Memories Revived

This Monday evening I attended the regular monthly meeting of the Westerners Corral and listened to the guest speaker Mr. Curt Eriksmoen. He writes a weekly column that discusses some historical character in North Dakota and appears in the Bismarck Tribune, The Fargo Forum, and a Bottineau paper. A retired man, this has become his pastime, and someone asked if he ever runs out of topics to write about. He answered that his pool of possible material is now larger than when he started writing.

One of the sources Eriksmoen mentioned was that of Clement Lounsberry and his three volume history of early North Dakota and some of its characters, copyrighted in 1917. I randomly opened volume 1 to page 255 of my own set and came on this entry: The mosquitoes were almost unbearable in the timber and the valleys. Maj. Samuel Woods speaks of them, and of the terrific thunder storms and the condition of the prairies, in his report of his expedition to the Red River Valley (1849). He writes “They were driven from the timber by the mosquitoes, and being on the high, open prairie, ‘the thunder broke over us appallingly.’” Now, it doesn’t take a lot of imagination to write an essay based on that information and anyone with some writing experience could have a lot of fun expanding on that passage.

I can’t say that my own pool of ideas is larger now than when I started writing, but I think I’m more aware of things that can be written about. For this week’s Musing I let my mind’s eye wander and caught this memory when it came floating by. When I was growing up small farms were a fact of life and very few farmers had trucks or trailers to haul their cattle, hogs, or sheep to and from market. Our community depended on a man, Clark Douglas, who owned a small fleet of trucks for the express purpose of hauling livestock. Vivid memories rise to the top, I see one of these trucks with the large wooden rack appear a mile down the gravel road being chased by a large cloud of dust, and as it draws closer the stock rack and the chute gates strapped to the rack’s sides rattle and vibrate on the wash board bumps. It turns into the driveway which sets the dog to barking and pulls to a stop waiting for Dad to tell him where to load. When the driver gets his instructions he backs up to the loading point and Gene Jaster jumps out of the cab, pulls and slides out the ramp, sets the chute gates in place, and the livestock is hollered and prodded into the box. The whole process usually takes just minutes and the driver straps the ramp and gates back up and drives off to West Fargo. This little tale took a lot longer to punch the computer keys than it did to think it up. When the memory opens up stories come easily.

A picture hanging on my wall conjures up another scene. My Uncle Russell sits on his horse on a cold, snowy day by our bullet-holed mailbox with a 1948 Fraser Manhattan parked behind him. This snapshot recalls the day he rode to my Grandpa’s funeral because the roads were blocked tight with snow. Others in the family, if they could not drive in, flew in by private plane, and the snowplow came out to open up for Dad. I was only five at the time and had to stay with a neighbor. Whenever I see old pictures I wonder who they were of and what was the occasion. Often no one survives to remember. Some day that will happen to knowledge of this picture, and, for that matter, to the memory of the large, rattly stock trucks coming for a load of cattle.

Just Thinking

I’m where I’ve always wanted to be because I’m able to read, write, think about writing, research topics that take my fancy, etc. I know it assails some people’s sensibility whenever they ask “whatcha doin’” and I answer “thinking.” What kind of activity is that they wonder with their German-Russian blood? Personally I think it’s wonderful. I know that even my wife has had to go through years of orientation on this subject since most of her waking hours are spent getting her hands dirty in her large and numerous flower gardens. It is a source of pride and curiosity in this neighborhood since people, strangers to us, will stop and ask if they can walk through the backyard, something which happened again last week.

We were told a great story in the first person a few years back. An acquaintance who had been widowed married for the second time a Norwegian bachelor farmer. She, with the strong German heritage, moved to his farm and proved right away she was willing to help with the work. He owned both cattle and sheep, so they split winter feeding chores. She told us that this one morning they left the house, each going to their respective duties, hers the cows, his the sheep. She finished hers and returned to the house, but he did not return at the usual time and made her wonder what had happened. Eventually he came and she asked him why so late. He said he just thought it such a nice day that he laid back on a haystack and watched the clouds float by. Her words, and I quote, “You gotta be shittin’ me!” Of course, with my own Norwegian heritage, I could identify with that.

Now, I’ve got to get my train of thought back on track, and relate as to how I spend my time. I recently returned to the research library at the heritage library and found some interesting notes in my hometown newspaper dated July, 125 years back. First off, this bit caught my eye. The publisher editorialized “Some of our young gents, not having the fear of their Creator before their eyes, indulged in a match game of baseball last Sunday. Don’t do so anymore, boys.” I imagine that a strong conservative religious element existed in town at the time, a general feeling that probably gave rise to the “blue laws” that forbade certain retail businesses from opening. Anything goes now, though.

In another piece the publisher wrote “There is a loud call all over the country for the clearing out of the great cattle companies which have virtually taken possession of the Indian country for pasturage…” Being a student of western history for many years I knew they only needed to wait a couple of years and the wish would be granted. The winter of 1887-88 was so severe that hundreds of thousands of cattle perished on the overgrazed grasslands. Teddy Roosevelt lost a fortune since he’d invested heavily in a cattle spread in the Badlands.

A full page was devoted to the death of Ulysses Grant on July 23rd. Reading that I was reminded of something I learned in Hannibal, Missouri this past spring. Grant, admirably, worked hard before his death to finish an autobiography so that the financial proceeds would benefit his wife and family. He had no wealth besides this personal story and found a publisher who offered a sum of money to be agreed on in a contract. Mark Twain, a friend of Grant’s, happened to be present just prior to signing. Twain, the experienced author, protested vigorously saying that a much better contract could be procured. Grant argued he wanted his wife to have something, but he did hold off on signing. Twain soon delivered what he promised, and instead of Grant making only $20,000 offered on the original deal he made closer to $500,000. By the way, Grant’s autobiography is considered to be an excellent work.

Well, that’s about all the thinking and writing I’m going to do today. My wife is calling to do some darn job upstairs. It’s all come like a bolt out of the blue which was the topic of another short article I read: “The lightning struck and instantly killed a 1-year old thorough-bred Durham bull valued at $125 at the Helendale Stock Farm. Mr. Power states that the bolt came out of a clear blue sky."

So much of our time can be spent in the past; it is the only thing we know. The present time instantly becomes the past, and the future is unknown. Mandan recently hosted another of their annual classic car shows downtown and main street filled with hundreds of old cars and people. I wrote this short poem in response to the event:

classic cars
lined up on main street
draw hundreds
always looking back
to the life we left

Some Days Are Downers

Yesterday we took a regular trip to Lisbon to visit with my parents at the Parkside Home. Over the phone a couple days previous to that I’d asked Dad if he wanted to take a drive to Sheldon and look things over. Yes, he wanted to very badly. After a nice fish dinner at the home we took off. Along Highway 27 and the road south of Sheldon the crops looked good even though some of the sloughs were full. At the junction of the two roads a dozen potato hauling trucks stood parked at their site making me wonder if a good potato harvest is being expected. Arriving in Sheldon we drove slowly around the streets looking at the mostly run-down condition of the houses in town. We pulled into Curt Black’s yard and drove around his circle drive to find him sorting through a junk bucket in preparation for his September sale. He is one of Dad’s last remaining friends since he’s outlived most everyone else. After exchanging a few pleasantries we drove east of Sheldon to look around.

The conditions of the fields were as we expected to find them - wet and weedy; many of the quarter sections haven’t seen a tractor wheel turn on them this spring, the second year of absolutely no production. Township roads are under water in some spots so we had to pick our way to get to the farm location where I was raised. Even in good growing conditions, my travels through this countryside are somewhat depressing. We passed the farm site where I was brought into the world, the same farm pictured on the cover of my recent book, and where now there is nothing except a few trees. Straight south a half mile is the site of the farmstead that the folks built up and is the scene of my growing years. It is gone, the few remaining cottonwoods shoved into a pile. Another half mile and we passed the historical site plowed under, an old wagon road from Owego to Sheldon. Another half mile used to stand my grandparents farmstead, a place were 52 years ago I met with a life-changing accident. Further along the road, the Lyle Schimming farmstead has vanished. So much has changed, so much gone.

Returning to Sheldon we repeated our trip through the gloomy field situations and came in on the east side. There our once nicely kept school and grounds stands in shambles with junk sitting around and a large hole cut in the gym’s east end so that trucks can come and go within.

Main street had only one car on it and we surmised it was probably the bar keeper’s. The only site of real activity has been and still is the grain elevator where several people can draw a paycheck. Then out west we turned to drive past our land there. We were met with a large sign stating there was no traffic allowed. We’ve heard that’s because of water flowing over a low spot. We turned before that though to drive south to the farm my folks bought from Ma’s parents. There the tenant had put up a nice crop of alfalfa bales on the north field by the railroad tracks, and we could see grain waving in the wind over on the west side of the creek.

While Dad was with us I asked him to verify some property lines since he and Ma had sold five acres a few years back. Stopping there on the road and scanning things over we were met with four barking dogs that came out of the yard signaling in their animal way that we were unwanted there. We could not continue driving south since the creek water stood over that road, so we backtracked and headed back to Lisbon. So for the day we saw one person we knew, Curt Black, and two strangers standing on main street as we came back through. I guess we can call it a ghost town.

Historical Bits

Small town newspapers in days-gone-by published their news stories with a certain flair that, unfortunately, today’s schools of journalism teach their students not to write. I enjoy reading the stories written a century ago.

100 Years Ago in Sheldon

(ad) Lock Step Binder Twine is guaranteed to be as smooth and even and as free from knots and weak spots as are the characters of the men who spin it . . .

Adolph Ihme, living nine miles northwest of here, crossed over the state line into South Dakota a few days ago and returned via Fargo on Saturday morning last with a handsome bride . . .

Charles Ufer, Sr. met with a serious accident. While driving in a couple of horses from the pasture one of the animals kicked him in the face, cutting it quite badly. He was unconscious for two hours and when he got to the house was in such a dazed condition that he could not explain how the accident happened. Restoratives were applied and he is improving slowly.

