Just A Bird on a Branch

When I sit at this keyboard I sometimes think the output only amounts to a bunch of doggerel and drivel, but I’m heartened and encouraged to go on when I read thoughts like the following: “If only the most gifted bird in the forest sang, the forest would be a very quiet place.” The world resounds with the voices of billions of birds, so I’m claiming a perch on a crowded branch, too.

I still enjoy going back to read old journals that I have kept at certain times in my life. Alaska used to hold a magnetic draw for me, and I had to go up there to look around. Here are some entries I made at that time.

“. . . being so far north, the natives of the area made their own entertainment, and I think I must have stayed overnight in one of their inns where almost anything goes. I believe it was at Watson Lake, the location of the well-known signposts, that I spent the night hearing all kinds of funny noises such as footsteps up and down the wooden stairs at all hours plus laughing and giggling behind flimsy walls. Earlier in the evening I had sat in the bar listening to an Indian singing and playing guitar, not well, but with as much emotion as I’ve ever heard.”

Later, closer to Anchorage I wrote “A man — a native — walking along the road catches my attention. He is what I call a typical Eskimo, and he has in his hand what my stereotypical mind should think he would be carrying — a pail full of fish, which he had evidently just caught in the nearby river. He smiles proudly lifting his bucket just a bit to show off.”

“I drive further and see something that is beautiful! The Matanuska Valley Glacier stands shimmering in the distance, and, at first, because it is so striking, I am not sure what I am seeing... The weather is fairly clear now and the sun is shining off the ice...The day is passing and I intend to make Anchorage by evening. So once again I get in my trusty Impala and proceed to drive.”

So, I get into Anchorage late that day and tour around the city and area for a couple of days. “The port area was large and expansive. A large lake on the outskirts was the scene of a busy pontoon plane airport. So the day went. Another night, another morning brought me to the employment office. Long lines met me as I walked in the door. ‘Sir, you’ll need a permanent address before we can process your application.’ Oh, oh. What a shock! ‘Won’t my motel address do?’ I ask. ‘I’m sorry.’ Reflecting on that experience now I realize that I was really a babe in the woods. If nothing else I could have fibbed and made like the motel was my permanent address. But how was a sheltered ‘til now young man like myself who was raised to always tell the truth be expected to be resourceful enough to work my way out of that situation? He couldn’t do it and was shattered. Maybe Alaska isn’t Valhalla, after all. The cost of living up here is frightful and with winter coming I could see my supply of money dwindling rapidly. There was only one thing to do — get out of here as fast as I can to avoid being stranded. I load the car and take off. Somewhere I had heard about the inland waterway where I could load my car on a boat as well as myself and ship straight south...”

More to follow . . .

A Potpourri

Winter has set in here along the Missouri River. I enjoyed watching the river freeze up in stages, i.e. a light skin along the banks, then a few floes bobbing in the current, next those same floes piling up into a solid mass, and finally, the complete freeze-up.
. . .
A year ago we stood under the “Survivor Tree” at the federal building bombing site in Oklahoma City. It was sad to see it yesterday on the news heavily coated with ice and in danger of breaking down. Workmen were trying to get the ice knocked off its branches in hopes of saving it.
. . .
Various voices in the media have accused the Bush administration of not knowing their history, a deficiency that affects decision-making! A glaring example recently occurred regarding the recent usage of “World War III” verbiage. Dana Perino, Bush’s press secretary, under questioning, admittedly did not know anything about the Cuban Missile Crisis. Well, I do! I still remember watching President Kennedy speaking to the nation about the seriousness of the situation. It did not take long to interpret his message that nuclear missiles could soon be exchanged between us and Russia if the situation did not cool down and fast! A heavy cloud of anxiety and fearfulness settled on me that night as well as throughout the country until it was resolved. Even if she’d use the defense that she is too young to remember it, history turned on that event. Ms. Perino certainly is history-challenged!
. . .
I’m going to go back to reminiscing in my journals again, but some of these other things have been on my mind. Christmas fast approaches, and we enjoy enjoying reading the messages that people are sending. Unfortunately, few exchanges of letters take place at other times of the year anymore.
. . .
I’m listening to a CD that just played the line, “...string around my finger, but I don’t know why anymore.” I’m glad I’m not the only one with that problem. Now, if I could just remember what it was that I was going to say next ... I’m reminded of the grizzled old timer who with his lifetime of experience says, “There are two kinds of people — those who have to say something and those who have something to say.”

Journals-2

Thinking about my old journals got me interested in going back to read more of the old thoughts regarding experiences I’ve had. Rummaging around my flotsam and jetsam stored here and there, I ran across my Alaska journal. I traveled up the Alaska Highway in the fall of 1968 because Alaska held an inexplicable draw to which I had to respond, a journey which I have never regretted.

