Sitting at this keyboard the day after we returned from Lisbon after another two-day stay I can take time to think about the people I am descended from. My folks now reside there in the Parkside Home, and Mary and I each week have been taking regular trips to their apartment to sort and pack things in preparation for an auction sale on May 30. We’ve come across many things of a high-interest nature such as old cards, letters, and pictures, and during the 3:00 coffee hour at Parkside we sit and ask questions about them.
The ladies at the home were all a-twitter yesterday because it was their inaugural organizational meeting of a “Red Hat Society.” It so happened I had taken to Dad a red cap emblazoned with “Sheldon Shadows” so Ma able to wear that until we shop for something more appropriate. I had wheeled Dad down there too because we thought we were going to have our coffee with them, but, no, they kicked us out, ladies only. So we returned to the spot where the men were being served. Their discussion turned to weather and Dad started remembering the spring of 1936 when he said he and a hired man put in the crop with horses, and it was so cold they had to walk behind the horses to keep warm. A question arose: was it the year the dust blew so bad? No, that was 1934.
I had taken pictures to the folks so they could identify for posterity the people on them. While we were waiting for the ladies to crown their queen and finish with festivities we went down to his room and looked at pictures. I found that I couldn’t write fast enough because of the wellspring of information that flowed by the gallons. A picture of his brother Leslie holding four work horses brought this comment: That’s Queen, Topsy, Bird, and Dolly, and Queen was a daughter of Topsy. I eventually got Bird and Russell got the two white ones. The memory was pretty strong. I’d guess that photo was seventy-five years old.
A photo, about 85 years old, of a threshing scene we’d blown up to fit on an 8 ½ by 11 sheet soon filled completely on the back side with written reminisced information. It was snapped about 1927 and pictured his Dad’s threshing machine, a Nicholson-Shepard Red River Special that was worn out by the time Dad worked with it and consequently seemed like it was always broken down. Two men shown were Nels Bjerke on the left with horse team of Sam and Molly, and Ludvig Davidson on the right with Cub and Jesse. The tractor powering the machine was an Allis-Chalmers 20/35. The facts kept pouring forth. The 1924 Model T touring car had been modified into a pickup and Grandpa came to own it by trading his Willys 6 to Richard Fritz even-up. Oh, by the way, when Dad was ten years old the Model T was the first car he ever drive.
The earlier mentioned Ludvig Davidson once hired Dad to help him haul hay for two days and paid him $4 for his labor. Grandma Bueling, his mother, was so happy because then Dad could buy a pair of Star Brand shoes to wear while, at nine years of age, he ran a McCormick binder. Otherwise, he would have had to work barefooted in the grain field.
Dad has always had a soft spot for the heavy work horses did during this period and told of a time he hauled grain on a gravel road and how sore their feet got. It also was hard on the wooden wagon wheels so at the end of the day he ran the wagon into some water so the spokes would soak and tighten up a bit. The memories never stopped coming. I am going to start carrying my recorder so I don’t have to write so fast. Then, the ladies came back energized from their Red Hat gathering so our history lesson drew to a close.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Nightcrawlers
Last Friday on Katie Couric’s CBS news program I watched a feature that brought back a memory. Steve Hartman has been doing similar things on the show that Charles Kuralt used to do before he passed away, and he revisited a place called Sopchoppy, Florida. Kuralt had talked to people who did “worm grunting,” whereby a wooden stake was driven into the ground and a steel bar was rubbed across the end grains to produce a loud vibrating or grunting sound. The racket caused night crawler worms to come out of their holes where they could be picked up by would-be fish bait salesmen. It is thought the worms feared a mole was burrowing for them, so they climbed up into the daylight to escape the predator. During Kuralt’s interview with one of the hunters he got him to admit making about $200 per week gathering the little critters. Unfortunately, for him and others like him it got the attention of the IRS people who came and made them claim the income. When Hartman repeated the same question 25-30 years later, no one would confess to the income they made. They had become “media-savvy,” but they were still rasping the steel across the end grain and gathering buckets of the bait.