For Sale - Northwest Quarter Section 17, one mile south of Coburn. Bargain at $15 per acre. A. F. Anderson, Lemmon, S. D.

There are the usual battles being waged on the dandelions - with the usual effect.

The east bound freight train got tired of keeping in the middle of the road on last Friday and when between Elliott and Lisbon, jumped the track and bumped along over the ties for several hundred feet.

(The citizens of the village of Sheldon have often spoken with a sort of questionable pride of their infamous outlaw well. The following item might remind one in an eerie way of the runaway oil well in the Gulf.) The large outside casing is now being put down in the artesian gusher, but as yet nothing can be known as to what the result will be.
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Last evening Mary and I attended a “premiere” at the Belle Mehus Theater in downtown Bismarck featuring a film about a past North Dakota governor William L. Guy. It was very good and surprisingly there were a lot of audience laughs during the showing because of the way politics of the time was portrayed. A box seat situated in a place of honor at the front of the auditorium went empty. Instead, Mr. and Mrs. Guy walked almost unnoticed down the aisle until they reached the midway point when everyone realized it and then stood for the ovation. Neither did they sit in the front row. They sat five or six rows from the front, more in the middle of the audience. I read it as their not wanting to be “elevated,” but instead looked on as one with the people. I thought it was a nice gesture on their part

Exploring A Tangent

To me it’s always fun and interesting to explore a tangent. That is what has happened as I read up on the early surveying of my home area. How did those guys do it? I’ve found a few recently published books that have told me much more than I knew before. The most important idea that comes out is that when land began to be surveyed and its limits or borders were established is when it began to have a monetary value. Andro Linklater authored two these books: The Fabric of America and Measuring America. The first mentioned book bears the subtitle How Our Borders Shaped the Country and Forged Our National Identity. Without property assignments that can be recorded we would just be a bunch of squatters on a piece of land, holding on to it only unless someone stronger came along and decided to take it away.

I remember seeing one time in a box of junk Dad had purchased at an auction a length of chain with oblong links the likes of which I’d never seen before. Without knowing what it was, it was just some more junk he had brought home. I know now what it was, it was a Gunter’s Chain invented by Edmund Gunter in the early 1600’s. He designed them to be an exact length, 66 feet, and one of the important facets of surveying was born. It’s a topic much too long to discuss in this modest blog, but I’m finding it very interesting and will be able to use a lot of information in my next project.
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Main street in Mandan filled up last Sunday with classic cars, 550 of them plus some classic farm tractors. And bring a crowd of lookers it does! My favorites are the ones I wished I could have had when it would have made a difference. I think I’d liked to have owned a ‘57 Chevy most of all, and there were a few of those beauties there. The rare car present was a 1908 Maxwell that exists in its original condition. Apparently it found a good storage shed all its life.
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Monday evening Mary and I attended a picnic sponsored by a history group I have joined, The Westerners. The site, located about ten miles south of Mandan, sat in some of the prettiest country in North Dakota. With ample rain, the grass shone green and lush, and the rugged terrain was as good as the food. Clay Jenkinson spoke about the West and its early inhabitants

Garage Sale

We’re getting ready to hold a garage sale this Friday and Saturday. Stuff accumulates. Some people don’t save it but live their lives slick and clean. I don’t know if it’s admirable or not. A spoken line repeated over and over at one school I worked at said: a clean desk is the sign of a sick mind. My life is messy; it is hard to throw things away. My wife is the opposite, and since they say opposites attract it might be interesting to note that we celebrated our 36th anniversary yesterday.

My philosophy has evolved over the years, but I have come to the place where if I want to look at something antiquey, I will go to a museum. So out go those two pair of hames, that broken cow bell, two gopher traps, one pair of buggy steps, assorted metal ends for single trees, a wooden hay pulley, some rusty horseshoes with the nails still sticking out of them, and a string of sleigh bells on a rotten leather strap.

A few things stay though. There is that white leather show halter I bought to lead my 4-H calves at judging shows. I remember showing a blue ribbon Holstein heifer at Lisbon and had a hard time controlling her with the tie-up halter. The judge overlooked that and kindly recommended a show type. I’m keeping a solid brass steam engine valve. Why, I guess just because it is such a high quality item from another time. I’m keeping the Craftsman wrenches one inch and above even if I don’t use them. I looked up their price on the internet, and I know I could not get what they are worth. Other things even though they are priced and on the table might yet get retrieved, too, however I will have to do that without the wife seeing it.

I told the wife I think we’ve got another ten years at this place and then we’ll move to a smaller place that is easier to take care of. Of course, she hasn’t put her stamp of approval on that one, but time works against us. Ten years hence I will be 78 years old!

50 Years - Come and Gone

It wasn’t so long ago that I realized our high school graduation took place fifty years ago, just like that. I only heard from one classmate who suggested a get-together might be in order, but nary a spark of interest from anyone else. I guess everyone in our class just wants to forget how long ago that event occurred. At the time, it was big! In our eyes the girls were prettier, the fish bigger, and we thought we would live forever. Two of the classmates I remember being with us at one time or another have passed on, and I suppose it means we all will. So the words and melody of a song come into my head, “Let’s live, love, laugh, and be happy!”

We’ll be attending a fiftieth wedding anniversary of a cousin of mine this coming weekend. She probably wonders how the time slipped by. I don’t feel like I’ve been married long but it’ll soon be our 37th anniversary. Over those years along with the wife, I’ve gained children and grandchildren, a house, and a two-car garage. That’s been the American dream all along.

And to finish off, I ran into a ditty that made me stop and think. Looking around the Huffington Post book section I found this taken from a college graduation speech given by David Foster Wallace. He said, "There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way who nods at them and says 'Morning, boys. How's the water, and the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, 'What the hell is water.'" His point was on making conscious choices on how to perceive the world.

Tales of Impalement

In doing some background reading for my newest research/writing project I ran across an anecdote that interested me. It told of a teamster/bullwhacker in the nineteenth century who, while trying to yoke one of his oxen, got hooked under his chin by the critter’s horn, lifted aloft, and carried around the corral area until help arrived. According to the story teller he recovered but was forced to eat mush for the rest of his life. I thought that was a singular event until yesterday when I found this story. A Spanish bullfighter entered the ring and worked to subdue the bull - as they usually do. The bull hooked him, but much worse than the man in the aforementioned tale, the tip of the bull’s horn pierced the soft skin of the bullfighter’s throat and exited through the man’s mouth. He survived with the help of a surgeon but is in pretty tough shape. Readers of this blog can find several references to the event by googling the words “bullfighter gored in neck.” The pictures are graphic and might make you squeamish. I thought to myself that we can’t blame the animal in either case for doing something in his self-defense.

So much of interest to be found when I poke around history. In my opening line I mentioned my current research/writing project. The place name of Pigeon Point in Owego Township will receive some attention because it was an overnight stop between Forts Abercrombie and Ransom on the freight trail. Why the name Pigeon Point? In my reading I found where one of the old-timers related as to how numerous the passenger pigeons roosted in the trees at that spot. That species is now extinct, but still in the 1860’s and 70’s they were numerous. The famous John James Audubon spoke of them. He set about trying to count them one day and gave up after tallying 163 flocks having passed him in 21 minutes. He said, “The air was literally filled with pigeons; the light of noon-day was obscured as by an eclipse, the dung fell in spots, not unlike melting flakes of snow…” He did some estimating over the next three hours that if the flock was one mile wide and traveled at the rate of a mile a minute, allowing two pigeons to the square yard, that one billion, one hundred and fifteen million, one hundred and thirty-six thousand passed by. The flight of pigeons he observed lasted for three days. I don’t know how accurate he was, but there surely were a lot of pigeons in the air.

And, to finish off with another story of impalement one of the old settlers writing in the WPA history project in the 1930’s told of the family Thomas Wilson, the first settlers in my home township of Greene who farmed just a short while before moving into the just-platted town of Sheldon in 1882. Wilson went to work for storekeepers Goodman and Grange as a butcher. One day he butchered 100 hogs in a fenced enclosure and stuck each severed head on one of the posts, “a very queer looking sight it was!”

A Strange Bird Flew By

A couple of days ago as I browsed in the stacks of the Bismarck Public Library I spotted a book which jumped out at me because it revived a strong memory. The book Flying MacArthur to Victory written by Dusty Rhoades relates in diary form the author’s experiences in World War II piloting MacArthur’s personal plane The Bataan, a converted B-17 heavy bomber. Several thousand of these were built and were notable for their ability to continue flying even after suffering battle damage. My experience was this: in the early 1970’s mosquitoes were infecting horses with sleeping sickness - equine encephalitis - which could transfer to humans, and it was decided that a general spraying program would help to control the outbreak. After the B-17’s usefulness ended most of them headed for salvage. The Bataan, even with its historical significance, survived and sat on a runway somewhere available to be adapted to the job at hand.

At the time I worked at the Sheldon school which needed basement remodeling because of flooding from heavy rainfall. Lots of junk needed to be hauled away and one morning George Bartholomay, Kenny Lewis, and I took a pickup loaded with it to the dump grounds. After unloading, I hopped in the back end of the pickup to let the wind blow through my hair on the sultry summer day and remember this scene so distinctly. Sensing something I looked back as we drove along and saw the huge four-engine bomber bearing directly at us and flying only about 500 feet off the ground. I banged on the roof of the cab and hollered so the other two could see it as it passed overhead dragging its large shadow. We watched it make just a few passes over Sheldon as it sprayed the chemicals and then it was gone, off to another town.

Whether or not the spraying program succeeded I doubt anyone can say that it did. Maybe it caused a few cancers in people who happened to have it rain on them as they stood watching the plane. It was something out of the ordinary, the biggest thing to happen that day in lots of little towns.