After passing through Calgary and staying overnight in Edmonton, Alberta, I set out on the interesting part of the area, and I wrote: "The miles now carried me into an increasingly north country setting. Farms became less frequently seen, and forests were rapidly taking their place. Yet the highway was still busy, showing the heavy traffic of the vehicles needed to carry on the business activities..." Several hours down the highway the drudgery of driving turned again to some excitement: "Not until I came to Dawson Creek did I become excited again. It was here that Mile 0 of the Alaska Highway was situated. Finally, I thought to myself, I’m almost there. Little did I realize at the time that the hardest and most lonely part of the trip was ahead of me...Now the real journey began. The smooth paved highways I’d become accustomed to turned into the rough gravel surface...To compound the inconvenience, it had been raining quite heavily and, of course, the road’s surface became quite muddy."

I wanted to see new and different sights and I wrote about this scene: "A fantastic sight causes me to stop near Kluane Lake. A break in the weather that day permits me to look about a bit more, and I see beautiful white spots arrayed on a distant hill. I study them and conclude that they are Dall Sheep...I snap pictures with my Kodak and find only tiny white dots with no sense of perspective on the developed film. It is a picture I still carry in my head, though."

This trip was before the days of cassette tapes or CD’s or even FM radios for that matter. I enjoyed listening to my AM radio for company and recorded this: "The radio having been my constant companion is not very effective at certain points. The broadcasting stations are too few and far between so I am forced into solitary periods. No sound but the noise of the road gets very monotonous, and I drive on and on averaging 30, maybe 40 miles an hour because of the poor driving conditions. When I do get radio reception, I am subjected to an entirely different perspective than I have ever experienced. Messages between inhabitants were frequently relayed by the announcers, such as ‘Fred Johnson, meet John Olson at the river crossing at noon Saturday to pick up your groceries.’"

"The miles pass by. Inches are gained on the map. Place names are now behind me — Dawson Creek, Fort St. John, Fort Nelson, Watson Lake, Minto, Pelly Crossing, Stewart Crossing, Whitehorse, Haines Junction. I started out in North Dakota,crossed into Montana, then into Albertan, British Columbia, Yukon Territory, and now I am ready to enter Alaska. Milepost 1221.3...My car is loaded with mud clinging onto, under, inside, and all over. I promise myself a wash job as soon as I get to Anchorage."

I’ll have to return to this memory trip next week. Most of the good stuff is still to come.

Journals

Today I checked a new book out of the Bismarck library: The Journals of Joyce Carol Oates. It caught my eye since I’ve done some journaling, and, indeed, this web log is essentially a journal, best described by Ms. Oates herself as "... a place for stray impressions and thoughts of the kind that sift through our heads constantly, like maple leaves giddily blown in the wind..." While this web log was never intended to be a literary masterpiece, I’ve always welcomed any reader who chooses to look at it. Since beginning it over a year ago, I have found it to be a satisfying venture and have received a bit of positive feedback from readers. My writing skills had become very rusty, but these weekly musings give me the forum to improve. At any rate, I went back to some old journal entries I had made to see what ran through my mind at that time.

Today in Mandan it is very cold and windy, and my eye fastened on this entry from January 2, 1973. I was heading back to Dunseith after spending Christmas break at home and got caught in a snowstorm and ran in the ditch south of Alice: "I stepped from the car and was struck by the fierce gale which drove the snow like so many hundred needles searching out the pin cushion that was my exposed face."

I remember being pretty upset at the time I wrote this on September 21, 1982: "Today I dropped Clinton off at the daycare center for the last time. We walked in hand in hand and weren’t received by anybody. A dozen or so kids sat in the television room staring at a black and white picture of some x@&?! and three adults in the room working there had not the time to look or say howdy-do or anything else. So it will be the last time he needs suffer through that torment and intellectual wasteland. At his regular baby-sitter, he bounds up the stairs as carefree and happy as can be, and sometimes doesn’t even bother to say good-bye to me as I depart."

I worked at custom combining in Kansas and Nebraska in 1965 and still retain strong memories of the following entry: "His son had committed suicide. The plan was for him to take over the farm operation from his parents, but burdens too heavy for him to bear had led him to take his own life. Mr. Lake lost his future along with his son’s. His zest for living died there in the ditch with the gunshot. He just went through the motions of putting in a crop and harvesting it. Now the lackluster look in his eyes could be explained. He suffered despair. Another factor compounded his problem. His wife had lost her mind. On one occasion we drove into his yard and saw a once magnificent home needing paint and carpentry repair. The lawn was unkempt and scraggly trees needed trimming. The interior of the house showed some neglect. I felt very sorry for him and what his life had come to."

