It's already June!

Twenty, maybe twenty-five years ago, I procured a short book that I recognized for its rarety.  I am glad I did because it is full of great stories about this area we now live in.  The title - Paha Sapa Tawoyake - is pretty meaningless to anyone who doesn't speak "Indian."  I don't either, but I recognized its author, William V. Wade, as an old-timer who experienced many adventures here while this was still frontier.

In Wade's own words the book was "Written in 1926 at the Anchor Ranch, Cannonball River."   Born in 1851 in Plymouth, Massachusetts, he made his way west to St. Cloud, Minnesota 1n 1870 and ended up freighting with oxen for a time and made his way to Fort Rice, about twenty miles south of here.  He got to know the historical characters we read about in the myths and legends and told stories about them.

One story he was about Nigger Tom at Fort Peck who was quite a good hunter, went off one day to bring back game by himself, and was accosted by ten Indians led by Sitting Bull.  Tom thought they had good intentions, but Sitting Bull said the sun was in his eyes and wanted the nice hat Tom wore.  Another said he wanted his shirt, and so on.  He was soon stripped of his clothes, and then the Indians brought out some paints and decorated his entire body with pictures and signs.  After an exhaustive run back, he rested before he was able to tell the men at the fort why he came back as a painted up nude.

Another story related as how Custer, when he came to the area, brought a pack of hunting hounds with him that succeeded in driving off all the wild game in the area so that the locals couldn't hunt anymore, so they shot two of the dogs that were caught away from Custer one day while they were chasing a deer.  Custer got very upset about that but could never determine who did the deed.

He told how he and  another's horses ran off from them when they were 50 miles from anywhere, their powder got wet, and they only had a shot apiece in their rifles with which they did shoot one scrawny deer - which did not last long.  One of them caught a mouse which made the other aghast, "You're not going to eat that?"  No, but they used it for bait and caught catfish with it.

In 1876 in Bismarck he watched a man who had arrived from the east and was dressed up in finery including a top hat.  As he walked down the street the saloons had emptied so the men could watch a dog fight.  Most of them wore pistols and one of them wise-cracked, "Shoot the hat, boys."  This didn't scare the slicker who took off his hat, set it on the ground and said, "Try your luck, my friends."  That's just what they did, and after the shooting stopped a number of holes could be seen ventilating the hat.  Afterwards he bought them drinks and told them how he would wear it back east and tell them of the good time he had in Bismarck.

Great stories.  These guys lived much differently than we do.

Spelling

I've always considered myself a good speller, so I enjoyed keeping tabs on the just completed national spelling bee.  Especially fetching was the little six year old girl who did get eliminated but just making it there was spectacular in itself, let along making it through a couple of rounds.  What is there in some brains that lets some excel at such young age, or at any age, for that matter?
 

I lifted a book from my shelf that I've owned for awhile - Man's Unconquerable Mind by Gilbert Highet - which contains a passage that is appropriate to this:
"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."

HBO Movie

Sunday evening we watched a good movie on HBO: Hemingway & Gellhorn.  Ernest Hemingway had four wives, Gellhorn was his third.  She became quite an accomplished war correspondent, first learning her trade in the Spanish Civil War of the 1930's.  Neither she nor Hemingway could stay married for long, so this union ended in divorce, too.

The compassion she showed to the down trodden in society attracts me to her story.  In the introduction of her biography (which I found in the library) it was written she did not like leaders like Nixon, Kissinger, and Mrs. Thatcher saying of them that they "led the innocent into chaos and the dark night, stupidity and arrogance."

She could find plenty to write about these days.  But back to the Spanish Civil War.  It drew world attention in the years prior to the beginning of World War II and many youth were attracted to the country to join the fight.  Franco led an insurrection against the established government or Republicans and gained support from Hitler and the Nazis who sent planes and tanks that overpowered their opposition.  Hemingway went to Spain to support the Republicans and Gellhorn made her way there, too.