Some Lighter News

As is usually the case the past week’s news is mind-numbing and items of importance are shunted off to the side to make room for the next new and exciting thing. The oil leak in the Gulf, Nashville inundated, the nomination of a new Supreme Court judge, the sharp drop in the stock market, etc. all grab at our attention during the daily news cycles. It gets so we have to pick and choose if we want to keep up. Mix in Tiger Woods, global warming, health care, volcanic ash and the brew thickens.

News in my hometown paper was much simpler in May of 1885. The following are a few gleaned from the records of the Heritage Center: Thousands of dozen of eggs are being shipped from Sheldon to the Fargo market . . . P. P. Goodman has planted twenty-five acres of corn down on his Sheyenne River farm . . . Business has been lively during the past week. The business side of front street having been crowded with teams from early morn until dewy eve . . . City Marshal Sanborn has given some of the hilariously inclined farmer citizens a little whatcome advice lately in consequence of which they crawled into their wagons and made tracks for home . . . Several prairie schooners passed through town yesterday bound for the west.

Jumping ahead twenty-five years we find these tidbits: Hans Bjugstad, while strolling around through the hills last Saturday ran on to a den of young coyotes. He dug out seven of the little animals . . . For centuries scientists have been racking their brains in an effort to discover the elixir of life, a recipe for perpetual youth. But it remains for man unknown to the world of science to find the true preventative for old age, the fountain of perpetual youth. That man is Chauncy Durgin. He attributes his extremely youthful appearance at the age of ninety-three to his habit of eating pie every morning for breakfast and conveying it to his mouth with a knife. Since he gave his discovery to the world several of our young men upon whom Father Time has laid his hand, have been following his example. As a result the pie market has been rapidly rising in price . . . ad: Burke’s Auto Livery takes you anywhere. Expert and sober chauffeurs only employed. Phone 63, Sheldon . . . Tuesday morning Mail Carrier Good’s “bronco” went out on a strike, decided that he wouldn’t carry Uncle Sam’s mail any longer and proceeded to kick the mail cart into kindling wood. He succeeded admirably and Mr. Good had to return to town and make the trip by bicycle route.

In the hallway of the Heritage Center, an exhibit of the front page of various state newspapers caught my eye. The Fargo Daily Courier of January 17, 1917 had this headline in large letters: Ballot Is Given to North Dakota Women. Hanging beside it was this front page from the December 28, 1930 issue of the Bismarck Tribune: Fire Destroys State Capitol. I don‘t think the state historians were making any type of statement.

My Two Cents

So much to read, so little time! It seems like I spend all my money on books. A new title caught my eye so I bought it: The Long Way Home - An American Journey from Ellis Island to the Great War. The first lines in the dust jacket of the book read “When the United States entered World War I in 1917, one-third of the nation’s population had been born overseas or had a parent who was an immigrant. At the peak of U. S. involvement in the war, nearly one in five American soldiers was foreign-born.” Since my maternal grandfather fit into that category I thought it would be informative. The author traces the lives of a dozen men, one of whom came from Norway. When I looked deeper into the tale I discovered he marched with the 362nd Regiment of the 91st Division, the same one Grandpa was a member of. Reading this account should give me a bit more insight into the sketchy history of the battles he fought in.

The 91st, identified as the Wild West Division, included a lot of cowboy types from Wyoming and Montana. One of my uncles told the story he knew of the time when Grandpa’s troop train carried the raw recruits to their training camp in Washington. At a station stop some sergeant started bawling orders at them and one of them promptly decked the sergeant. He didn’t take kindly to being ordered around. At the remaining station stops armed guards stood on the platform to keep order.
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We recently visited New Orleans, the Gulf Coast area, and Nashville. Now both are suffering through disasters. I hope they don’t think that the dark cloud follows me around and that I had something to do with it. I might want to go back sometime.
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We just finished re-watching my John Adams boxed DVD set as well as a Thomas Jefferson DVD found at the library. Without the leadership and wisdom these two men demonstrated in the early days of this country a much different government probably would have developed. I've been watching the new Tom Hanks production of "The Pacific" on HBO. The battle scenes are very graphic, but it doesn't match up to the earlier "Band of Brothers" or "Saving Private Ryan."

Gettin' Back in the Groove

I’ve been watching the weather half a world away in Mumbai (Bombay), India - the temperatures have been consistently in the mid-90’s. Reason: our first born flew there last week for business reasons. He emailed that it took him 27 ½ hours to reach his destination, and apparently the volcano ash we’ve been hearing so much about was not much of a problem. He’ll be there for a two week stretch meeting with them plus some Australian colleagues. A quick Google check names several sites that, with differing definitions of a city, show Mumbai as either first, second, or third most populous city in the world. This world economy thing blows my mind. To think how the different countries of the world interact to make their economies work is hard for this old farm boy to comprehend, but it sure looks like a heady experience for those who can function in the modern world.
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I’m always interested in hearing veterans tell war stories, but it’s hard to get them to talk about their combat experiences. A long-time acquaintance and Viet Nam veteran is no different. Stories he tells are very superficial, and he outright told me one day that he doesn’t like to talk about them. Recently, though, he volunteered to let me read a book of his that dealt with the Marine unit he fought with at the Battle of Dong Ha in 1968. The book, Magnificent Bastards, doesn’t paint any glorious pictures but depicts the down and dirty aspects of the fighting. This Marine unit got ripped up badly, and according to one source, lost 81 killed and 297 seriously wounded. Prior to my reading the book, he had said, “A lot of the guys never came back.”
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A few days ago a beautifully restored ‘49 Chevy pickup pulled into our driveway driven by an acquaintance who loves to work on cars and who stopped by to show it off. Proud he was, “There isn’t a bolt in it that isn’t chromed.” The stock six-cylinder engine purred nicely and the blue paint job reflected my face. What caught my eye though was the add-on turn signal gizmo bolted to the steering column. He, being younger than I, seemed interested when I told him that I remember when those gadgets had to be added to a vehicle if not factory equipped because of a newly enacted state law which I’ll guess occurred sometime in the early 1950’s. After awhile, he backed out and coolly cruised away, then Mary pointed to the big puddle of oil the engine leaked on our driveway.
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It would be good advice for anyone:
If at first you don’t succeed, stay away from sky-diving!

Final Remarks on a Road Trip

The Precious Moments museum and chapel gave us plenty to look at in Carthage, Mo, and supper at Lambert’s in Springfield had us ducking their trademark activity of dinner rolls being thrown at us from twenty feet away. Next morning the large Bass Pro Shop offered its wares before departing to Branson and the huge show called “Noah, the Musical.” I’ve never seen such a production with all the animals that Noah gathered to ride his ark.

Elvis Presley’s Graceland bored me another time. That stop is so overly commercialized and glitzy that it rubs this prairie dweller to raw skin. The Vicksburg Military Park with its large battlefield presents itself as a destination in itself. A person could study the facets of that battle for a long time. New Orleans brought some reality to Katrina’s damage that we’d only experienced through television or printed media reports.

A Farmer’s Union trip always takes in some type of agricultural visit and this one included the Harvest States Barge Loading Facility outside of New Orleans. Over the course of a year they unload four thousand grain filled barges floated down the Mississippi River onto 200 ships. That makes for a lot of commerce.

On to Nashville and Andrew Jackson’s home called The Hermitage and a performance of the Grand Ole Opry. When Josh Turner came on stage his performance which was almost overshadowed by a bunch of 80 year old women who sat beside us and screamed and carried on like teen-agers. Little Jimmy Dickens still brings the audience to its feet for a standing ovation.

I took my third and final trip to the top of the Arch in St. Louis. Each time I’ve ridden the tramway to the top to prove to myself that I’m not a coward, but having proven that and since I always get very uncomfortable up there, I’ve decided that enough is enough. Springfield, IL’s site was the beautifully constructed Lincoln Tomb where he has been lain to rest plus his home while he lived there and practiced law. Hannibal, MO featured Mark Twain’s boyhood home, something I found very interesting.

A final attraction drew us to Jesse James House and Museum in St. Joseph, MO. We were surprised. It was a great museum that also included the Pony Express museum.

Well, I can put my journey to rest. Today we power raked the lawn, Mary started digging in her flower beds, and I’ve started thinking about other things to do.

On the Road, # 4

Collecting My Thoughts …
Before the Memories Fade

Having just returned from a two week tour I need to sit down and transcribe the impressions formed after looking through the window of a bus. Of course, we did a bit of walking, too, through various sites. I don’t want to call the journey one of looking at dead people’s graves, although we did a bit of that: Abraham Lincoln, Andrew Jackson, Elvis Presley, and the concrete tombs of New Orleans. Even though the tour was named Music Medley, I can’t recall that we heard much music, although the performance of the Grand Ole Opry counts heavily in its favor. We didn’t even eat much ethnic food, although in New Orleans I did eat a Po’ Boy sandwich filled with fried oysters, shrimp, and catfish.

With that negative-seeming introduction, one would think we did not have a good time, but such was not the case; we did have a worthwhile trip and a good time. I’ve discovered, after several bus tours, that people who spend the money to join the tour put contentious issues aside and find common ground to enjoy each other’s humor and fellowship. Whenever I step off the bus for the last time, I always feel a bit of emptiness since I have to return to my everyday life and will not see some of my fellow passengers again for awhile, or maybe not ever.

I don’t think any of us came away from our drive through the Ninth Ward of New Orleans without feeling some sadness for what we saw there. The place, for the most part, is still a shambles. The Mississippi Gulf Coast, with its once beautiful mansions, needs much work yet to restore it, although one can’t help but admire the initiative some re-builders are showing as they build their houses on the tall stilts holding them high in the air.

The Vicksburg Civil War Battlefield illustrated the impossibility of some conflicts, this one with its high ground and deep ravines which Northern forces never did take by assault, but instead forced Southern surrender after a siege that starved them out.