In a letter dated November 24, 1969 to my folks which Ma saved and gave back to me I have this memory preserved much like a journal entry: "Got the package of lefse today and already ate a couple of pieces — really enjoyed it. The past three weekends I’ve been hunting in these mts. — really enjoyed going out but haven’t gotten anything yet. The 1st weekend we went up north of Dubois. I didn’t see any deer that day but got stuck packing out a quarter of elk that my hunting partner shot the day before. It was really tough going climbing up and down the mt. sides with it on my back but I’m going to get an elk supper out of it tomorrow night for my work. He had a donkey that we were using to pack out the elk with, but she went so slow & could only carry ½ elk at a time. There were 2 elk to carry out so 3 of us each took a quarter."

Well, I’ve gotten interested in my old journals again and guess I’ll revisit more of them in the future. Thanks to Joyce Carol Oates for revving up my curiosity.

A Memory

Sunday we drove down to brother-in-law Mike’s place, something we hadn’t done for awhile, with the pretense of seeing the 200 foot wireless tower that had been erected on a high hill in Mike’s pasture. After the visiting and a good meal, we drove to the tower site. By the time we hiked to the top of that hill I was really sucking air but recovered quickly in the cool, brisk wind and was able to stand enjoying the view of the rugged terrain that spread out below that hill. The whole countryside down there emits a beauty that I am fond of. One of the prominent features of the area carries the name of the Dogtooth Hills. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to see the jawbone of a dog filled with teeth drooling out along the horizon. Many of the topographical features of the area carry appealing place names. When you first drive out of Mandan you cross the Heart River, pass by Little Heart Butte, come to a sign indicating Whiskey Butte, see the aforementioned Dogtooth Hills, cross Cannonball River, and then Cedar River.

It is near the place where these Cedar and Cannonball Rivers join that my thoughts took me today. I recently hung on the wall of my study a picture of a man standing in a suspended wool sack who is packing fleeces into it. The man is a relative of Mary’s who lived close to the confluence of these two rivers. I was attracted to the picture because I don’t think I’ve ever seen one depicting this scene which I remember well. Indeed, the only picture I’ve possessed was the one in my mind where I was the one who stood packing wool in the sack. I’ve forgotten some of the particulars, but the wool sacks were 8-10 feet long and held 18-20 fleeces, that is, only if someone climbed in the sack that hung mouth-open on a scaffold and jumped up and down to pack them solidly. I’ve never forgotten how soaked with lanolin my shoes and pant legs got from the natural oil in the wool. Memories of sheep shearing time because of that picture were triggered by Sunday’s drive and remain strong in my mind, and I’ve written this poem to mark those springtime events.

Sheep Shearing Time

A man holding a clattering shears,
straddles an upended ewe,
and bends to strip away
the thick robe of wool
she wore through the cold.

Lambs separated from penned mothers
bleat hungry, lonesome tunes.
Clouds of dust hang
above the milling flock
where a helper
enters to catch and drag
another animal to her clipping.

"Good sheep shearers can do
a hundred head a day,"
goes the dinner table talk,
and this flock of 60
will be shorn by mid-afternoon.

The boy feels drawn to enter
this grown man’s world
and wants to tie and throw fleeces
into the hanging wool sack
and climb in to pack the bundles
so that by the end of the day the boots
he wears, soaked lanolin soft
from the wool’s drenching oil,
bring him another step closer.

The Road Ends

"But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think..."
by Lord Byron in Don Juan, Canto III, Stanza 88
. . . . .

The above quote from Lord Byron's poetry sets my own mind to dropping words on thoughts which, in turn, caused me to write the following verses. I've long been fascinated with the limits a mind runs up against when vocabulary, thought processes, experiences, etc. do not give a person the tools to understand something. A huge number of words flows through my mind each day, but many of them don't arrange themselves meaningfully into anything that amounts to much. If the words that Byron speaks of do not fall within the listener's ability to understand them, little relevant thought develops. At any rate, here is my way to express the limits and ends that I run up against.

The Road Ends

Just as the road concluded
when I drove to Alaska,

Just as harvesting ended
in Kansas and Nebraska,

Just as the pleasures of youth
abate and erode with age,

So, too, I have always come
to the limit that language
sets keeping alien deeds, feats,
and phenomenon unknown,
unexplored, or unfathomed.

The smooth, paved highway becomes
graveled road which reduces
to a rutted prairie trail
and ends at fenced enclosure,
blocking passage. No Trespassing
signs hang nailed to wooden posts.

For some the road stretches on,
letting them travel regions
where this pilgrim's map sprawls blank.