With Franco's victory he went on to be dictator of Spain for forty years.  The supporters who hadn't been killed in the battles melted away and went on to other things.  Hemingway wrote a great book, For Whom the Bell Tolls, about this war, married a fourth time, drank lots of alcohol, and killed himself with a shotgun in Idaho.  Gellhorn wrote for many more years, and, finally, at the age of 89, because she'd gone blind, killed herself with sleeping pills.

In Medora

So I sez to Mary, "Let's go to Medora Saturday."  She sez, "OK."  Then I add, "It's the cowboy poetry gathering, remember?"  Since she stopped me from performing on that stage, I hadn't mentioned it for a couple of years.  I maintain she never thought I was good enough and that I embarrassed her.  She has told me if I want to go on stage, she isn't going to be there.  Anyway, we arrive in Medora and I walk into the hall and the first person I see is Bill Lowman, the mover and shaker who makes the gathering happen.  He sez right off, "You're gonna get up there, aren't you?"  "Well, no, the wife doesn't think I'm good enough."  So he tells me this story about a well-known and quite accomplished poet and singer, Ken Overcast, who got up one time with a presentation that really embarrassed his wife, but one that the audience thought was great.  Since his success made little difference to her, she said she almost walked out of the auditorium.  Well, the way I look at it, another year is coming.

Medora is always a great day trip for us with the Western Edge Book Store usually being the first stop.  We've gotten to know Doug and Mary Ellison and always have enjoyable conversation with them.  Plus I bought a book on Major Marcus Reno, the figure around whom the Sheldonite J. T. Hickey worked up to and including the Battle of the Little Big Horn.  Mary found an old picture of Flasher, ND that she bought.

Since I'm hold a membership in the ND Cowboy Hall of Fame and am entitled to free admission, I wanted to take advantage of that and tour through again.  That is where the picture of my Uncle Russell's chair was taken, something his family donated to the Hall after Russell passed away.  And, I almost fell over when I looked into a conference room off the office area and saw two of my old wagon works that have made there way into the Hall as part of an old pioneer village and was told they will be part of a permanent exhibit.  Mary cautioned me right away about getting a big head, but I told her, after all, that puts me in the hall of fame. (although not having been voted in like the legitimate members are.)

Of course, we can't go to Medora without eating in the Cowboy Cafe, an establishment with its woodwork branded by cattle brands from the area and pictures hanging everywhere of old time cowboys who lived around there.

Participants in the show in the auditorium ranged from poor to outstanding, and I'm at least as good as the poor ones.  Whatever, the afternoon show is free and a large crowd sat in.  It's pretty handy for church-going Catholics because immediately after the last song and poetry session all one has to do is walk into the theater in the same building where mass is held in the summer months.

It was a good day, and I'll be ready to go back soon.  One thing about Medora though is that they have two standards for sexual discrimination.  In one place I saw this sign hanging: Gentlemen - no shoes, no shirt, no service.  Ladies - no shoes, no shirt, free drinks.

School's Out

There was this teacher who was disappointed with his students because they were so incredibly lazy.  He told them, "I wouldn't be surprised if 50% of you flunk math."  Little Ole put up his hand, "But teacher, dere ain't dat many in dis class."

...

Heaven forbid, but an article in today's Bismarck Tribune stated that North Dakota may have a population of one million people before long, up from two-thirds of a million now. This is because the daily production of oil may hit one million barrels a day, and may in fact overtake or at least equal Texas's output.  In order to produce that much it will take that many more people.  This possibility is being cheered by the talking heads who make the front pages and the evening news. But another 300,000 people!?!

The western part of the state used to beckon as a relief valve to get away and see open landscape without any people to get in view.  What will happen to all of the wildlife and the clean air?  Instead of looking out over the Badlands landscape and seeing beauty, oil wells will show up, too.

I suppose it is all for the greater good.  This way all the extra oil we produce will keep the country going for a while longer so that we don't have to develop alternative energy sources.
...
Ole and Lena went to the hospital so Lena could give birth to their first baby.  As Ole waited in the lobby, the doctor came out to inform him that he had some good news and some bad news.  "The good news is that you have a normal baby boy.  The bad news is that it is a Caesarian."

