintendent came to tell us to stay out of the grain elevator over the noon hour. It seems one of the older students went into the alleyway and fooled around with the manlift. It’s counter-balance was set for the weight of the employee, and when the student got on he shot to the top of the elevator in very fast time.

Now, I’ve gone and opened a gate and the memories are running through like hungry calves to their mothers. I’ll take the space and tell of one more. A grain elevator that used to sit in Sheldon was purchased and moved to a farm site south of Casselton. I can still see it being jacked up and hauled slowly away and think of it each time I pass the spot where it presently sets.

Since I want to spend time researching and writing other things I need to cut back on time thinking and writing blog-things. Instead of posting this several times each week I am going to cut it back to once a week, most probably on a Wednesday. Abe Lincoln once said “Give me six hours to chop down a tree, and I will spend the first four sharpening the axe.” I need to free up those first four hours.

The Sky Continues to Fall

The headline on the front page of the Bismarck Tribune says it all this morning: Sky Continues to Fall. We’re at the five foot depth and it’s only January 14. Emerson’s poem “The Snow Storm” says it well with these first few lines:

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
...
I start to dream of better times and better places. Some show on the Travel Channel, Anthony Bourdain’s I think, pictured a fellow in a foreign location carrying a quarter of meat from some critter on his shoulder on the way to the barbecue pit. That image took me back to Wyoming and the elk hunting season, 1969, in the Wind River Mountains. I hooked up with a local hunting party to grunt and climb in that rough terrain and admit to having had a good time experiencing it. My friend had purchased a pack burro from somebody who bested him on the deal. The beast had a set of broken down pasterns and fetlocks that creaked and dragged on the ground with every step, so much so that it was decided the animal could carry but little weight. This was decided after one of the party did bag a large bull. Beasts of burden were not in plentiful supply, so yours truly got to shoulder one of the quarters and hike out a couple of miles to the nearest pickup.

One of the men decided he was hungry and started slicing raw meat off the animal and doling it out to us to hold over a small fire to barbecue on the spot. Without salt, pepper, and tenderizing we could as well have been chewing on shoe leather. As I write I remember one other amusing thing. When I went to slide my rifle into its case I realized I never would have been able to hit an animal if I tried. It was missing the front sight. I could just as well have shot with my eyes closed.

Those memories came back and to add to the reverie our next door neighbor called last night all excited telling us to look out a back window. Two deer were eating on dried flower vines right next to our house. If a window had been open I could have reached out with a fly swatter and touched one of them.

More Snow and Thoughts

I joined the Rooster Tail Society again this morning. A one-day blizzard came through yesterday afternoon and evening and left deep snow in places that necessitated cranking up my John Deere blower again. I was thinking today that we are really getting set up for a catastrophic winter storm. If we’d get one of the infamous three day blizzards that can hit this area it would really do a lot of harm to livestock, wildlife, and people. It is only January and a lot of bad weather can strike for the next three months. I hope it doesn’t happen.

I’m not in too bad a physical condition, but I still get tired messing around with the snow. It saps mental energy, too, and leaves many things pile up on my desk that I want to get done. I’ve got lots of books to read and poems to write. I’m writing a “cycle” of poems that deal with the earliest white settlements and activity in my home area. I just finished one that deals with an interesting, though tragic, event. When Fort Ransom was still a viable installation being served by the ox cart freighters that interest me it so happened that a huge prairie fire swept down on an encampment of Indians near the fort and at least twenty were burned to death. Two little girls tried to flee the fire with a cart trying to get to the safety of a spring. Their cart struck a rock and overturned:

A glowing-orange ribbon
colored the far horizon
long after the setting sun
ceased to paint the sky. The men
worried where it burned and if
it may block their trail and wrap
them and their slow train in flames.
***
Strong winds drove that blaze for days.
It closed on the Indian
camp near Fort Ransom to taste
its sweet, screaming flesh, then chased
two girls fleeing in a cart,
catching them when a wheel broke.
They and eighteen others died.

Back at My Keyboard

Yesterday I joined the chorus of members of the Rooster Tail Society, that is, the many of us who went about arching plumes of snow through our snowblowers. Two more snowstorms have been predicted to pass through next week, followed by low-dipping temperatures.
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I read a thought-provoking article recently that stated the gene pool in wildlife is being weakened. No longer can the strongest of the species survive to pass on their characteristics --- they are the quarry of hunters out to bag a trophy to hang on their wall.
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I agree with our president-elect's seeming strategy of lowering expectations by telling us it will take awhile before things get better economy-wise. If he goes into office painted as a superman out to swiftly right wrongs, we will all get disappointed in him real fast.