Empty Arguments

Often it just takes a word to get one’s mind working. When I first encountered the word sophism I filed it away in my memory bank for recall, something I’ve done several times. It’s defined in my Webster’s New World dictionary as being "a wise and plausible but fallacious argument or form of reasoning, whether or not intended to deceive." We’re in the political hucksterism season again where it can be easily observed, and in the run-up to the current war the public was subjected to the false argument of weapons of mass destruction being a compulsive cause.

Sophistry brought us to the present state of world affairs and also takes us elsewhere. A recent Newsweek ran a small 50 word article reviewing the book How Toyota Became #1 which caught the attention of my critical gaze. For reasons, some earned, some promoted through sales pitch, Toyota gained a lot of favor with the American public and people seemed to think they were the best. I always thought they were overpriced, but with buyers willing to give more for something they thought was better, sales numbers took Toyota to the top. But they have problems, too. The little article I refer to talks of engine-sludge lawsuits, more recalls than sales, and a top manager leaving to accept the same job at Chrysler.

A whole category of professionals exists to sway and convince people. Advertising agencies do nothing but peddle propaganda for clients who pay them to do so. Maytag claims their repairmen sit around with nothing to do because their product is so good. I doubt it. Gas stations claim to sell the best gas, but whenever I drive by a certain gas terminal on I-94 I see tankers from different companies waiting in line to load. TV preachers sell salvation for those willing to buy. With so many of them proclaiming that they hold the key to heaven, does it mean folks who don’t follow their persuasion will not get there?

When I was a little boy I remember seeing one particular fellow sitting on a bench on main street telling fish stories and stretching his hands wide to illustrate the length of that fish. Each time he told the story the distance between his hands grew bigger. His was the humorous lie.

How Big Is the Cage?

On my latest trip to the library I browsed through a favorite section, the biographies. I never know which book will jump out and beg to be read. This time it was Merle Haggard's Sing Me Back Home: My Life. I opened it and read in its prologue where he spoke of waking up, extremely hungover, in a prison. It was just one of the many brushes he had with the law, and he had to work his way through them all to reach a certain stage of maturity before he could turn his energy into something more creative and positive, in his case, writing songs and performing. The argument can be made, I suppose, that his early life validates the type of songs he writes. Maybe they are a rebellion against the growing constraints of society.

Recently, I had read a magazine article and made notes where Haggard was interviewed. One of the questions he was asked was what he misses about the America of 40 years ago. He replied, "I miss the freedom. I'm crazy about liberty and freedom, and they've taken all our freedoms away. You can't do anything. Everything's illegal ... People don't seem to realize it. People act like this is the way they want it." I recognize that philosophy as a strong theme running through his songs. I can't help but think about recent trends where the U. S. Constitution seems to have slipped in relevancy, and a small, select group of people in the upper echelon of government interpret or ignore it to suit their purposes. When I studied Political Science I learned that was an oligarchy.

Freedom is a notion that I've always considered important, too. It is one of the themes that catches my eye, especially when I see it shrinking away. I read once what the legal eagle Gerry Spence, the one with the cowboy hat and fringed buckskin jacket, said it about it in one of his books, "What if we have been born in a cage like the polar bear at the San Diego Zoo, and having known nothing else, we accept the cage as freedom?" Dad talks about remembering when highway stop signs first got planted at intersections and how there was an uproar from some who felt a freedom was being taken from them. Of course, there is the concept of protecting the greater good, and some laws need to be in place to protect us. But think of all the laws that have been passed since the stop sign law, and further, the interpretation of those laws. Are our grandchildren being born into a cage that they accept as freedom? Will succeeding generations be confined in smaller and smaller cages? Maybe the concept of freedom is being redefined! These are provocative thoughts!

Do Not Go Gentle ...

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
A line from the Dylan Thomas poem

In the not too distant past, whenever I went to the gym for my almost daily workout, I’d often come home and remark to Mary about a couple of the older gentlemen who frequent that place. I’d tell her how well I thought they were doing even though they were older men. It was quite the event when I discovered their true ages: one hadn’t reached 60 yet and the other was 62. The joke was on me with the glaring fact that I was the oldest of the three at 65!

On a wall in my study hangs a picture of a young boy at the age of two standing with his father behind a harnessed team of draft horses. The year would be 1944. Was it taken yesterday or 63 years ago? The answer is the latter and that little boy would be me. Much more time has passed than what remains to me, but I take my philosophy of life from the Dylan Thomas poem "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night," a line from which I used as the epigraph to this piece.

Death has been the subject of many a poet or philosopher through the ages, and I have never forgotten one quote from the historian Arnold Toynbee: "The Greek historian Herodotus reports that the Persian emperor Xerxes wept after he had reviewed his immense expeditionary force because he realized that not a single member of it would still be alive one hundred years later." It gave meaning to a banner that used to be displayed in the lunchroom of Bek Hall at UND when I attended that school: "All is transitory — Keats." At the time the quotation was too lofty and philosophical for me to give much thought. The more I think about it, the more those words hold meaning for me or anyone else who cares to contemplate them. A person can’t do much about the passage of time, so I’ll keep my thoughts in step with the aforementioned Dylan Thomas.