Ole started crying, "Vell, I'm glad it is a healthy baby, but I vas kinda hopin' it would be a Swede."

Point of View

I don't quite know what to make of the oil boom we are experiencing.  There is a lot of excitement and lots of money being made.  In Bismarck the community leaders speak giddily about the Williston Basin Petroleum Conference being held there this week.  The Civic Center is awash in oilmen.  Four thousand registrants are expected from over 40 states plus an assortment of foreign countries.  That means restaurants, rental cars, hotels, and bars are hauling in money from these high-flyers.  Speaking of high-flyers, the airport expects to be filled with private company planes, too.

Here's where an opportunist cashes in.  My favorite old watchdog at northdecoder.com reported that Governor Dalrymple will hold his hand out for contributions.  He quoted a Fargo Forum article: Louisiana Governor Bobby Jindal will be helping North Dakota Governor Jack Dalrymple raise money for his re-election race.  Dalrymple's campaign has scheduled a dinner with Jindal in Bismarck on May 21. 

Like northdecoder says, Dalrymple is having a party and you're not invited. Our state's administration seems to be very cozy with the oil industry.  One can only hope that the relationships are uncorrupt and high-principled.

Ghost Towns

An interesting website I visit occasionally is ghostsofnorthdakota.com.  Two young men from Fargo run it, quite ambitiously.  They drive all over the state finding little "used-to-be's" and photograph them and write a bit of narrative.  The list of place names they've visited keeps growing; a few of them I recognize and have visited.  They have not included the one above, but it maybe could be some day.  It is the bar in Nome, ND.  My hometown of Sheldon has not been included yet, but it probably fits their definition of a ghost town and might be included in the future.

I think of all the businesses that existed in Sheldon when I was a little boy, and when I go to the Heritage Center and read old newspapers, I find many more businesses that operated.  On Saturday night the street used to fill with cars, diagonally on the business side and parallel on the opposite.  Then if something special was going on, side streets held the overflow.  On Friday night we attended a high school graduation reception in Flasher.  The business district is filled with buildings on both sides of the street, most of them empty.  At one time it thrived as a market for its trade area.  The reception was held in an old hotel that surprised me as still being viable.  It was old when Mary and I married almost 38 years ago.  My parents and a few others stayed overnight in its rooms, but nos it still rents rooms to guests.  Insert the word "venerable" somewhere in here. 

Bismarck-Mandan thrive, actually bustle, in a boomtown atmosphere.  Home builders say they cannot keep up with demand.  Cities like Dickinson, Williston, Watford City, and others boom in relation to the development of the oil patch.  How long?  I probably won't see the end of it, but I can't help but think that some of the towns listed in the "ghosts of North Dakota" were boomtowns, too.

Writing an Opening Scene

 Following is the opening scene from a short story I am writing:

     A man holding an arm across his face leaned into the wind and struggled to walk across the parade ground.  The blinding dust storm darkened the sky and caused him to trip over something that moved and groaned when his toe jabbed it.  Private Eassom, the doctor's assistant, with nowhere else to go, lay there on the ground waiting for the wind to die.  He shouted above the wind, "Hey, what the hell!  Oh, I'm sorry Captain Crossman, sir, I didn't know who..."

     "As you were, Eassom, I'm trying to find my way to the hospital tent and can't see a thing!"

     "Sir, the tent blew down, stakes and all, and them burnt Indians is all inside underneath the canvas.  We can't get at 'em til the wind dies down.  They're right over there."

     Crossman crouched low and fought his way forward the next few feet and, more by feeling than seeing, found the rumpled mass of canvas and heard moans and screams coming from under it.  These people needed help, but he felt helpless knowing nothing could be done until the wind stopped and the tent was set upright again.  He searched the canvas with his hands until he found a loose door flap and lifted it to peer inside.  The only thing he saw in the opening was a girl, lying motionless, who no longer could feel pain.