January 7, 2009

A man with a duck on his head walks into a doctor’s office. The nurse asks what the doctor can do for him. The duck answers, “I want him to get this guy off my ass.”
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A headline on an article in today’s local paper caught my eye, “More cows in the sales ring.” The sub headline stated, “Rising market value, inclement weather prompt sales increases.” Kist Livestock Market in Mandan serves as the major market for area farmers and ranchers and always bustles with a high amount of activity, but today they are expecting more than 6,000 head to run through their auction ring. A normal sale would see fewer animals than that. Mary called my attention to the article this morning and noted that yesterday afternoon when she drove by the entrance to the sale barn many pickups hooked to cattle trailers were parked on Memorial Highway waiting to turn into the long driveway and get to the unloading docks. Problems surround the cattle producers in a hard winter - water supplies icing over, cattle consuming larger quantities of feed, slower weight gain, hay costs for those in short supply approach $110 per ton delivered, etc.
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Newsweek says, “Give Us a Sonnet, Doggonit.” The writer here speaks in reference to the upcoming presidential inauguration where sometimes a poet has been asked to present an original piece. She mentioned JFK’s ceremony where Robert Frost could not read the poem he composed because the winds kept fluttering the pages. I remember that time, and I believe he was also having trouble seeing the print because of the harsh glare of the sun. At any rate, he scrapped that effort and recited another one of his poems from memory.
...
In the same magazine a full two page picture caused me to stare in dumb solemnity. A four year old girl is being laid into a crypt by two men after she was killed in the most recent Israeli-Palestinian fight. Her body is wrapped in a green shroud, but her face is unadorned, and except for the trickle of dried blood coming from an unwashed nostril, she appears to be asleep.

Wildlife

The deep snow affects the wildlife around here. Yesterday morning I looked through the glass of the patio door and saw a yearling deer casually rummaging through the compost pile on the back corner of our lot. I believe she found good grazing in there since she stayed for several minutes. Then a half hour later I looked out the picture window to the street in front of our house and there walked a pheasant rooster as if he were the grand marshal of his parade.

In the research project I’m now undertaking I found an item of high interest regarding wildlife in my home area. In a publication I had ferreted out someplace with the publication date of 1909 I found this tidbit as seen from a hilltop then known as Okiedan Butte five miles south of Lisbon: “Colonel Creel, ..., then in the United States regular army, in the early sixties [my note - that would be the 1860's] had his command surrounded by an immense herd of buffalo and had to wait several hours for them to pass. He stood on Okiedan Butte for over four hours with his field glass, watching the herd pass. It was a solid moving phalanx extending in every direction beyond the vision of the glass. He estimated the herd at several hundred thousand. They were on their annual migration south to spend the winter.”

It’s hard to imagine that mass of buffalo moving in that area which is now all farmland, shelterbelts, and homesteads. Here’s another story of interest: “Large game used to be plentiful in the sand hills of Owego. In 1883 Clark Brooks and George Severson went into the hills for a hunt. George stepped on the log of a fallen tree and was peering through the prickly ash to shoot a ‘cotton-tail’ rabbit, when a monstrous cinnamon bear rose up erect within six feet of him. George says he could not run because the briers on the ash were so thick. It will never be known which was the more frightened, George or the bear.”

There are so many interesting stories of life in those settlement pioneer days, and I enjoy finding them.

Happy New Year

I haven’t spent a lot of time formulating new year’s resolutions except to keep on having fun. I’m still remembering how it seems like yesterday when we were worried about what the new millennium would bring, and now that’s been eight years ago already. About the only thing we know for sure is what has happened in the past.

One hundred years ago - 1909 - Robert E. Perry reached the North Pole, Federal spending totaled .69 billion dollars, a first class stamp cost .02 cents, Pittsburgh defeated Detroit in the World Series, and Marconi won the Nobel Prize for developing the wireless.

Seventy-five years ago - 1934 - Hitler became fuhrer in Germany, Bonnie and Clyde and John Dillinger were eliminated, the Dust Bowl calamity occurred, Federal spending totaled 6.54 billion dollars, unemployment stood at 22%, a stamp cost .03, the St. Louis Cardinals defeated Detroit in the World Series, and Enrico Fermi bombarded uranium with neutons.

Fifty years ago - 1959 - Castro assumed power in Cuba, Alaska and Hawaii became states, Federal spending was 92 billion, unemployment was 6.8%, a stamp cost .04, Dodgers defeated the White Sox in the World Series, Texas Instruments developed the first integrated circuit, and the dark side of the moon was photographed for the first time.