We visited Hannibal, MO and the Mark Twain Museum and Home where I bought Twain’s Autobiography. I mention that here because I’m not done with the Civil War impressions. I’d known for some time that General, later President, U. S. Grant did not have any money towards the end of his life. He proceeded to write his autobiography and was ready to sell the rights for about $25,000 to an unscrupulous publisher. He asked Mark Twain to look at the contract before signing it and Twain promptly told him in no uncertain terms it was rubbish. Twain had by now experienced the ins and outs of the publishing industry and found him a new publisher, and the proceeds of his book came to about one-half million dollars, the sum of which Grant would not enjoy since he died soon after but which left his widow very financially comfortable. Witty sayings and quotations made by Twain were in abundance in Hannibal, something that many in our group enjoyed.

Little Rock, AR showed us President Clinton’s new library and museum where a special collection of Madeleine Albright’s “pins” caught our attention.

(More to be added to this…)

On the Road, # 3

We passed through the area of Selma and Montgomery, Alabama which gave me pause to think of how unsettled this area was one time regarding civil rights. We also passed through the devastated areas of Hurricane Katrina which still show signs of the storm's fury. New Orleans' Ninth Ward is still a shambles, but there are signs of recovery. We're headed toward Nashville.

On the Road, # 2

Staying in a little Mississippi town just a few minutes south of Memphis. We visited Elvis's Graceland today after arriving in town from Little Rock, Arkansas and the Clinton Presidential Library. One of the traveling exhibits on display was Madeliene Albright's pin collection that we have been hearing about lately. A glass sculpture by Gilhooly caught my attention. We passed on the road a Remington ammunition factory and the employee parking lot was full. I guess the militiamen are keeping it busy making more bullets.

Yesterday in Branson we watched one show: Noah, the Musical. I've never seen a production of that magnitude before. There were live animals, men inside animal costumes, motor-driven animals, and stuffed animals, two by two. It took a huge stage setting to field the whole thing; I was impressed. In some spare time we attended an Imax movie: The Hubble, meaning the orbiting telescope. In part it dealt with astronauts repairing the telescope, and, in part, showing the skies as photographed. Impressive.

Tomorrow - Vicksburg, the site of a Civil War battle.

On the Road

Springfield, Missouri - April 7, 2010 - 5:50 am - On a bus tour. Not much of excitement has occurred yet. Yesterday we toured the Precious Moments chapel which was the brainchild of the man who created that line of ceramics. Quite nice. Last evening we ate at a place that tossed hot buns at you from about 20 feet away. A few hit the floor. This morning we're headed to the large Bass Pro Shop here in Springfield for a bit of shopping, then off to Branson.

Slang

Simple solutions exist for politicians who get in trouble for the things they say and then have to explain themselves at another time for what they really meant. Good old Sarah Palin set up a target list of politicians who she says need to be defeated in the next election and to pinpoint who they are put the crosshairs of a rifle scope over their congressional district. The prudent person probably would not be influenced to rise to acts of assassination, but some fear that kooks - and there are some - would read that as a message to start shooting, “you betcha.”Of course, she follows up and says the Democrats are construing the message for their benefit. Then there’s good old Joe Biden who gets caught making verbal blunders occasionally, the latest of which was telling the President the health care bill was a “big f_____g deal.” He could have said, “Mr. President, this is a momentous occasion.” These two examples illustrate a myriad of examples of slang expressions used in communicating their message. In fact, the whole country participates in something that could be termed “slanguage.”

The simple solution I referred to is this: speak formal English, eliminate any use of “slanguage.” Easy? Just try it. I, with the college major in English, can’t do it. Those darned overworn expressions, Americanisms, continually pop up. Did I just say “pop up?” I could have said “enter into my speech.” One of the best speakers of the English language I have come into contact with was a distant cousin from Sweden. He learned formal English in school, and his speech was free from the slang we use freely. I once told him he speaks the Queen’s English, and he immediately affected a British accent and spoke with it to emphasize that point.

I’ve never forgotten the young lady clerk in a gas station who, after I asked about some product her establishment offered for sale, told me that “you can’t beat it with a stick.” I can add a whole list of words: babelicious, back-asswards, bent out of shape, going bonkers, takes a lot of guts, good vibes, knuckle sandwich, lame excuse, psyched up, rinky-dink, mickey mouse, etc. Back to Sweden, the boyfriend of another cousin rode a sleek looking motorcycle we commonly refer to as a “crotch-rocket.” He looked very quizzically at me as I used that term. To him it was a motorcycle. Well, I’d better quit before my wife “reams me out” for sitting here. She’s been “going bonkers” for doing this “mickey mouse” writing-thing. Personally, I think it’s “a piece of cake.”

Health Care Cares

Regarding the political front, we’ve passed through an interesting time. Health care legislation was signed into law, but the noise goes on. The opposition to this tells us the vast majority of Americans do not want this bill, but just today a Gallup/USA Today poll says that 49% of the people think it is ok while 40% are opposed. A major argument that comes to my mind is something that I learned in Political Science 101: we do not have a pure democracy, we operate under a representative form of government and now a majority of our representatives voted for this change.

My Sunday paper made a couple of interesting points. One columnist, Timothy Egan, said, “None of the great bipartisan triumphs of the past - Social Security, Medicare, the Civil Rights Act - would have a prayer in the present environment. That’s not how we do politics in 2010. We talk, loudly, only to like-minded partisans, and everyone else be damned.” Another one I liked by Calvin Woodward, “ as much as Americans hate overbearing government and higher taxes, give them a federal benefit and then just try to take it away. Today’s hot potato becomes tomorrow’s cherished check.” Enough said from this keyboard.
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I took another trip to a hundred years ago and came up with a few gems from around the state. There was a row at Jamestown between some Russian Germans and one was hit in the head with an ax . . . There is a terrible drought at Bantry since the raid . . . Wahpeton’s pure water supply - the artesian well system - makes the city almost immune from typhoid . . . A man in the western part of the state advertised for a wife and finally landed a widow with three children. It pays to advertise . . . Despite the rapidly increasing number of autos, good equines still bring fancy prices . .. A large man with a trick animal which he claimed was a full blooded wolf spent part of Tuesday and Wednesday in town (Sheldon). The animal was mild mannered and seemed to be very intelligent and performed numerous tricks . . . Taft sworn in as President, raging blizzard casuses abandonment of customary outdoor activities, great inaugural parade moves through slush and mud, ball is brilliant.

Spring Fever

We drove to Lisbon yesterday to visit with my parents who are always glad for the company. In the early morning after the fog finally lifted, enjoyed looking out at the landscape and watching spring trying to break through. The fields aren’t completely white anymore but have started to show spots of ground peeking through. Everyone wants spring. Our local paper today headlined: Congrats on the calves, Calving on the prairie is easier this year, despite damp weather.

With the snow melt water runs, of course, and some towns are prepping for the crest. Lisbon was full of National Guardsman working to dike the Sheyenne, directing traffic so that trucks hauling dirt got the right of way, and generally being helpful. I’ve always thought I’m glad we built on a hill, and that with our walk-out lower level door that I could just open the door and let the water run right back out.

I write with a bit of ease today; I finished book number two and have mailed a bunch of them out. So now I can start thinking about # 3 and the trip we soon will take to Branson, Nashville, and New Orleans. I just love getting on that Farmers Union tour bus and ride with no cares. The hardest part about those trips has always been writing the check ahead of time. After I get home I will start book # 3, the theme of which will cover ox-cart freighting in the area where I grew up.

Observations

Computer trouble caused me to dust off my old, slow laptop to write this morning. Not that this is particularly difficult to do, but machines like this fall into obsolescence pretty fast, and I have gotten used to my much faster desktop computer. I can’t help but think about an article in my latest issue of The Nation magazine. The author Patricia J. Williams writes in the piece titled "Convergences" how she uses trains more and more which causes her to hang out in train depots waiting their arrival. One day she took note of the crowd waiting with her and noticed how they seem to come from every socio-economic class. As she sat working crossword puzzles an obvious ragged, down-and-outer sat near her and began talking intelligently to herself about national and international affairs. As Williams became engrossed listening to this one-sided conversation, she looked around. It seems as if everyone else busied themselves either listening, looking, or working with portable electronic devices causing them to isolate themselves into little personal zones. After a bit a security man came along and kicked the urchin out of the depot. The article goes on to become somewhat involved but on the surface I took this from the piece: maybe it was the crazy one who was most sane and the others who sat mesmerized by mentally crawling into their electronic devices were the insane ones.

Someplace I picked up a quote, “. . . there is so much noise only silence will be remembered.” How to fill the silence brings forth this alternative: pick up and read a good book and gain knowledge. I can paraphrase another quote: I pity the poor man who cannot read but loathe the man who will not read. I’m thankful for my liberal arts education but have not utilized nor developed it nearly enough. So that brings me here this morning pining after my good computer which is in the repair shop.
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Ole's Talking Dog - from www.uffdahhh.com

A guy is driving around the back woods of upnort Wisconsin and he sees a sign in front of a broken down shanty-style house: 'Talking Dog For Sale' He rings the bell and Ole appears and tells him dat the dog is in da backyard.

The guy goes into the backyard and sees a nice looking Labrador retriever sitting there.

'You talk?' he asks.

'Yep,' the Lab replies.

After the guy recovers from the shock of hearing a dog talk, he says 'So, what's your story?'

The Lab looks up and says, 'Well, I discovered that I could talk when I was pretty young. I wanted to help the government, so I told the CIA. In no time at all they had me jetting from country to country, sitting in rooms with spies and world leaders, because no one figured a dog would be eavesdropping.'

'I was one of their most valuable spies for eight years running. But the jetting around really tired me out, and I knew I wasn't getting any younger so I decided to settle down.. I signed up for a job at the airport to do some undercover security, wandering near suspicious characters and listening in. I uncovered some incredible dealings and was awarded a batch of medals.'

'I got married, had a mess of puppies, and now I'm just retired.'

The guy is amazed. He goes back in and asks Ole what he wants for the dog.