...   ...   ...   ...   ...   ...

In 1867 the installation of Fort Ransom had been authorized and work had just started when a huge prairie fire swept across the prairie.  A band of Indians, encamped there to trade with the fort trader, suffered the worst of it when twenty of them burned to death in the fire.  It so happened that after the fire passed by, a strong straight-line wind buffeted the area for several hours, thus the setting the the story.

Visitors

Visitors from Sweden, Ann-Marie and Lars E,  have been with us for the last two days.  The picture shows them at the Double Ditch Indian Village a few miles north of Bismarck.  The double ditch is a misnomer, because in reality, there were four ditches used as defenses against attacks.  This morning they are on their way  to Sheldon.  We have enjoyed having them as guests in our home.

Not with Custer

     We visited the Sheldon Cemetery yesterday to decorate my dad's grave.  I took some time to wander among the tombstones with a goal in mind of finding the marker for John T. Hickey.  Without too much trouble I found it beneath a fir tree that had displaced and moved the marker as it grew to maturity.  Why be interested in this man?  This obituary from the April 12, 1923 Sheldon Progress explains it (Several portions of it deleted). . .

J. T. Hickey, Reno's Freighter Died Suddenly Last Friday

(First two paragraphs not included)

     Deceased was one of the old timers in the state, coming to Dakota Territory fifty-two years ago at the age of seventeen.  Coming from the east, he was out for adventures and in 1871 entered the employment of the government and freighted with ox teams between Winnipeg, Fargo and Fort Abercrombie.  He was a freighter with Major Reno's command at the time of the Custer massacre and often related with much vividness the stirring times of encounters with the savage Indian tribes that roamed over the state.  He passed through this section when scarcely any settlers were here, with the train of government supplies from Fort Abercrombie, to Ft. Ransom, and then on to Fort Lincoln where the troops were quartered.

John T. Hickey was born at Baltimore, Md, November 27, 1854, and died April 6, 1923, being near his seventieth year of age.  When seven years of age he moved with his family to St. Louis, Mo.  He learned the printers trade, but on coming west in 1871 did not follow this vocation. . . . 
...
In 1909 he purchased the Sheldon livery barn which he operated and also engaged in the livery business at Enderlin.

. . .     . . .      . . .      . . . 


     When Custer approached the scene of his demise he decided to divide his soldiers into a three prong attack on the Indian village.  He did not know enough about the size of the camp or the lay of the land when he sent a third of the men under the command of Captain Benteen to attack one sector and another third under the command of Major Marcus Reno to strike another part.  Custer was annihilated, but Benteen and Reno's command survived albeit with lots of casualties.  What Hickey experienced at the battle is unknown, but it will make rich fodder for an exciting piece of historical fiction.  Stay tuned!

     Freighters accompanied the soldiers in the field to haul supplies for them as well as grain for the horses.  Hickey was somewhere in the mix in this battle.

True Grit

My favorite young lady in all of literature is Mattie Ross, the spunky girl around whom the story of True Grit swirls.  She tells the story from the viewpoint of an old lady looking back on the murder of her father and and how she managed to convince Rooster Cogburn to help her settle the score and bring the killer to justice.  I just re-read the book and could not help but see John Wayne's face all over the pages.  I wonder if ever the role of a fictional character has been better matched to an actor.  Jeff Bridges did a good job in the remake, but it still belongs to John Wayne.  I can still see him putting the reins of his horse in his mouth, holding a pistol in each hand and spurring his horse forward while saying, "Fill your hands you son-of-bitch!"

Mattie Ross tells the story with a strong  Old Testament morality (eye for an eye) and makes it clear to Rooster she does not approve of his besotted ways.  I love the line she speaks when she berates him for being drunk, "I would not put a thief in my mouth to steal my brains."   Great stuff!