North Dakota Writers

Last Thursday evening I attended a one-hour presentation by the state poet laureate Larry Woiwode. He did not speak of poetry but discussed the writing of a memoir which he has done well and entitled What I Think I Did. He has earned some stature in the national writing community with his works which I always like to read. The program was directed and produced by Prairie Public TV and will be broadcast tomorrow, Thursday, October 11. With him on the same program was a singer-guitarist who I thought was very good. The musician teaches at Minot State University and writes his own songs. Woiwode had named him associate laureate when he was appointed state poet laureate. I’m looking forward to watching the program again.

In the foyer of the Heritage Center stood a table cleverly laden with copies of Woiwode’s book. Even though I had read it a few years ago, I decided to support this member of the arts community by buying a copy for my library. I stood in line for Woiwode to autograph it and exchanged comments with him. I knew he had collaborated with the poet Tom McGrath earlier in his career on one project and mentioned that I was from the same hometown as McGrath. Woiwode quickly told me to check out the NDSU Magazine, spring, 2003 (on SU’s website) where he had written a complimentary article about McGrath. Here he replicated the acceptance speech for the poet laureate that he gave before the governor, and he said something that shows his admiration for McGrath: "The great poet of our state, the one who should have been its laureate for decades, is Tom McGrath." In fact, he went on to fill the bulk of that speech with reference to McGrath and his work.

Those of us who know and appreciate McGrath and his work know why he never received the honors due to him: his politics precluded him from any positive acceptance by the "honorable" members of the community. I’ve read where McGrath called himself a communist with a small "c". My dictionary defines that as anyone advocating ideas thought of as leftist or subversive. That definition in and of itself can be interpreted very broadly as well as hotly argued. My interpretation of where he stood was that of being against the abuses of ownership who did not show any concern or compassion for those who worked for them. When I first read his book length poem Letter to an Imaginary Friend I was immediately struck by the early passage I've remembered which probably explains the beginnings of his political bent. A harvest hand for the family, Cal, a bundle teamster, befriended Tom, but because he became a labor spokesman for the crew. he received a severe beating from the boss, Tom’s uncle. A passage reads: "Cal spoke for the men and my uncle cursed him./ I remember that ugly sound, like some animal cry touching me/ Deep and cold, and I ran toward them/ And the fighting started./ My uncle punched him. I heard the breaking crunch/ Of his teeth going and the blood leaped out of his mouth..."

Once Around the Circle

Tomorrow, Wednesday, October 3 will be the last day of working as I have for the past six years driving a state employee around this 10 county area since she has accepted a promotion from her regional position to a state administrative position. I no longer will drive on a regular basis but have happily agreed to stand by on an on-call basis and take only an occasional trip. At the beginning of this year I told her I did not care to drive anymore after the end of the year, but this changes things and I might just hang around for awhile. We used to call these little jobs "beer money." Even though I no longer have need of beer money, I can always use a little extra spending money.
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Thursday marks one of my favorite days around here; the Bismarck Public Library starts its three day used book sale. It opens at 7:00 am, and I’ll be leaving here by 6:45 to get there. Prices are right: $20 or less buys a whole bag full. Then, that evening, our premier state writer Larry Woiwode makes a presentation at the Heritage Center regarding the writing of memoirs. For a little culture, what the heck, I’m going to go.
.....
Yesterday a couple lines of poetry popped into my head; something I had to memorize in college: "The world is too much with us; late and soon,/Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;/ Little we see in Nature that is ours..." I know I’m conservative (my wife calls me cheap), but when I drive around and see all the junk sitting in people’s driveways, I can’t help but think they’ve overspent and are hard-pressed to make payments on that little-used, unimportant stuff. I wonder how many of them have a library card.

Honyocker & Jehu

When I attended the Teddy Roosevelt Symposium at Dickinson State University, I studied some of the pictures hanging in the hallway that depicted old time North Dakota. The one that most interested me was titled "The Honyocker," a scene where a man walks behind a one-bottom plow pulled by a team of four horses. I had often wondered the etymology of that word but couldn't find it in the 1,700-some pages of my usually adequate dictionary to find its meaning and origin. A good, ole Google search gave me satisfaction. Obviously,its meaning is fast disappearing from the language through disuse, but some lady at www.honyocker.org wondered about it, too, and researched it some. In Standard German the word "Huhn-jager" means hen-hunter; in the Czech language a honyocker is "hunyak" and means a shaggy fellow; in the Hungarian dictionary it is spelled "hunyag and hanyak" and means negligent, careless, sloppy or forgetful; in North Dakota and surrounding states honyocker is often taken to mean a backward, old-fashioned type of rural person; and in the early 1900's the ranchers did not like the homesteaders who broke up the native prairie and called them honyockers, which gave the title to the plowman's portrait I saw.