'Ten dollars,' Ole says.

'Ten dollars? This dog is amazing! Why on earth are you selling him so cheap?'
'Dat's because he's a liar. He never did any of dat stuff.'

A Historical Affair

National politics is irksome and makes us think we are in the worst of times. History tells us otherwise, though, since problems have rotted and festered ever since this country was established. A few days ago we visited my parents in the retirement home. I took along my recorder and got them started talking about their younger days; therefore an interesting conversation commenced. Topics of world wars, depression, drought, etc. often arise. I’ve recently been reading articles about the veterans’ Bonus Army, and read closely in Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States how disgustingly they were treated.

The problem arose after the first world war during the depth of the depression when so many people found themselves without jobs. Congress had seen fit to legislate a bonus to the returning veterans but seemed to be reneging on paying up. Desperate veterans wanted the money to see them through the hard times and began gathering in large numbers in Washington to persuade Hoover to open up the purse. A large city of tents and cardboard shanties arose to house them; Zinn said over 20,000 people gathered. Hoover ordered troops to clear the rabble out and clean up the mess. Some big military names glorified in history took part in the debacle: MacArthur, Eisenhower, and Patton. They burned them out and spread tear gas to disperse the protesters, which alone injured a thousand of the veterans in addition to several deaths. The election of 1932 was influenced by this affair, and FDR moved into the Presidency.

Rebellion was rampant throughout the country, but FDR treated the downtrodden with a certain respect, and things finally settled down. By the way, the veterans’ bonus got paid. Here, I asked my parents if they remembered that episode. Sure they did. My mother remarked that her dad received either $200 or $300, she couldn’t remember exactly, but whatever it was, she said it sure helped out. Dad knew of one person who bought a team of horses with his bonus and could then start his farming operation, something he did well at.

Zinn recently died, but his work as a historian looks at the grass roots of history, not so much the big movers and shakers that much historical writing does. A People’s History of the United States contains many stories of the common people.

Fleeting Memories

Sometimes a memory comes zipping through my mind for no apparent reason, some good, some not so. Yesterday one that I have carried around for sixty years or so visited me, and I smiled at remembering it. I once saw a man riding a fast horse that would not stop until it got inside the barn; it forced the rider to almost crawl inside the critter’s skin to get low enough so as not to get knocked off its back. The rider was my uncle Robert whom I have known forever as Buddy. Health issues have caused him to alter his life style, and I thought a phone call to him to reminisce about this scene would be welcomed. I think it was. “Stubby was his name, a pretty good horse. Dad got him for me from A. C. Weig.”

We visited for quite some time, and I enjoyed talking with him again. Other topics got discussed. I’ve always enjoyed listening to army veteran’s tales of service. His was in Korea as an artilleryman. He told me of once coming under such a heavy mortar barrage that they had to stay hunkered down so much that they couldn’t shoot back. It seems like some of the most enjoyable moments in life are unplanned, as was this spontaneous phone call to him. The brief e-mails or message texting so prevalent now do not replace a pleasant visit on the phone. To take it further, personal letter writing has declined; it is a rare occasion to receive one in this present day of immediate electronic communication.

Back to the topic of memories, I took enough psychology courses in my liberal arts education to learn just how complicated the brain is and that memory recall varies from person to person. A book on my shelf titled Man’s Unconquerable Mind contains a passage I have returned to many times: “Day and night, from childhood to old age, sick or well, asleep or awake, men and women think. The brain works like the heart, ceaselessly pulsing. In its three pounds’ weight of tissue are recorded and stored billions upon billions of memories, habits, instincts, abilities, desires and hopes and fears, patterns and tinctures and sounds and inconceivably delicate calculations and brutishly crude urgencies, the sound of a whisper heard thirty years ago, the resolution impressed by daily practice for fifteen thousand days, the hatred cherished since childhood, the delight never experienced but incessantly imagined, the complex structure of stresses in a bridge, the exact pressure of a single finger on a single string, the development of ten thousand different games of chess, the precise curve of a lip, a hill, an equation, or a flying ball, tones and shades and glooms and raptures, the faces of countless strangers, the scent of one garden, prayers, inventions, crimes, poems, jokes, tunes, sums, problems unsolved, victories long past, the fear of Hell and the love of God, the vision of a blade of grass and the vision of the sky filled with stars.”

Weather, Politics, and Old News

Saturday’s weather came off lousy with wind, snow, heavy roads, limited visibility, yet still the turnout for my parents’ birthday celebration was gratifying. Dad will be 95 on the 20th of February and Ma reached 90 today, the 17th, this date also marking their 69th anniversary. Years keep piling on; I guess I should know since my 68th occurred on the 15th. As long as we can keep counting all is well. Of that generation of Buelings only Dad remains of the family and two of the wives with that surname remain living, my mother, and the wife of Leslie, Kathy, whose birthday was the 16th.
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A headline in today’s paper: Where did the moderates go? The first sentence in the article reads “The moderate middle is disappearing from Congress.” The story is often told about President Reagan and Tip O’Neill of how they’d fight over political issues but would join each other for jokes and drinks after hours. Apparently that doesn’t happen much with the present bunch of polarized politicians. I can’t help but refer to a W. B. Yeats poem “The Second Coming.” The first few lines say:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

While the poem does not speak to political issues, it has been said that it is open to differing levels of interpretation. I think it fits well with the situation in Washington.

…
I wondered how things were going one hundred years ago during the month of February in the old home town so I went to the well again and hauled up a bucket full of items. My great-grandfather made this news: “We noticed an item in the Progress a few weeks ago stating that coyotes were very thick out in Owego. Well, I guess they must be. A few weeks ago Tom Anderson, with the aid of his two dogs and a pitchfork, killed one. Keep the good work going, Tom.”

The Ransom County Immigration Association have just completed the overhauling of their three big cars, the Marmon and two Maxwells. Chauffeur Blanchard has carefully inspected the mechanism of the machines and pronounced them to be in perfect working order. The land company is expecting a heavy influx of land seekers this spring, and their three cars are now in readiness to show the hungry seekers a good share of their land within a short time.

Confusing Place

This world is a mighty confusing place, and what is true one year becomes untrue the next. For instance, the new Time magazine carries an article titled “The Survivor” and is in regards to Secretary of Defense Robert Gates. A passage in it surprised the devil out of me. First off, there is a picture of him sitting at the controls of a Russian-made Mi-17 helicopter in Kabul, Afghanistan. That in itself didn’t call much attention to itself because prior to our being in that country Russia’s military had occupied the country. Maybe that helicopter was a left-over. No! Gates wants to buy some from Russia because they’re very dependable and are considered the Kalishnikovs of the sky. That reference to the rifle carried by many fighting men in the world means they are simple and very dependable, and they’re said to be easier to fly than Black Hawks with their engines working better at the higher Afghan altitudes. Why I’m surprised is that it wasn’t all that many years ago Russia and the U. S. considered each other to be their bitter enemy.

I crave a simpler world and have enrolled in an adult class: “The Iron Horse’s Gallop Across North Dakota.” It’s offered by the University of North Dakota on the campus of Bismarck State College and has no tests, no homework, no grades. The only requirement is to attend and learn in a high-interest environment. Of course, there is a small fee but it is really minimal, so I registered for this six week course. I’ve always been interested in early statehood history and the railroads played a large part in that.

And then, as if I needed more to do, I ordered another course, “Building Great Sentences: Exploring the Writer’s Craft.” In this class I will be sent DVD’s that cover different topics. It’s taught by a professor from Iowa State U, a well-thought-of school for teaching writing. Again, no tests, no homework, no grades. I’ll just listen and learn.

Rebel

I’ve taken a small bedroom in our home’s lower level and claimed it for my study, office, man-cave, or escape hatch; whatever, it is a room forever in need of cleaning or straightening. Its condition is such that it drives wife-Mary crazy, but I can’t help it, I was born this way. In the mess and jumble I house my modest library collection which in large part consists of favorite books of poetry. While I rummaged through those many volumes a couple of days ago I ran across a slim
one I’d forgotten about that gives me a theme on which to write this little essay. That volume, much the same size as the little chapbooks that I write, bears the title Open Songs: Sixty Short Poems by Thomas McGrath.

McGrath, an internationally recognized poet, came from Sheldon, and since Sheldon is my hometown, I’ve developed a strong interest in his work. He earned the reputation as a left-wing rebel who continually fought against the system. Several parts of his long book-length poem Letter to an Imaginary Friend center on locations or people I have known, and the magic of his writing draws me in every time I open that volume. Back to the little Open Songs, … book, a faded Fargo Forum news clipping fell out as I riffled through the pages. Dated October 1, 1978, the article clarified a couple things: # 1 - a shooting he was involved with, but more interesting to me # 2 - his near-participation in the Spanish Civil War in the 1930’s. A misdirected University of North Dakota student, he at first sided with the Spanish leader Franco, but after learning about Franco’s Fascism and Franco being supported by both Hitler and Mussolini, he changed his allegiance to the International Brigades and volunteered to fight with them in Spain; however they came home before he could ship over.

Ernest Hemingway set his famous novel For Whom the Bell Tolls in this Spanish Civil War, and that book also sits on my shelf near the top of the “must-read-again” pile. Hemingway took the title from the 17th century poet John Donne who wrote “No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; … any man’s death diminishes me, and I am involved in mankind therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

Donne’s intention may have either been that when one person dies we all die a little or when we hear a funeral bell it is a reminder that we are a bit nearer death ourselves each day. Hemingway’s use of it was to show he was in concert with the groups fighting the fascists, and if he could be considered an intellectual he was really one with many intellectuals around the world who feared fascism might take root world-wide if unchecked. It is with this philosophy that McGrath aligned himself.