Twenty-five years ago - 1984 - A gas leak in India killed 2000, the Bell System was broken up, Reagan was re-elected in a landslide with 59% of the vote, unemployment was 7.5%, a stamp cost .20, Detroit defeated San Diego in the World Series, and Apple introduced the Mac computer.

So it goes. Who knows what 2009 will bring, but at the least I can wish everyone a Happy New Year!

As the Crow Flies

Snow keeps piling up around these parts. I told Mary we’re getting set up for a good three day blizzard; those high banks plowed off to the side of the streets would fill to the tops, and we’d have to sit waiting for heavy machines to come in to clear the roads. A December snowfall record has fallen — 42.3 inches, over twice the average amount. The local reporting station is located at the Bismarck airport, but as the proverbial crow flies that spot is only about two miles from here, so that amount more than likely holds true for our location, too.
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I can tell another story regarding the line a crow flies. For several years I’ve been gathering information on the old time ox-cart freighters who crossed my home area hauling their loads, much of it between Fort Abercrombie and Fort Ransom. Their two major routes meandered a bit, one followed the high water route and the other the low water route. The low water route followed a more direct path between the forts. When the Sheyenne River ran low some accessible fords let them make better time on their journey.

We used to put up hay on a virgin sod meadow on the farm where I grew up, and I remember my tractor bumped over deep ruts each time I mowed or raked across it. Dad told me it was an old prairie road, but little else was said. Lately I’ve gotten to wondering if those tracks may have been part of the low-water route so I have spent some time in the Heritage Center library looking at old maps. There I found an old atlas dated 1884 that lays out a beautiful picture of how the land looked. On it two principal locations gave me information I wanted. On Christmas Day I brought the subject up with Dad again and he told me that an old-timer told him the trail in question was the Owego to Sheldon road and that he had hauled mail over it for a time. Given that information I laid a ruler between the two settlements of Owego and Sheldon and its crow fly line intersects our old meadow perfectly. So I can’t claim to have found an ox-cart trail, but I proved something else that was personal to me and that is satisfying.

My research will result in my writing a long poem, and this one verse came to me:

Handed this piece of the past
that otherwise would fall prey
to the vast Pit of Forget,
I recalled the times when I,
astride my hayfield tractor,
double-bounced over the cusp
of those ruts and cussed at their
presence.

Presidential Stuff

George W. Bush is this country’s forty-third president, and most of us are ready for number forty-four. I believe Mr. Obama is taking the right course by being relatively quiet as we approach his inauguration. He says we have only one president at a time. Bush can earn his paycheck until then and take the credit or discredit for what transpires. It appears as though Obama closely studies the presidency of President Lincoln; there is probably none better to take as a role model.

Santa Claus brought me the book of the second president that I had wished for: John Adams by David McCullough. I have opened it to read a few pages, and it looks to be a great read. Adams has probably been overshadowed by the book-end presidents of Washington before him and Jefferson behind him, but my previous reading illustrated how important a leader he was at our country’s outset.

He was at odds with Jefferson throughout his presidency and served just one term after Jefferson defeated him. One quote attributed to Adams was “Thanks to God that he gave me stubbornness when I know I am right.” Because he was stubborn he kept the U.S. out of war when France attacked our ships at sea. He knew we were not prepared for a military action, but instead he proceeded with diplomatic action. When talks were taking place he approved the building of six new ships, one of which was the U.S. Constitution. He wanted to be prepared for the next incident. He was the first occupant of the White House and a note he left upon leaving was carved into the mantel of the State Dining Room: “I pray Heaven to bestow the best of Blessings on this House and all that shall hereafter inhabit it. May none but honest and wise Men ever rule under this roof.” He died at the age of ninety, the longest living president until he was surpassed by Ronald Reagan who lived to be ninety-three. Then Gerald Ford broke Reagan’s record when he lived to be 45 days older.

The Best Laid Plans...

The English poet Robert Burns wrote this line in the poem To a Mouse on Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough: “The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley.” To translate from the olde English he said “The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” We discovered quite rapidly our responsibility lies here in North Dakota so we have canceled our planned bus tour to the Southwest.

Some days ago Mary’s dad, 92, slipped on the ice and fell breaking the femur bone quite badly in his right leg. He has been hospitalized ever since and will need close attention for some time. Recently a phone call from my dad informed us my mother, 88, was taken by ambulance to an emergency room in a Fargo hospital to reset a dislocated shoulder suffered from a fall. It was her second episode with the shoulder, the first being a visit to a local hospital and an overnight stay. Then, we also found out that my dad, 93, had fallen while taking garbage out to their dumpster and could not get back up and laid there about a half an hour before help came along.