When I was quite young I can remember hearing that word used occasionally; it stll had carried over to that period --- the 1950's. I can still hear someone using it in a conversation. I knew it to be derogatory but can now be at ease knowing I found its meaning and derivation.

While contemplating this, another word from the past popped into my head --- Jehu, pronounced yay-hoo, as I've heard it. Its meaning still has some use, and I have heard it used occasionally: a fast, reckless driver. Its primary usage is Biblical and comes from the name of a king of Israel in the 9th century, B.C., described as a furious charioteer. I find it fascinating the things a person thinks about on any given day. So much for the 25th of September.

The Old Hometown

Last week I attended a part of the interesting Teddy Roosevelt Symposium in Dickinson and listened to several historians speak on various aspects of TR. It got me anxious to start reading more history of that period and thought the best place to start was with my hometown newspapers on file with the North Dakota archives. The Sheldon Enterprise’s on file go back to early 1885 and that’s where I started. Once I got into reading them it was hard to stop. I wondered if Sheldon’s paper would make any mention of TR, and sure enough, I quickly found this reference in the May 19, 1886 edition: " Theodore Roosevelt, the prominent New York politician, has arrived at his ranch on the Elkhorn in the western part of Dakota where he expects to spend the summer." Other news that interested me in the first few issues I read were notices of General U. S. Grant’s illness and death and the vote of the Senate affirming the dividing Dakota into two states.

The local news, though, was the most entertaining. Some good examples from 1885-86 follow:

"Last Saturday was a lively day in Sheldon. Thirty or forty teams could be counted on Front Street at almost any hour of the day.

After four or five revolver shots, Mr. Creswell’s favorite dog gave up the ghost in front of the drug store last Wednesday evening. He had been poisoned.

Long lines of moving wagons are to be seen passing every day destined to new homes in the west.

Mr. Creswell and hired man were seeding all day last Saturday in their bare feet. Too warm to wear boots or shoes. How’s that for the 4th of April in Dakota.

Five Indians, well armed and carrying two canoes were seen making a beeline northward yesterday. Going to join Riel?

A lady passed through Jamestown, on a train, bound for Oregon, with a revolver stuck in her belt.

K. E. Rudd is setting up a sample McCormick binder, across the street from our office, this morning.

When ordering a pail of beer, be sure and instruct your clerk to see that he gets it fresh from the convenient slop tub, otherwise it might be too strong and make you sick.

Fourth of July to be celebrated at Sheldon in a grand style. A cornet band to be here on that day. Good speakers. Exciting races and games. Processions, etc., etc. and a prominent feature of the day - two balloon assentions (sp) and grand fireworks in the evening. All to wind up with a grand ball in the evening at the new skating rink.

Sheldon shipped the first car load new wheat this year from the field of P. P. Goodman that was shipped on any of the lines of the Northern Pacific Railroad.

Herman Schultz was in town Saturday and marketed a wagon load of extra nice cabbage.

Deputy Sheriff Tom Eastman has been having his hands full of wood thieves during the past week. He had four of them on his hands at once. Two paid their fines and the other two landed in the Fargo jail for 10 days.

Dr. Henning sports a new fancy cutter. Tell you what, it’s a daisy.

A team of mules, attached to a cutter, took a glorious tumble in the street, opposite our office, yesterday. The mules were not shod sharp and being driven on the smooth ice in the street, one of them went down and the other rolled clear over him. No damage except considerable scare and a broken cutter tongue.

(And my favorite) A Ransom County lawyer was found dead in his sleigh one day last week. Just how he happened to be sleigh riding, instead of having his hands in a client’s pockets, is unknown, but it is surmised that was because the client had had his pockets emptied by having previously called on another lawyer. His death was doubtless caused by attempting to tell the truth to a jury and then going out in the cold while he was still sweating."

I intend to keep mining those veins of entertaining news and gossip from the old home town papers. It makes for fascinating reading and maybe a poem or two will come from it.