I've Got the Blues

I’m blue today, thinking too much, I guess. What about? Well, mostly about how little anybody’s opinion counts. It all started when I read an article in a recent Rolling Stone magazine titled “As the World Burns - How big oil and big coal mounted one of the most aggressive lobbying campaigns in history to block progress on global warming.” I don’t see how any thinking person can deny there is global warming and like the article says big energy companies know they’ll lose in the long run, but they are out to make as much in the short term as they can.

I’m not sure the number of coal trains that pass through Mandan-Bismarck each day headed east, but it must be at least one an hour. They are long trains, 115-20 cars each. Multiplied that makes about 2760 cars per day, loaded to heaping. I won’t venture a guess as to dollar value but the imagination places it in the clouds someplace. Dollars accumulate causing lobbyists to buzz around like flies on a cowpie. I don’t even need to mention the monetary strength of petroleum companies; we’ve all been victims of their price schemes and maneuverings.

Of course, there is more scheming in other industries: health care, pharmaceuticals, military industries, et al. And now we have a N. D. senator saying he wants to retire, which translated I think means he wants a piece of the lobbying pie, too. I’m sure his mouth is watering. And here comes the governor of N. D. saying he wants the senator’s job, and he intends to make things right in Washington. Ha, he without any seniority whatever! What would it take, two terms before he even gets noticed.

So that’s why I’m blue. This modest blogsite isn’t going to print a multitude of examples to prove the point, but our individual insignifance is glaring. My Nation magazine came today and I’ll quote from it: “The EPA ushered in the new year with a dark reminder of the coal industry’s sway over the Obama administration. On January 4 the agency approved the Hobet 45 mine expansion in West Virginia, the largest mountaintop-removal operation in Appalachia. The decision was announced only days before a group of environmental scientists released a long-awaited peer-reviewed study in the journal Science denouncing mountaintop-removal mining and calling for a moratorium on new permits.” I guess it doesn’t matter who thinks they hold the power in Washington. We know where it really lies.

Still Learning

If I live long enough I should learn lots more. At the gym this morning I heard an interesting anecdote. I overheard one of the ladies who regularly comes to workout tell someone that she was late because their power was out this morning. Why? When the heavy frost buildup on the bottom line broke off and dropped away the line danced up and struck the one above it causing it to short out. Who knew that?

I learn other things, too. Our household has decided to donate to the survivors of the earthquake tragedy in Haiti and have been looking around for a trustworthy organization to handle it. We settled on a local organization called “God’s Child.” Their main interest has been Guatemela but have shifted their priority for this event. Anyway, we went into their office yesterday and was met by a nice young gentleman who gladly accepted our check. We visited a bit about different South American countries, and I commented he looked like he probably came from somewhere down there. No, he said his father came from India. Opening my mouth wide and shoving a foot in it I replied I could see he wasn’t a Norwegian. “Oh, but I am. I’m half Norwegian. Mother came from Minnesota.”
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A few more news items from one hundred years ago:

Now that flying is practical and the North Pole has been discovered, the only thing left for next year appears to be perpetual motion. --- Professor William Klimmick, the Fargo piano tuner, was here last week. This is nothing unusual as Mr. Klimmick has been in Sheldon a dozen different times during the past summer, but this time he had a photograph which he was showing that he prized very highly! It was of the design for the silver service of the Battleship North Dakota. His son Hans is the designer. --- Mrs. Henry Hawk, living on the old Colton farm some 5 or 6 miles southeast of Lisbon was given a severe scare on last Sunday evening. About nine o’clock five masked men entered her house and proceeded to tear things up in general. At first she thought the men were joking but in this she was mistaken. Her pleading with them to go away went unheeded and it was not until her 17 year old son succeeded in getting the Winchester rifle and threatening to shoot if they did not leave the house that they left. After going some distance from the house they all stopped and one of the party returned, this time unmasked, and again insisted upon going into the house. Again efforts were made to keep him out and not until the boy had struck him over the head with the gun did he give way. The doors were then locked and the telephone put to good use. By the time assistance arrived the men got away. Two of the men were recognized. Mrs. Hawk and the children were frightened nearly to death and the affair will not be forgotten soon. The next time anything like this happens, Mrs. Hawk will be prepared to give the masked men a “warm” reception.

January, 1910

I wanted to see how things were going back in the old hometown a century ago and went digging in the microfiles at the Heritage Center a couple of days ago. Here are a few of the interesting news items:
How many patrons of the rural routes leading out of Sheldon stop to think of the inconvenience occasioned to the carriers who are obliged to pick pennies from the mail boxes on a cold winter day? It is the most annoying duty which falls to the lot of “the boys,” so the carriers from the Sheldon office are agreed. To jerk off your mittens, dive into a snow laden mail box for a penny or two, and then perhaps drop the coppers in the snow and have to make up to Uncle Sam from your own private fortune is anything but conducive to good humor. --- Another date has been set for the world’s end. But these dates are generally postponed on account of the weather. So ordinary business plans can be continued. --- Dogden - The man found in a hay stack by a Russian settler badly frozen recently died at the hospital in Bismarck. --- Chickens have been disappearing in an unaccountable manner from the coops of their owners in Sheldon and vicinity during the past few weeks. A month ago, J. W. Doty, who is quite a chicken fancier, had 125 of the feathered beauties. A few days ago he noticed that his flock seemed somewhat reduced in numbers, and after rounding them up, he found that there were only 67 left. Mr. Doty has purchased a new lock for his chicken coop and oiled up his old shotgun, and woe betide any marauder who attempts to disturb the slumbers of his prized pullets. --- Gus Kratt has purchased a brand new 40 horsepower Overland automobile to be delivered in April and will be able to bowl along our good roads next summer with the best of them. --- George Patterson, whose corn won first honors at the National Corn Exposition in Omaha, Nebraska a few weeks ago, has received his prize in the shape of eighty rods of wire fencing. --- (Terrorists then, too!) Members of the U. S. Senate showed more than ordinary interest in the report that a letter was received from a man declaring he intends to blow up the upper branch of Congress with nitroglycerin. --- While hunting Saturday Charles Banks lost one of his ferrets. It had gone into a hole in search of a rabbit, and upon emerging therefrom, one of the dogs thinking it was the rabbit, seized it on the part of the anatomy that lies just behind the ears, and shook it so violently that it soon expired. --- About a week ago while Andrew Arntson was eating a hearty supper and thinking about what he was going to do to the other fellow at the gymnasium later on, someone with malice aforethought sneaked into his backyard and appropriated several articles of clothing that were hanging on the line. Andrew, not knowing the offender, took his revenge on “the other fellow” at the gym. --- Robert McRitchie, one of the big and good natured farmers down in Owego country, was a caller at the Progress office last press day and left a couple simoleons to be deposited in our strong box. Mr. McRitchie located there eleven years ago and since then has made many improvements about his farm. He now has a good set of buildings on the banks of the Sheyenne River and is well content to make that his home for many years to come. He is also a firm believer in diversified farming and pays a good deal of attention to stock raising.

Horse Soldiers

When the Publishers Weekly says it’s the best book of 2009 and the New York Times says it’s a notable book of 2009, I get very tempted to find a copy to read. So it was with Horse Soldiers by Doug Stanton. As one might guess from the title that the story relates to a scenario taking place about a century and a half ago where the cavalry mounted a charge against Indians, but no, it features a small band of special forces who entered Afghanistan shortly after 9-11-2000. This country’s leadership, Rumsfeld in this case, demanded an immediate response to the attack and murder of U. S. citizens, and small groups of special forces were picked to secretly enter the hotbed of Taliban radicalism and engage the enemy.

Given such short notice the men picked to go resorted to scrounging around for equipment themselves to properly outfit them for this duty. They bought clothing and equipment from places like Wal-Mart, REI, LL Bean, etc. Military uniforms were not going to be worn. The book relates a hairy helicopter ride for several hours into the mouth of the action, and when they arrived and met the general in charge of the Northern Alliance army they received quite the surprise. He took them on a day long trip to his headquarters - on horseback. Of the half dozen Special Forces members who rode in the saddle only one of them had riding experience. One of them related as to how he bled in the saddle from saddle sores being rubbed raw.

There is a cavalry charge in the story. I wonder how long it will take Hollywood to make the movie? Apparently one is in the works.

I remember reading several years ago the novel Caravans by James Michener, a story centered in Afghanistan. One point that author made has stayed with me all these years. He said in all of world history no foreign conqueror has ever succeeded in subduing that country. They are unbeatable. I hope the U. S. has no long range plans in there. If Michener is right, our values can never be imposed on them.

Engine Troubles

I guess everyone knows by now we just came out of a big snowstorm. It dumped a bunch around here - 14 inches or so. The driveway plugged up pretty deep so I went out to start my trusty John Deere eight horse snowblower. The electric starter spun and spun but the cylinder wouldn’t fire. I’ve been telling people that the machine is ten or twelve years old and that I was so surprised it didn’t start since this was the first time it has failed me. Well, I was in for another surprise when I dug out the operator’s manual; the sales contract was still in that file and bore the date of September, 1989. The darn thing is twenty years old! Still, machines like that don’t accumulate many hours over the course of the years, so I figured nothing much could be wrong and intend for it to be the only snowblower I will ever own. The first thing I did was put in a new sparkplug (to the tune of $4.00), but nothing different happened, it still turned over but didn’t fire.

It was cold and getting late so I went out to do some shoveling so that one of the cars could be backed out. The new neighbor saw me and said he would blow it out (that’s what neighbors are for, he said), so the job got done. Of course, that evening here comes the snowplow and blocked in the driveway and piled up a huge drift in front of the mailboxes. Luckily the neighbor came to the rescue again. After thinking about what could be wrong I concluded something with the carburetor wasn’t right and suspected the float was sticking. Yesterday morning I took it apart, wiggled it up and down several times, put it back together, and sure enough, it fired and started.