A little horsetrader she became after her father died and left some horses he had bought.  She claimed one horse from the string, Little Blackie, that became her savior  when Rooster swept up her rattlesnake poisoned body and rode the pony to its death while on the way to a doctor.   I wish all books were as satisfying as this one.
. . . . . .

The Center Cannot Hold

The Second Coming   by W. B. Yeats (first part)

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. . . .


W. B. Yeats wrote his poem The Second Coming while most of the world was trying to fit all the pieces together again after World War I, but legitimate leaders met obstacles and social troubles loomed ahead to grip the governments and institutions in a vise for many years.  Yeats expressed concern while watching extremists on both the left and the right gain footholds with people grown weary and impatient in their post-war lives.  The histories of Germany, Italy, and Russia during this period between the two world wars attests to that.

Now, on another scale and another time, look at today's political climate.  I took a journalism class or two in in my college days, and in them the theory professed that when reporting news stick to the facts; if you want to state your opinion, call it an editorial and put it on a different page.  Cable networks have grown notoriously guilty of opinion disguised as fact and people on the fringes repeat and are influenced by the jingoism and sloganeering they hear; some act as if it has substance..

For the most part, I quietly sit in the center of political thought and often wonder who represents me saying, "These are the times that try men's souls.  The summer soldier and sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of men and women."

In World War I, my grandfather fought in the 362nd Infantry Regiment of the 91st "Wild West" Division.  On September 26, 1918 the entrenched U. S. troops received the order to go "over the top." Grandpa's regiment performed admirably while taking heavy casualties.  They reached and took their objective, the town of Epinonville, only to be ordered to withdraw.  Why?  Because the regiments on either side of them had not kept pace and left the 362nd's flanks exposed.  They had given up 50% of their unit in casualties, only to be told to retreat.

It seems to me in today's world the flanks are not keeping up to the center.  Instead they slow up or impede it from moving forward.

Hard Copy for Me

 

Weekends bring some good TV on C-Span2's "Book TV."  Yesterday Tom Brokaw sat in for a question and answer session with call-in listeners.  One of the them asked him to respond with his feelings about e-readers compared to hard copy.  I thought, "Right on, Tom," when he said there are times he wants to go back to lift a book off his shelf and look something up, re-read something he remembers from reading before, or just browse through the pages.  

The e-reader's not well suited for that kind of reading.  At least, it isn't to my estimation.  I possess a Nook Book, given by Santa Claus a couple of Christmases ago.  It saw some use when I first received it, but now it collects dust.  I like collecting and reading from my library of hard copies that reflects my tastes and interests.  I like the heft of them, their smell,  physically turning the pages, writing notes in the margins, the joy of finding another to add to my collection.

I know this is a generational thing and a strong current of support is building for the e-readers in the schools.  Tremendous gains are being shown by students using this technology, and people of my age are the dinosaurs.  Still, can the accumulated knowledge of the ages be secure in digitized form?  We hear of information becoming corrupted or lost from hard drive failure, virus infection, power surges, stupid mistakes, etc.  Thank you, but my allegiance will remain with the printed word.  All I need do is grab and haul my books out of the house in case of fire or anchor them down if a tornado wants to suck them through a hole it made in the roof.

Now, I'm about ready to click the publish button on the blogger program that I am manipulating on this little laptop computer.  (Speaking out of two sides of my mouth? Maybe.)
...

Talkin' Cowboy

I looked on the bottom of this cowboy and see that I carved it way back in '91.  I used to turn out lots of this stuff but now haven't picked up a carving knife or chisel for about four years, maybe more.   I guess I have gotten too old!

. . .
I have a lot of books on my shelves that need reading.  They've been piling up; whenever I go to a used book sale I always end up with more of them.  So on Wednesday I finally picked up The Shootist by Glendon Swarthout. This story came out in print in 1975, and only a year later as a movie.  I remember liking the movie very much but had forgotten a lot of the story line.