September Miscellany

The weather moderated here on our hill in Mandan. The cool weather feels good. There was a light frost on the rooftops in our neighborhood early Sunday morning, but I don’t think any plants suffered because of it. The weatherman threatens it again in a couple of days. The beautiful alfalfa field below us produced a third cutting. It’s probably the nicest hayfield I’ve ever seen.
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Saturday, September 8 marked the 49th anniversary of the life-changing accident I suffered. I told Mary if there were one thing I could change in my life it would have been to avoid that incident. Often times veterans will not talk of their wartime experiences. In my own way I understand what their silence means, and I will have no more to say of it.
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I’m looking forward to tomorrow when I’m going to Dickinson to attend symposium at Dickinson State University: "Theodore Roosevelt and America’s Place in the World Arena." Dickinson is positioning themselves as a center of TR studies and is developing a digitalized base connected to the Library of Congress for research purposes. They are bringing in nationally prominent people to conduct the meetings, and I sent my money in to participate.

Pride, Empire, etc.

The sermon in church this week was based on the scripture reading of Luke 14: 7-14. It dealt with the teachings of Jesus on humility with the 11th verse holding the key idea where He is quoted as saying "For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted." At the start the priest related this story: Once there was a frog who wanted to go South and asked two geese on their migratory flight to help. The frog strung a string between his two new friends and clamped on tightly with his strong jaws. As they were flying along a hunter spotted them and shouted up, "Whose idea was that?" The proud frog opened his mouth to boast that it was he, and the hunter ate frog legs that evening. The story ended with a quote from Aesop’s Fables, "Pride goeth before the fall."

As I listened, my mind trailed back to the Newsweek article of last week that dealt with the unsuccessful hunt for bin Laden. The matter of pride seems to enter into the military’s efforts in this hunt, too. It would probably make the most sense to send in special operation units to hunt him down, units (termed "snake-eaters") that could live off the land for a long period of time and poke around the hills and caves of Afghanistan. The author says that military brass, though, doesn’t like "snake-eaters" because they don’t always follow rules or maintain spit-and-polish discipline. Instead, they would like to fight in the open and show off their firepower and new weapons. Therefore, they chose to fight in Iraq instead of Afghanistan. It’s unfortunate the military leadership hadn’t listened to the same sermon I just had.

I’ve never forgotten outgoing President Eisenhower’s warning that we should beware of the military-industrial complex. To further give a person food for thought our public television station last night on their America at a Crossroads series ran a show titled "Inside America’s Empire." It was indicated that the U.S. has a military presence in dozens of countries. The countries of Colombia, Georgia, Philippines, and another in Africa were featured and described to varying degrees our country’s involvement there. Whenever I see or hear the word empire I can’t help thinking of the Roman Empire and its fate.

Blank Spot

The countryside I drove through today brought to mind something I’d read several years ago in Eric Sevareid’s autobiography. A native North Dakotan, he wrote a passage to the effect that most people in this country think of North Dakota being a large, blank spot in the middle of the nation. The road heading north of Sterling, through Wing, past the ghost town of Denhoff and on to our destination twelve miles north of there seems at least as sparsely populated as anyplace I’ve encountered in Montana, Wyoming or Nevada. It shows on the map as a blank spot.

Mostly comprised of hilly pastureland and white-rimmed alkaline sloughs, I thought it was a big event to see something move besides grazing cows or flying birds: a farmer mowed hay in a long stretch of highway ditch, a baler worked in a field rolling large round bales, a couple of semi-trucks roared by, and a tractor with a mounted auger stood ready to dig yet another fencepost hole.

That part of the state would suit Michael Martin Murphey, the western singer and cowboy culture lover who told his Medora concert crowd last Wednesday evening that he thought the plains should be allowed to revert to grasslands. "It would take only three years," he told us. While that’s not a very practical, sure-to-happen proposition, he said something about the "foolishness" of all these ethanol plants being built that I had to agree with somewhat. When driving west to Medora one passes the town of Richardton and its brand new ethanol plant. While I commend community development and job creation, seeing that plant erected where no corn grows makes one wonder a bit. I venture to guess 95% of the corn they process will be trucked or hauled by rail, thus adding high-priced transportation costs.

Times change and maps forget old place names which adds to the blank spot. I looked on a new North Dakota map and could not find Venlo, a place my parents still talk about. It’s still clear in their memories. Anselm and Raleigh still show up, but their names, population and map co-ordinates do not since they are not incorporated. Sometime in the future they, too, will disappear into memories.

Instruments

While attending a wedding in Grand Forks about a week and a half ago, I listened closely to a musical instrument that I thought was remarkable in its tone. Mary and I sat close to the front for babysitting duties with Grandson Lucas when his mother, a bridesmaid, handed him, a ring bearer, over to us during the ceremony. The two musicians played a violin and a piano, and I thought the violin had an exceptionally mellow, rich tone. After the ceremony, I returned to our pew to fetch something left behind and stopped to visit with the musicians and remarked to the violinist how good I thought his instrument sounded. He did not act out with any sense of false modesty since he really was proud of it. He knew its history - crafted in Italy, its maker - whom I promptly forgot, and its year of birth - 1718. Almost 300 years old, I was quite impressed with it. It both looked and sounded great!