Trouble with a sticky float came up once before in my life. I recalled the scene in the spring of 1971 at Ocean Lake in Wyoming where I’d visited a resort operated by a teacher in the school where I served as high school principal. He had gotten some new outboard motors for his fishing boats and wanted to take some of us out for a short cruise on a pontoon boat. Four of us stepped aboard and as he tried to start the engine we began drifting from shore. The wind came up and big white capped waves started forming. He pulled and pulled on the starter rope, but that engine just would not start. It started getting kind of dicey out there. A fisherman in a big boat tried to get close to pick us up from the pontoon, but he gave up when he could not safely close in. In my fishing tackle box I carried a small combination tool that included a small hammer head. I went back to the engine and tapped it on the carburetor a few times, after which the man pulled on the rope and met immediate success with the engine starting.

… … … … …

Sometimes we run into people who’ve gotten too big for their britches. In order for someone like that to get the proper perspective as to where he/she fits in, he/she should be referred to the following website: Youtube.com and type in “Known Universe.” This video will show them just how important they are in the whole scheme of things. There are a couple of options. The one I like best is labeled simply as “Known Universe.”

Merry Christmas - 2009

I recently watched a program on the History Channel that told of the Christmas truce that occurred spontaneously at the front lines between the British and German troops in World War I, 1914 to be exact. Commanders, aghast, on both sides watched through binoculars the mingling merriment the troops engaged in, and ordered that such a celebration would not happen again. In fact the next year artillery barrages were ordered on Christmas eve, furthermore troops were rotated in and out frequently to prevent fraternization.

The war was only about four months old, but the combatants had seen much death, were trapped in trenches and were cold, wet, and muddy. Snipers were always on alert for targets and the new invention of machine guns mowed men down in swaths. The area between the two lines earned the name “No Man’s Land” and bodies lay for days, even weeks, where they fell. To put it simply, the soldiers on both sides were sick of it, and some felt the other side should live and let live. The troops rose up to join in singing, exchanging simple gifts such as food and tobacco, and visiting with their opponents.

It would seem that without the urging of generals and politicians the war could have ended quickly and simply. Such was not the case. I ran across this story years ago in my readings of history and think it’s one of the best Christmas stories I know of and illustrates the desire for Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.

A Dream

Dear Friends,

I am writing this letter from Heaven.
As you might guess, Paradise is crowded.
The math gets tricky, but many billions
of people have died and made their way here.
You’d be surprised at some of the scoundrels
who call this home since everyone gauges
behavior in life by his own standards.

I noticed one thing as soon as I walked
in the pearly gate: huddled just outside,
a crestfallen group of Moslem terrorists
sat by a sign stating “Due to shortage
of virgins we no longer will honor
your coupons!” I hurried past their despair.

As I walked down the streets, just exploring,
I had to jump to the side and skinny
up to a stone wall because a cattle
herd bore down on me in a wild stampede.
Yes, their brands were still on fire and I felt
their hot breath as they ran on by. Sweat-soaked
cowboys galloped along trying to turn
that herd, but in spite of the unpleasant
task they wore smiles. I had entered the range
up in the sky, the objective they’d hoped
would be theirs someday. It was frustrating
to watch, but they seemed destined to ride
forever chasing those fool cows so I
turned away and walked toward the next corner
where another amazing sight appeared.

A desert oasis sits shimmering
like a mirage where camels and goats feed
on green grasses and drink from sweet water.
Figs picked from trees by lithesome Bedouin girls
sit on platters waiting to be carried
to the men sitting in the shade of tents.
The reader begins to doubt my story,
that my pen writes nothing but fantasy.
I ask you to believe, I have seen it.

But this is not my end destination,
and I need to keep exploring, looking
for the piece of Heaven I can call home ………..

* * *
(The foregoing poem in ten-syllable lines will be completed in much longer form, revised and improved for inclusion into my next volume of poems which I hope to publish in March.)

Late and Pokey

I’m slow getting my blog writing filed today. I’m involved getting another project finished and it took priority. There’s not much else going on in my life. I’ve had a sinus infection that seems to be improving with the penicillin prescription the doctor gave me. News gets boring, especially the escapades of Tiger Woods. I’ve always thought that just because a person is good at something whether it be in athletics, performing, public service, or what have you doesn’t mean he or she is a good person. If Tiger’s wife stays married to him I will be very surprised. The news item that most intrigued me this week was the sale of Cormac McCarthy’s typewriter, a sale that brought $254,500. Wow! It must have been gold plated and jewel encrusted. Nope. It is a beat up 50 year old Olivetti portable that he has used to write all of his published works. He estimated the typing of five million words on it. At the outset it was thought the machine might bring $15-20 thousand. Surprise, surprise.

McCarthy writes some pretty good stuff. I’ve read just the one book - All the Pretty Horses, but his No Country for Old Men recently played as a popular movie and his story The Road has been playing in movie theaters, too. Different people remarked that he would start working with a computer now. Nope. A friend of his picked up a duplicate used Olivetti portable and he intends to keep on typing away.

I can hang the handle wordsmith on McCarthy. I really enjoy reading works written by a language master like him. I just read a book titled Edward R. Murrow and the Birth of Broadcast Journalism. He and the people he hired were wordsmiths, too. World War II brought out the best in them. One of them proved to be a great practitioner of the language, North Dakota-born Eric Sevareid. The book authored by Bob Edwards of National Public Radio quotes Murrow when London was being bombed: “… that faint-red angry snap of antiaircraft bursts against the steel-blue sky…” I envy people who write well.

What Is Reality?

A mind, like a home, is furnished by its owner, so if one’s life is cold and bare he can blame none but himself. Louis L’Amour
. . . . . . .

There is a type of poem called a List Poem. It doesn’t require rhythm or rhyme, but the writer needs to say something such as “Think about this.” Here is my first attempt:

What is reality?
I’ve become confused!
I’m surrounded by
faux leather,
electric fireplaces,
imitation vanilla,
decaf coffee,
diet Coke,
lite beer,
nylon, rayon, Dacron,
plastic money,
avatars,
Splenda,
Astroturf,
fake ID’s,
counterfeit handbags,
knock-off watches,
soy milk,
artificial insemination,
politicians,
Wall Street bankers,
lawyers,
Rush Limbaugh,
@#%&#*!@.

Happy Thanksgiving Day!

I had a long day yesterday and am pretty tired this morning so I’ll just let Ole’s antics fill my blog today.

It's the day before Thanksgiving, and Sven the butcher is just locking up when Ole pounds on the door. "Please let me in," says Ole "I forgot to buy da turkey, and my vife Lena vill kill me if I don't come home wid vun."

"OK" says Sven butcher. "Let me see vat's left." He goes into the freezer and discovers that there's only one scrawny turkey left. He brings it out to show Ole.

"That vun's too skinny. Vhat else have yew got?" Ole asks.

Sven takes the bird back into the freezer and waits a few minutes, then brings the same turkey back out to Ole.

"Oh no," says Ole, "dat vun doesn't look any better. Yew better give me both of dem."
…..
Ole was quite an industrious turkey farmer and was always experimenting with breeding to perfect a better turkey.

Lena and the kids were fond of the leg portion for dinner and there were never enough legs for everyone. After many frustrating attempts, Ole was relating the results of his efforts to his friends at the general store get together. "Vell I finally did it! I bred a turkey vit 6 legs!"

They all asked Ole how it tasted.

"I Don't know" said Ole. "I never could catch the darn ting!"
…….
Ole and Lena were getting on in years. Ole was 92 and Lena was 89. They were sitting in their rocking chairs after a big Thanksgiving dinner. Ole reached over and patted Lena on her knee. "Lena, vat ever happened tew our sex relations?" he asked. "Vell, Ole, I yust don't know," replied Lena. "I don't tink ve even got a card from dem last Christmas."

Meetings

I attended two worthwhile presentations this past week. At the first event, held at the Heritage Center auditorium, we listened to Raymond Schroth who authored The American Journey of Eric Sevareid. Public TV cameras recorded his talk, and I suspect it made him a bit nervous as he seemed rather tight with his delivery. As soon as the cameras shut off, though, at the end of one hour time, he loosened up and got more interesting. I bought his book, had it autographed, and have been enjoying the excellently written biography of one of our state’s native sons. One thing that keeps coming out regarding Sevareid has to do with his high level of eloquence and insight into issues of the day.

The second event was held at Bismarck State College and was in the format of a “conversation” between the president of the college and Clay Jenkinson, our state’s historical scholar. The topic was “The History and Future of the Missouri River - The Damming of the Missouri River.” Quite young at the time - 1947-1953, I can remember only a little of the bustle surrounding the construction of the Garrison Dam which today backs up the large Lake Sakakawea, and I’ve always wanted to go back to learn more of this history. Sitting there for an hour and a half did not tell me everything there is to tell, but I found it worthwhile.

Something that doesn’t get much attention today was discussed: the negative impact of the dam’s construction and the displacement of old cultures. The best land on the Indian reservation was lost and communities were flooded over, including the town of Elbowoods. One displaced family drove their herd of cattle to a location they had found south of Raleigh.

Topics discussed dealt with aspects of recreation, irrigation, commercial traffic, etc. One point which gripes many people up here is the mismatched benefit comparing money generated on an annual basis for the shipping industry on the lower end - approximately ten million dollars and the recreation industry here that generates about fifty million dollars. The water here must be released to float the barges, and on a dry year that is giving up a precious commodity. Besides the significance of the barge traffic is minimal.