The term "shootist" always seemed contrived to me.  Why not call him a gunfighter like they do now.  It is correctly used, however, because in the nineteenth century that was the terminology.  John Wayne played the part of the shootist, an aging man with prostate cancer.  He came into town to see a doctor played by Jimmy Stewart.  He found a room in a boarding house, but the woman running it did not want him there.  But money talked, and she finally accepted him.

The shootist had a bad reputation, and in the year of 1901 found himself to be the last of his breed.  And when word got around that he was in town, several wannabee bad guys wanted the distinction of gunning him down.  I picked that book up around noon and had read through it by 8:00 that evening.  It read fast, easy, and very interesting.

It so happened last year at the Western Writers convention in Bismarck that the author's son was in attendance and made a presentation one evening about the making of the movie.  I bought a DVD of the movie from him but haven't watched it yet.  I'm all primed to watch it now!

Careful is...

A friend of mine sent an Ole and Lena joke that fits with the theme of nakedness.  A woman, stark naked, jumped into a taxi in Minneapolis, Minnesota.  The taxi driver, Ole, who happened to be an old Norwegian man, opened his eyes wide and stared at the woman.  He made no attempt to start the cab.  She said to him, "What's wrong with you, honey?  Haven't you seen a naked woman before?" . . .  Ole said, "I'm not staring at you, lady, I am telling you, dat vould not be proper vair I come from." . . .  She said, "Well, if you're not staring at my body, sweetie, what are you doing then?" . . . Ole replied, "Vell, I am looking and I'm looking, and I am tinking to myself, vair in da heck is dis lady keeping da money to pay for dis ride?"

. . . . . . 

The same friend sent some groaners - How does Moses make his tea?  He brews it. . . I stayed up all night to see where the sun went.  Then it dawned on me. . . I didn't like my beard at first, then it grew on me. . . Did you hear about the cross-eyed teacher who lost her job because she couldn't control her pupils? . . . When you get a  bladder infection urine trouble. . . England has no kidney bank, but it does have a Liverpool. . . Velcro, what a rip-off. . . Venison for dinner again? Oh, deer.

. . . . . . 

It should be obvious nothing much is going on in my world.  I just keep on reading, writing, and teasing the wife.  The darn grass started growing, so I'll have to start up a lawn mower pretty soon.  That reminds me of the poem I wrote:

It was time to mow the grass.
Gallon and a half of gas
cost me over six green bills,
think I'll put goats on these hills,
milk the nannies, make cheese
and smell that odor on the breeze.
Spurge spreads in pastures and everything,
so when the goats beget offspring,
I'll rent 'em to the highest bid
so they can eat and get rid
of that grass chokin' weed.
Hope I don't create a stampede
of goat-hungry folks to my door
asking, "When will you get more?"
I'll set up and register a brand,
operate with supply and demand,
sit back, and salivate with greed
since I've created such a need
that the money would start rollin' in.
Now here's where the dream will end.
Wife'll say, "We've got cash, mow again!"

Countryside

t

I found another book relating the story of a man not ready or even willing to take the step from an old style of life into a modern one: The Good Old Boys by Elmer Kelton.  He is such a good writer of the old cowboy way of life and the old grizzled characters who inhabited that way of life.  The word "farmer" can be substituted, too.

Monte Walsh by Jack Schaefer tells the same tale.  Two good buddies go their separate ways when one steps into the business world, becomes a banker, and is elected to public office.  Monte Walsh can't bear to leave his old world behind, and even refuses to ride in a newfangled car.

In an early memory of mine, a man still comes walking across the section and into our pasture on a cold winter day, partially disappearing in blowing wisps of snow, then reappearing again.  He was an old cowboy-type who worked around the community awhile.  Whatever the agreement Art Hansen had with A. C. Weig, he was breaking it, probably starved out or froze out, maybe both.  At any rate, he took off walking across country to our place and mooched a warm supper and a warm place to sleep that night.  Of course, that didn't sit too well with my mother, and she got Dad to take him into town next day, after a good breakfast, I'd imagine.  When gone, he had left a .22 lever action rifle.  I don't remember the circumstances of why, but it got put up high in our basement where I couldn't reach it.  At least I couldn't be stopped from standing there looking longingly at it.  Eventually the rifle got reunited with its owner, and I believe the man drifted on out to the western part of the state, according to Dad.  Not long ago, my mother said of Dad, "He could talk to anybody."  And I imagine he enjoyed having the drifter for company.