We’re in the midst of a hard winter with lots of cold and snow. We have decided it is best to stay right here, stock up with lots of books, and offer as much assistance as we can to our parents.

Shoes and Stalin

More on shoes: I remember a time when I was guilty of throwing my shoe at a target, too. One day I sat relaxing in my house in Sheldon, and I saw movement in the entryway. Myron Boeder’s pet raccoon, an animal with a local reputation for being a fearless pest, had opened my screen door with his claws and strolled into the kitchen snooping around for some treats, I suppose. My shoes sat on the floor in front of me, and I reacted immediately by picking one up and flinging it hard in the animal’s direction. He moved much faster on the way out than on the way in, and thereafter I got in the habit of latching the door’s hook.
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A small article buried deep on page 4 of our local daily paper caught my eye with the headline Russian treason bill could hit critics. The lead sentence stated that “new legislation backed by Prime Minister Vladimir Putin would allow Russian authorities to label any government critic a traitor — a move that rights activists said...was a chilling throwback to times of Soviet dictator Josef Stalin.”

If the present Russian leaders act as Stalin did then citizens of that country will again be severely restricted if they want to speak out against government leaders and policies. To avoid punishment for treason individuals will have to restrain and censor their speech and actions. History says Stalin in his “Great Purge” killed off thousands of people whom he perceived as being dissenters, including many of army’s top generals.

Leon Trotsky rose to a high leadership position after the Russian Revolution. Then when Stalin began to exercise his murderous tendencies Trotsky fled the country, eventually settling in Mexico City where he continued to verbally assail Stalin’s tactics. Stalin quieted him though when he sent an assassin. Trotsky, unwittingly, welcomed this man into his home to hold a discussion. The assassin had a pick axe hidden under his topcoat and struck Trotsky in the head with it. His last words were “I think Stalin has finished the job he has started.”

Tragic-Comedy: Shoe Throwing

President Bush got a pair of shoes thrown at him in Baghdad, and I laughed along with all the jokes the comedians started making about it. In fact, I told Mary when I first saw the news of the incident that this will be a bonanza for the late-night talk shows. Well, I was right. The Huffington Post even features a video section where you can see several of the comedians accumulated in one clip: "Watch: Late-Night's Shoe Throwing Joke Bonanza." Last night Keith Olbermann talked to a comedian in a separate studio who ducked dozens of shoes thrown at him. But it's probably enough already!

I thought about it a bit and have concluded this is a tragic-comedy. Bush's demeanor at the time was admirable in that he tried to downplay it by saying something like that can happen in a free society. The tragedy is that we make our President into something like a buffoon and that the amount of respect paid to him has fallen to this level. Rodney Dangerfield made the quotable remark "I don't get no respect," and unfortunately that's where Bush is at. I'm glad a changing of the guard is near at hand.

Brrr!

Brrr! and Baby, it’s cold outside! With wind chill the temperature is 41 degrees below zero. Our short but severe blizzard moved on but didn’t want us mere mortals to forget, so it left us with temps registering in the lower levels of the thermometer after dumping a foot of snow. Yesterday after the wind lessened I cranked up my faithful John Deere snowblower to take the bulk of the snowbanks off the driveway and sidewalk and then went out this morning to clean up the sidewalk a bit, but I couldn’t stay out more than a couple of minutes. That air is just too sharp to be breathing while exerting. Thankfully it was a short storm. My standard for judging the severity of a blizzard always goes back to the one in March of 1966. It was the worst one in my memory. It was for other people, too, enough so that two gentlemen, Douglas Ramsey and Larry Skroch, published a book in 2004 entitled One to Remember: The Relentless Blizzard of March 1966 containing 661 pages of small type.

The tally of lives lost in that storm came to 18 humans plus uncounted livestock deaths. I spent the three day storm cooped up in a house in Bowdon, North Dakota that I shared with two other bachelor teachers. Believe me, the time passed very slowly. My mother got caught home alone, and luckily when the electricity failed the heating system in the house didn’t require blowers to radiate heat. Dad spent the time at a meeting in Fargo and couldn’t make it back. The cows didn’t get fed for awhile. In the book reference was made of my aunt Lorraine Devitt who stayed to work in a Lisbon nursing home for 30 hours straight before someone could get there to replace her so she could go home to rest.