We attended the bluegrass music festival in Bismarck this past Saturday. Great musicianship was the rule. All the performing groups knew a thing or two about playing those strings: guitars, fiddles, banjos, mandolins, and upright basses. These groups are always great with their vocal harmonies, too.

More entertainment is on our calendar. Tomorrow we're heading to Medora for a Michael Martin Murphy concert and will stay over to take in the Medora musical the following evening. If that's not enough, we plan to go to the Czech Hall located in the hills south of Mandan and listen to some local musicians. To top it off, I'll probably go to my favorite coffee shop Saturday morning where a couple good local guitarists hold regular jam sessions. I'll even take my guitar to that one, but I will have little to offer. It's all learning for me!

Birthday

Yesterday, August marked the anniversary of Japan’s surrender in World War II, thus ending the war. War weary, the people in this country, so says history, didn’t say, "We won!" but instead "The war is over!"

Wife Mary related an interesting anecdote in regards to the timing. She was born today, August 15, 1945, sixty-two years ago. I was 3 ½ years old and don’t remember this, but apparently there was much celebrating starting on the 14th. When it came time for her to be born they had to search for the doctor who was out celebrating himself. Details are a bit hazy after that, but they must have found him since she got delivered.

To commemorate her birthday, I wrote this poem:

I guess you can say the years really flew.
Here you are already at sixty-two,
but won’t you agree,
it’ll sure be nice to collect Social Security!!!

Borders

I read recently how a country’s borders, state lines, property lines, etc. define us as being an American, a North Dakotan, a Mandan resident, or what have you. It reminded me of a passage I’d read years ago in Elwyn B. Robinson’s book History of North Dakota where he described the splitting of Dakota Territory into the north and south designations we live with. As I brought that book down from my shelf a newspaper clipping from the May 2, 1983 edition of the Fargo Forum fell out. The headline was "Alex McKenzie was brawny, master manipulator." Robinson and the author of the Forum article probably borrowed from the same sources to write their stories, and they certainly agree as to the politics played to divide the territory and establish each one’s state capital site. Both sources plus others I have read agree that McKenzie was the "Boss."

McKenzie was an agent of the railroads who held their choking hold on commerce in this region. He allied with the corrupt territorial governor Nehemiah G. Ordway who held some grudge with people in the territory’s capital of Yankton. These two men succeeded in moving the capital to Bismarck because the NP railroad wanted the capital on its main line there. Political wrangling and maneuvering continued with some favoring statehood and others opposing it. But it all boiled down to an economic issue with the railroads and the wheat millers deciding the outcome.
Obviously the democratic process of decision making was a sham with only a few powerful people doing the manipulating.

We had reason to drive through the oldest cemetery in Bismarck one time, and the largest, most ornate tombstone begged our attention. The name carved in the stone: Alexander McKenzie.

Cliches

Reading the Newsweek magazine is high on my weekly must-do list. One interesting feature is the "My Turn" column where this week’s topic is "Let’s Think Outside the Box of Bad Cliches." The author works as a college professor who finds that students use too many cliches in their written work which the professor thinks leads to sloppy thinking. He gives examples such as the criminal being caught in broad daylight, as if there is such a thing to contrast it to narrow daylight.

Rather than re-using his other examples, I can recall many from my own supply. It’s easy to accuse someone of being a slow or shallow thinker by saying he (or she) has the IQ of a fencepost, runs a quart low, is a bubble head, or is as dumb as an ox. When someone dies it’s easy to say he’s gone to a better place, breathed his last, gone on to his reward, bought the farm, or made his last pit stop. Politics uses many cliches: he’s a visionary, a man of character, a dark horse in this race, or people will vote with their hearts. The sports world uses an abundance of them: he’s a franchise player, it’s a nail-biter, gut-check time, he always gives 110%, he has a rifle for an arm, or he’s a future hall-of-famer.

In the last couple of days I’ve heard these used. Regarding Sen. Ted Stevens of Alaska who’s being investigated, one TV commentator said that the chickens were coming home to roost. Another announcer talked of the Pat Tillman shooting in Afghanistan as a perfect storm of mistakes. How about AG Gonzales facing a firestorm of controversy? A favorite of mine deals with a person who tries to portray somebody he’s not: all hat, no cattle.

Going back to the accusation that overuse of cliches makes for sloppy thinking, I would have to agree with the professor. It’s not often that we can read an author or listen to a speaker who uses proper English grammar for the bulk of his presentation. Most of the time they run around like a chicken with its head cut off. You know that a chain is only as strong as its weakest link and he has bats in his belfry. He brandishes his smoking gun and puts everyone on the same page as he goes for extra yardage. Oops, I just threw up an airball.