In The Good Old Boys, Kelton has his main character thinking to himself after he couldn't remember the name of a failed homesteader, "Sad, how quickly a man's name got lost.  It was hard to make a big enough track that your name was long remembered."  I remember talking to my wife about that very topic a couple of weeks ago and said to her, "At least when I Google my name, some information comes up on the internet."  But there's always an engraved tombstone, too.  I wonder if Art Hansen has one.

Birdhouses, etc

For the last several years we have been seeing turkey vultures.  They're big, ugly, and I hope I never see one circling lazily over my head waiting for me to take my last breath like in the old western movies.  The experts suggested using a scarecrow type of deterrent which seems to work, i. e. they take a taxidermy mount of a vulture and hang it upside down on places they've been roosting.  Besides dropping big splats of yuck, they are a potential hazard to flying airplanes.

Recently, that very thing has happened when a couple of planes struck birds and made emergency landings to check the damage.  And, a couple years ago, a flock of birds ingested into the engines of the plane piloted by Capt. Sullenberger caused him to set his airliner down in the river.  How to ease the problem?  One thing they are saying is not to build garbage dumps near the airports.  The birds like to hang around and scavenge.  Common sense.

I just received "The Sun" magazine which this month talks about garbage. A favorite writer of mine, Wendell Berry, wrote an article titled "Waste" in this issue.  Berry has earned a reputation of being an outspoken environmentalist and makes strong arguments for his case.  Here he talked of watching  huge amounts of garbage floating down the river near his Kentucky farm home as well as seeing daily fifty to sixty truckloads of garbage from large cities being hauled into the landfill located in his county.  He says much of our waste problem is caused by the "intentional flimsiness and unrepairability of the labor saving devices and gadgets that we have become addicted to."

I won't go into any more of his argument, but he makes a good point.  The same magazine posted a couple of good quotes regarding garbage.  Lily Tomlin said, "I bought a wastepaper basket and carried it home in a paper bag.  And when I got home I put the paper bag in the wastepaper basket."  Another person was quoted, "Throw a few chairmen of the board in jail for polluting the air and water, and you'll see pollution disappear quite rapidly. . . . You would also see some pretty drastic prison reforms."

Angels Unawares

As I wandered around outside one day with camera in hand, I remembered a Bible verse that talked about "angels unawares."  After cranking up friend "Google," it whispered in my ear that, indeed, Hebrews 13:2 said in the King James Version, "Be not for forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares."   I will still be very leery about that one, though, given the large number of people who are packing pistols nowadays.  If they are angels, I want them to identify themselves.
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The Bismarck Tribune sent me another book to review: Trip of the Tongue: Cross-Country Travels in Search of America's Languages.  Having just received it yesterday, I can't say much about its worth, but in glancing at the index a few of the chapters interest me.  The one named "North Dakota:Norwegians" should be a good one.  The author attended the Hostfest in Minot to report on her findings there.

Another chapter, "Nevada: Basque" reminds me of the time in Elko we went uptown from our motel to eat Basque food at the Star Hotel.  It was quite the experience; as soon as we sat down a waitress brought us a bowl of soup and an plate of appetizers, and this was before we even looked at a menu.  It was good.  I'll have to read and see what the chapter is really about.

Other chapters are New York City: American;  Montana: Crow;  Arizona: Navajo; Washington: Lushootseed, Quileute, Makah;   Louisiana: French and Louisiana Creole;  South Carolina: Gullah;  Florida: Haitian Creole;  New Mexico: Spanish;  and Los Angeles: English.

Right now I've got so many things to read and write, that it's keeping my days full.  I should complain??? 