I’ll be looking forward to more meetings like the above two. I enjoy the input and mental stimulation

Veteran's Day today - A day set aside to honor all veterans. It is observed on November 11 each year, the significance of which marked the end of World War I on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918.
_ _ _ _ _ _

I ran across a verse form I hadn't known about before called Clerihews. The first line names a famous person, the second line rhymes with it plus two more lines that rhyme. Here are a few of mine:

A Collection of Clerihew Poems

George Washington
had no fear of comparison
he was the first
therefore no one could say “the worst”

Barack Obama
writes as a southpaw
and takes his stand on the left
leaving opponents’ sensibilities bereft

Adams and Jefferson
signed as Independence brethren
and strangely both happened to die
fifty years later on the Fourth of July

Michele Bachmann
self-appointed constitutional watchman
can’t seem to get things right
but likes finding people to incite

Santa Claus
some say never was -
but who else owns the ability
to make the store shelves empty

Abraham Lincoln
often sat there thinking’
we’ve got to move in unison
if we’re going to preserve the Union

John McCain
ran a poor campaign
when he chose Sarah Palin,
a major failin’

Albert Einstein
worked to define
his theory of relativity
with mathematical ingenuity

Thomas Jefferson
made sure to mention
that all men were created equal,
but his owning slaves proved it's just verbal

Ernest Hemingway
short of his 62nd birthday
took a loaded shotgun
and blew himself to oblivion
_ _ _
Hello to Marilyn, a faithful reader of this blog who resides at the Parkside Home in Lisbon. Have a nice day!

Roamin' Around the Internet

Each day I take the time to wander around “Bookmarked” section of my computer. The first stop is the Fargo Forum site to look at the obituary section where I look for acquaintances’ names for both North Dakota and Minnesota. Here in Mandan we only get the death notices of North Dakotans and often that is posted two or three days late. The next website is the New York Times where they have an open door to look at all their sections. Yesterday I spotted an especially interesting video posted there: The Man Who Opened the Gate. It featured the person who was in charge of the border guard in East Germany just before the wall came down. Officials in that country knew the time had arrived to allow access to West Germany, but orders to subordinates were sketchy or non-existent which left them free to make their own decisions. As people began climbing over the wall he had the power to order his guards to shoot, but his conscience would not let him do it. Consequently, the dam broke and thousands crossed over. I called Mary in to look at it since I thought it so interesting.

Of course, I need to check out YouTube, Betty Lou’s Guitar Site, Poetry Foundations, Montana Radio Café, Last.fm, Pandora Radio,
Reflections on Tom McGrath’s Letter to an Imaginary Friend, EBay, etc. etc. The three radio stations I’ve bookmarked get a lot of play. On a couple of them I pick my style of music, and no ads interfere.

There is so much on the internet, I’m finding I need to restrict myself. Otherwise, I could sit here all day looking at things. Bing.com gives me another way to roam without using Google all the time. It seems to bring up a different variety of responses compared to Google, but both are good.

What I really need to do is quit looking at the internet, open up my word processor, and just write my thing, but variety seems to spice it up.

Sophistry

For reasons unknown to me
the word sophistry keeps running
through this old word warrior’s head
today. Dad always used to say
You’re shootin’ your mouth off
if I argued with him without knowing
what I was talking about. You want
to see sophistry in action? Walk
into a saloon around five o’clock
in the afternoon when men line
the bar like blackbirds on telephone
wire and start talking politics. You
soon discover the absence of facts
never gets in the way of a good
argument. Potemkin sure fooled
Catherine the Great when he built
villages with hollow buildings to make
her think things were going well
in the realm. That reminds me
of the galvanic bloviators in the media
who sway folks with their hollow
reasoning. They open their mouths
and start chattering, but maybe
it’s no different than being a poet
who doesn’t know what will flow
from the tip of his pen.

Repressed Memories

I wish we could have had a little warmer October, but things haven’t worked out that way. I remember some years where it has been hot and others where we have had quite a little snow. One result from the early hard frost is that we lost our fall colors, in fact, we never had any since they went right from green to dry brown and blowing away in a couple windy days.

I am a faithful reader of several news magazines: Time, Newsweek, and The Nation. Yesterday’s Newsweek carried a short book review that I related to. The headline read “The Luxury of Memory,” with the article discussing the book Enemies of the People. Kati Marton, born and raised Hungarian, was the daughter of AP and UPI correspondents who wrote freely about the shortcomings of the communist regime ruling that country. As the girl grew older she’d ask her parents about their work and what they knew, but they’d wave her off saying, “You cannot ever understand” and consequently told her very little. After the death of her parents, however, she researched and discovered who her parents were, how imperiled they were, and how they thought thinking about the past was an American luxury. They did not want to look back. Most people have encountered how little war veterans will tell you of their war experiences. Dad tells of one veteran who while very drunk told him of throwing explosives into a German bunker and hearing the sounds of the wounded dying soldiers. When sober I don't think he ever told these stories.

My Grandma Bueling as a girl the age of eleven came with her family from the Ukraine in the midst of the mass migration of Germans from Russia. Since she was very stoic we never learned much of her life there, but the stories she did tell spoke of their hardship of life. This one is indelibly printed in my mind: she had to herd cows in the cold and wore no shoes. To warm her feet she’d stand in the warm piles of manure the cows pooped out. We knew there was much else she did not want to remember. My wife has learned tales of her German-Russian relatives and some of the horrific incidents they experienced. This far removed from that time, she has a felt need to not resurrect those memories for public consumption. I know because I wanted to make reference to one of the stories and was censored. The psychological term for this, I believe, is repressed memory. Some things should not be remembered. In my life I have experienced something horrific; it is not something I talk about (with anyone).

The Days Are Full

I attended an interesting “Conversation” moderated by Clay Jenkinson and BSC president Larry Skogen at Bismarck State College on Sunday. The topic was “The Poetry of ‘No Man Is an Island,’” dealing with works written by John Donne in the 17th century. This one of Donne’s quotations is most familiar to us, “No man is an island, entire of itself… any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” It seems as if back in those days whenever someone died church bells would ring to announce the event. Donne was a preacher who was always trying to prepare people for death and the saving of their souls, thus when it tolls for a death, it is also associated with your needing to get prepared.

Ernest Hemingway obviously liked the quote when he used part of it for one of his novels For Whom the Bell Tolls. For some reason all this literary talk reminded me of a short story I had read in high school English class. I could not think of the title or the author, so I had to do quite a bit of searching on the internet to come up with it. The story was “The Bet” by Anton Chekov; it’s on the internet, not long, and within a few minutes I had reread it. My memory had failed though. The ending wasn’t quite as I remembered it, but it’s still a great story. At the beginning a bet was made between two gentlemen that the one couldn’t stay voluntarily imprisoned for fifteen years, but if he did, the other would pay two million dollars. Well, the years passed by and the man never came out of his prison. The money-man began to worry greatly for if he had to pay off the bet it would bankrupt him. The only thing for him to do was to murder the prisoner. Over the years the prisoner had read all the world’s great literature and had come to the conclusion he wanted no part of materialism or money so a few minutes before the deadline he walked out of his cell.

On Thursday Mary flies off to Minneapolis to act the part of a grandma and I’m off to Dickinson for a symposium at the college. It’s the Theodore Roosevelt meeting. This year’s topic: Family Man in the Arena. Any reader of this can find lots of information at this website: theodorerooseveltcenter.com. By clicking on “Video Clips” in the Media box most of the talks and lectures can be viewed in the archive.

Old News

Yesterday I drove over to the capitol grounds to do some reading in the heritage center where there are on file hundreds of microfilms of old state newspapers. I think it’s fun to read through my old hometown paper and this time chose the century old 1909 volume of The Sheldon Progress. The writers wrote with flowery terms such as in the article about twin colts being born at the Creswell farm. “One survived only a few hours while the other one lived for several days when it followed its mate to the equine’s paradise.” I’ve known baseball was important during this period: “A little comedy on the great national game was perpetrated when the Enderlin high school team came over for a little practice session. The Sheldon team has had no practice whatever and can therefore be excused for the rotten exhibition it put up. About seven innings were played when by mutual consent the game ended, Enderlin at that time having secured twelve runs and Sheldon a fine, fat goose egg.”

Politically correct language was not in use yet, and minority groups were often the butt of slang expressions: “One coon cut another at Minot making a gash to close which surgeons took twenty-one stitches.”

One week a business advertised twine made at the state penitentiary, then a couple weeks later this item appeared: “A man named Bacon got a team from Farmer Lakin of McLean County with the understanding that he would work in the Ward County harvest fields awhile and divide the proceeds. He sold the team and skipped. He was recently captured in Minnesota and may develop into an expert twine maker.”

The following item shows vigilante justice was favored: “A number of Enderlin’s valuable dogs have recently gone to the dog heaven via the poison route. The bereaved owners are showing considerable feeling over the affair and threaten to make a present of a coat of tar and feathers to the poison artist if he is discovered.” This story wasn’t over yet. A few weeks later I read: “Bey Shafer autoed over to Enderlin on Sunday afternoon and took his two dogs along. When he returned he had but one dog, the other having died on the way home. While in the Soo Line town the dead dog evidently made a meal on some of the poison which an enterprising Enderlinite, as yet unknown, has been spreading broadcast over that village and which has already been the means of removing some thousand dollar’s worth of dogs from this dust blown sphere to the canine happy hunting grounds. Bey says the tragedy has not impaired his appetite or wrung his heart strings to any great extent, as the departed animal had been given away several times during his lifetime and always came back. This time he’s confident he won’t come back.”

The issue dated October 8, 1909 carried this headline: “Orville reaches unprecedented height of over 1600 feet - Ascends for fifteen minutes - Aviator descents in five minutes at a simply terrifying speed.”

More 10-8-09 items: “Owego - Albert Anderson is now handling the mail on route no. 2 and dishing out the pretty post cards to the rural dwellers.” “White Sox manager tolerates no loafing on bases - speed big factor in winning game.” “Peru is sending its president’s son to learn scientific farming in Wisconsin, though llama raising is but indifferently taught here.”

Whenever I want a change of pace I can go back to the heritage library and find lots of amusing entertainment. Times were different then, except I found one striking article that seems to translate to today’s concern for any changes or advancements: “The charge is made that the phonograph and the automatic piano are lowering public taste. That is one way of looking at the situation. These new inventions are taking music into homes where it never was before and never would be but for them. They are doing for music what the invention of printing did for the art of reading. There is still literature - and some of the beautiful creations in lit. come from those who under old conditions would never have learned to read. There may be hope for music.”