The memory revived in me had to do with gathering night crawlers, too. We were students at Valley City State when someone suggested we gather some bait. Immediately, I had visions of “snipe hunting” and feared they would try to make me the butt of some outlandish joke. I’m pretty sure we were fueled and fired up with beer in our bellies so I let myself get talked into the adventure. The city park became the scene, and we were cautioned to walk quietly watching the ground carefully while the experienced one shone a flashlight down. Here’s where I suspected the snipe-hunt: we were told that when we saw a night crawler stretched across the ground, yet anchored with one end of his body in his hole, that we were to dive for it, that they were very quick. Disbelief and skepticism overtook me then. How could a worm move quickly? “There’s one, see ’im? You were too slow! He disappeared.” Not seeing it, I knew then I was being toyed with. But a couple of the others kept diving to the ground on their knees and, sure enough, they were coming up with the prize. The whole episode struck me as being so ludicrous and funny that all I could do was double up with laughter; I doubt that I ever did catch one. Gradually, as the night wore on, I became a believer, but it’s an episode from carefree youth that brings a smile to my face each time I think back on it.
The memory revived in me had to do with gathering night crawlers, too. We were students at Valley City State when someone suggested we gather some bait. Immediately, I had visions of “snipe hunting” and feared they would try to make me the butt of some outlandish joke. I’m pretty sure we were fueled and fired up with beer in our bellies so I let myself get talked into the adventure. The city park became the scene, and we were cautioned to walk quietly watching the ground carefully while the experienced one shone a flashlight down. Here’s where I suspected the snipe-hunt: we were told that when we saw a night crawler stretched across the ground, yet anchored with one end of his body in his hole, that we were to dive for it, that they were very quick. Disbelief and skepticism overtook me then. How could a worm move quickly? “There’s one, see ’im? You were too slow! He disappeared.” Not seeing it, I knew then I was being toyed with. But a couple of the others kept diving to the ground on their knees and, sure enough, they were coming up with the prize. The whole episode struck me as being so ludicrous and funny that all I could do was double up with laughter; I doubt that I ever did catch one. Gradually, as the night wore on, I became a believer, but it’s an episode from carefree youth that brings a smile to my face each time I think back on it.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
This, too, Shall Pass
Spring has come all at once! Every slough, creek, and river has filled to overflow and race down any route it can find. In the hill country around here the water runs out of all the ravines and gullies, collects into larger flows, and really makes its presence known. But because it is hilly it will be over just as fast as it started. Interstate 94 got shut down between us and Jamestown for a day. After the spring of ’97 road crews constructed higher road beds on it in a couple of spots, and now, since other water-vulnerable spots have shown up, that road equipment will probably be at it again. I heard on local radio about the hardships that have been created out in the countryside: washed out railbeds, washed out gravel roads, washed out bridges, etc. The after effects of all this water will be felt for some time.
Last week I spent a couple of days in Lisbon for family business and saw lots of activity there in anticipation of the Sheyenne River’s rise. Lots of dump trucks hauled dirt to build dikes; flat bed trailers loaded with pallets of sandbags traveled through town all day; National Guard equipment, vehicles and personnel were in abundance; and evacuation plans were being made for the hospital and soldier’s home. Ironically, just a couple weeks previous to this, Lisbon facilities housed some evacuees from the Fargo flood. My parents now both reside in the Parkside Lutheran Home in Lisbon which, fortunately, sits on high ground.
The high water lets me appreciate a period of local history I’m presently studying; it is the freighting industry where carts and wagons pulled by ox teams served Forts Abercrombie and Ransom. Two routes were established to get from one place to the other - a low water route and a high water route. When able to travel the low water route, they could have forded the Sheyenne in a couple of spots to follow a direct route. Obviously this spring they would have had to take the longer high water route which departed in a southerly direction from the Owego settlement to follow a large bend in the Sheyenne River and then headed westward to what is now Lisbon and then beyond to Fort Ransom. It would have taken longer, maybe a couple of days. Today, if farm families aren’t completely cut off they may have to find longer high water routes, also.
Last week I spent a couple of days in Lisbon for family business and saw lots of activity there in anticipation of the Sheyenne River’s rise. Lots of dump trucks hauled dirt to build dikes; flat bed trailers loaded with pallets of sandbags traveled through town all day; National Guard equipment, vehicles and personnel were in abundance; and evacuation plans were being made for the hospital and soldier’s home. Ironically, just a couple weeks previous to this, Lisbon facilities housed some evacuees from the Fargo flood. My parents now both reside in the Parkside Lutheran Home in Lisbon which, fortunately, sits on high ground.