Fish Stories

 Trae, Our Neighbor with his Walleye

While I roamed around our yard yesterday looking for pictures to snap, Our neighbors Trae and his dad drove in from a day of fishing the Missouri and unloaded their limit of walleyes.  I told him to get one and I would take his picture.  This is the one he grabbed, so I don't know if they were all this size or not, but I especially liked the story his dad told,(with a straight face).  He is a school principal, and given my experience in that same profession, we cannot tell a lie.

This how the story went.  He caught a big one and just about had it when it got under a rock and broke the line.  Lost!  Later on he caught another, and as he reeled it in, here comes the other one with it,  twisted up on the line.  Two in one!   Trae's mother asked if we like fish.  Oh, yes, we do!  And sure enough, a little later Tina comes to the door with a beautifully cleaned sack of fillets.

I used to fish quite a little, have owned two boats, and still have a bundle of gear in one corner of the garage.  The fishing trip that still stands out in my mind as the best one took place on The Lake of the Woods in the spring of 1973.  After three years  as high school principal in Dunseith, I was a total burn-out and when this trip came up I jumped at it.  George Bunn, Ray Bartholomay, and I drove up to northern Minnesota and met up with an acquaintance of George's who owned a large fishing/pleasure boat who graciously took us out on the big lake.  We never caught fish of any size, but we caught a lot of them, and I still can taste that walleye fixed on Shake and Bake and washed down with gallons of beer.  It was a relaxing interlude before I jumped back into the fire and took another administrative job.  

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Our friend Ole always gets accused of being the dumb one, but how about when he fooled the game warden:
Ole was stopped by the game warden just as he was leaving the Lake of the Woods with two buckets of fish.  "Let me see your fishing license." . . . "Oh, Sir, I don't have vun, dese here are my pet fish," says Ole . . ."Pet fish?" . . . "You betcha, every night I take dese fish down to the lake and let them swim around for awhile.  Den I whistle and dey yump back into the buckets , and I take dem home." . . . "That's a bunch of hooey, fish can't do that," the warden says. . . Ole looked at the warden with a real hurt expression on his face and said, "Vell, den, I'll yust show you den.  It really does work." . . .  "OK, I've got to see this," says the warden, really curious now.  So Ole poured the fish into the lake and stood waiting.  After several minutes, the game warden turned to Ole and said, "Well?" . . . "Vell, what?" . . . "When are you going to call them back?" the red-faced warden says. . . "Call who back?" Ole asks . . . "The fish!" . . . . . . . "What fish?"

Junkyard Buicks & Other Stuff

It's fun to drive around the countryside and find interesting sights.  This old Buick takes me back to the year I graduated from high school.  A little uncertain as to its model year, I searched the internet for pictures of '59 and '60 models.  It appears as if this number could be either one.  It sat out front in the junkyard, and I'm sure the owner was showing it off in hopes of finding a classical car lover to buy and restore  it.
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Quotation hanging on my office wall:

Tho' much  is taken, much abides; and though
We are not that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are . . . 
from Tennyson's Ulysses
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I started wondering what was going on in 1959 and did some looking on timelines. Ike was president . . . Alaska and Hawaii admitted into the Union . . . First photocopier, Xerox 914 on market . . . Castro took over in Cuba . . . Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and the Big Bopper killed in an airplane crash on their way to Moorhead, MN and Bobby Vee was the fill-in act . . . Dodgers won the World Series . . . Coors Beer Co. introduced the aluminum beer can . . . Texas Instruments applied for patent on Integrated Circuits . . . Barbie Doll was introduced . . . China took over Tibet . . . Ford won a battle with Chrysler to call its new car "Falcon" . . . "The Battle of New Orleans" by Johnny Horton topped the charts . . . The first missile-carrying submarine, the USS George Washington launched . . . Rod Serling's Twilight Zone started . . . Chubby Checkers sang "The Twist" on the Dick Clark Show . . . Ford quit making Edsels . . .