As I write this I am listening to a radio talk show and hear several old timers call in to speak of the March 15 blizzard of 1941. A Google search turned up these statistics: only one inch of snow fell but 75 mph winds accompanied it and 39 lives were lost in North Dakota and 29 in Minnesota. As we’ve traveled around the country a bit the usual comment from people, upon learning we are from North Dakota, is “I hear it gets cold up there.” Duh.

A Blizzard and a Veteran

The threat of a blizzard roaring through our region this weekend hangs over us, and it makes me think about what needs doing before it hits. I’ve always said I don’t mind North Dakota winters so I’d better get mentally prepared for it. This morning I headed to the hospital again to visit the father-in-law who seems to be doing very well. Tomorrow will be a two-for-one visit since my sister-in-law will also be a patient on the same orthopedic floor with a knee replacement job.

I enjoy meeting people with interesting stories to tell. This morning we had to wait in the hospital hallway while nurses tended to Adam, and as we did so the gentleman in the next room stood in his doorway trying to get a staff person’s attention. After a bit one of the aides came and asked him what he needed, his answer was “Coffee, please.” He spoke to us in his Massachusett’s accent, and it wasn’t long before I realized he wanted to talk to someone. He told us he’d been hospitalized because he’d had a stroke. It didn’t take long before he said he was a veteran of the Korean War and was thinking of finding a veteran’s home. I mentioned the new one under construction in Lisbon but he didn’t care much if it was new or not but what kind of people ran it. We needed to report everything we said so it wasn’t long before I saw him dig a small hearing aid out of his pocket and fit it to his ear.

He walked with a limp so I asked if he had been in combat; he told of two bullet wounds in his leg and a bayonet stab wound in his shoulder. Yes, it was hand-to-hand combat. Was he a rifleman or a machine-gunner? He was a chaplain’s assistant. I was unsure if a clergy type carried weapons. He said, “I carried a .45 pistol, but I couldn’t shoot it with a Bible in my hand!” Apparently he had to set the Bible down since every able bodied man was needed to repel the waves coming at their hilltop position. By then, he had visibly tired and wanted to go back to lie down. I think I’m going to try and find him tomorrow and visit with him again.

Turns of Fate

We were reminded Monday evening of the speed at which a life can turn around. My father-in-law, 92, walked to his mailbox at the front of the house and slipped and fell on a patch of the treacherous ice that accumulated in our area. Wearing only a vest he was not prepared to lay in the below zero wind chill we had at the time. He hollered for his daughter in the house, but since his voice has weakened with age he did not make himself heard. Luckily, a house dog did hear him and signaled Sharon that something terrible happened. His persistence clued her to investigate after some minutes had elapsed, and she found him where he had fallen. She called 911, then us, and by the time we arrived at the scene five minutes later the ambulance and a fire truck were already on the scene.

In the ambulance he did not complain much about the pain, but rather how cold he was. Not to make the story much longer, he got hooked up with a good orthopedic surgeon who operated yesterday morning and put a rod into his badly broken femur bone, and, voila, Adam took his first steps on it today already.

Many of these old-timers possess incredible inner strength with a strong will to survive and do not let things such as this get them down. I think, too, of my parents who have been hospitalized and rose to live active lives again. For some reason the poem "Invictus" popped into my head as I thought about it all:

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

(In Latin, Invictus means unconquered.)

A Fable

I don't spend a lot of time reading the countless stories that get forwarded in my email, but the following one made sense to me, so it is my blog for the day.

Once upon a time a man appeared in a village and announced to the villagers that he would buy donkeys for $10 each. The villagers, seeing that there were many donkeys around, went out and started catching them. The man bought thousands at $10 and, as supply started to diminish, the villagers stopped their effort. He next announced that he would now buy donkeys at $20 each.

This renewed the efforts of the villagers and they started catching donkeys again. Soon the supply diminished even further and people started going back to their farms. The offer increased to $25 each and the supply of donkeys became so scarce it was an effort to even find a donkey, let alone catch it!

The man now announced that he would buy donkeys at $50 each! However, since he had to go to the city on some business, his assistant would buy on his behalf.

In the absence of the man, the assistant told the villagers: "Look at all these donkeys in the big cage that the man has already collected. I will sell them to you at $35 and when the man returns from the city, you can sell them to him for $50 each." The villagers rounded up all their savings and bought all
the donkeys for 700 billion dollars.

They never saw the man or his assistant again, only lots and lots of asses!

Now you have a better understanding of how the WALL STREET BAILOUT PLAN WILL WORK !!!!