The high water lets me appreciate a period of local history I’m presently studying; it is the freighting industry where carts and wagons pulled by ox teams served Forts Abercrombie and Ransom. Two routes were established to get from one place to the other - a low water route and a high water route. When able to travel the low water route, they could have forded the Sheyenne in a couple of spots to follow a direct route. Obviously this spring they would have had to take the longer high water route which departed in a southerly direction from the Owego settlement to follow a large bend in the Sheyenne River and then headed westward to what is now Lisbon and then beyond to Fort Ransom. It would have taken longer, maybe a couple of days. Today, if farm families aren’t completely cut off they may have to find longer high water routes, also.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Forty Years Ago
Yesterday I rummaged through a drawer where some of my keepsakes lay which are, for the most part, seldom looked at. After I left graduate school I decided to purchase for myself a college class ring. Well, there it sat looking pretty much like a new one since I never wore it that much. The year of graduation inscribed on it made me take notice, and I’ve been reminiscing about those days ever since. Nineteen sixty-nine was the year, and when I did a little simple math I realized it has been 40 years since I graduated with my master of arts degree. I remember that year with pleasure; along with studies we had a great social time. There were about a dozen of us taking classes in the administration department; we were a diverse lot who established the Driftwood Lounge in Greeley as the headquarters for our shenanigans, story-telling, and general all-around shiftless behavior.
Colorado, still not over-populated at the time, possessed many scenic wonders, and I got around to see them as much as I could. Looking westward from the campus the Rocky Mountains rose high and sharply serving as a source of eye-candy for this flatlander. I still remember the time when large flakes of snow floated on the air, and a girl who had never seen snow fall sat transfixed in front of the student union’s west windows. She probably remembers seeing snow for the first time in her life; I remember the total scene: the girl, the snow, the mountains.
How can I forget to mention the odor of manure that swept the campus each time the wind blew from the northwest. The Monfort Feed Lot with 100,000 head of cattle fattening in its pens reminded us of their presence, and as they always said in Wahpeton with its foul smell of sugar beet processing, that’s the smell of money. I believe Monfort’s capacity has grown, but it has also relocated its operation to a more favorable position as regarding its wind-borne odors.
Forty years! So much has transpired over that period of time. A wife, two sons, grandchildren, jobs, and now retirement. The responsibilities a person assumes can almost hobble him at times, and the scars a man bears have been earned. I just typed and framed a quotation from Tennyson’s poem Ulysses:
“Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are…”
No matter what I wish now that I would have done or shouldn’t have done with my life, I will continually remind myself “that which we are, we are.” Colorado was one of the bright spots, and it came at the end of an odyssey similar to Ulysses' when I drove to Alaska searching for great things, ended up in Greeley in graduate school, and lived the first days of the rest of my life.
Colorado, still not over-populated at the time, possessed many scenic wonders, and I got around to see them as much as I could. Looking westward from the campus the Rocky Mountains rose high and sharply serving as a source of eye-candy for this flatlander. I still remember the time when large flakes of snow floated on the air, and a girl who had never seen snow fall sat transfixed in front of the student union’s west windows. She probably remembers seeing snow for the first time in her life; I remember the total scene: the girl, the snow, the mountains.
How can I forget to mention the odor of manure that swept the campus each time the wind blew from the northwest. The Monfort Feed Lot with 100,000 head of cattle fattening in its pens reminded us of their presence, and as they always said in Wahpeton with its foul smell of sugar beet processing, that’s the smell of money. I believe Monfort’s capacity has grown, but it has also relocated its operation to a more favorable position as regarding its wind-borne odors.
Forty years! So much has transpired over that period of time. A wife, two sons, grandchildren, jobs, and now retirement. The responsibilities a person assumes can almost hobble him at times, and the scars a man bears have been earned. I just typed and framed a quotation from Tennyson’s poem Ulysses:
“Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are…”
No matter what I wish now that I would have done or shouldn’t have done with my life, I will continually remind myself “that which we are, we are.” Colorado was one of the bright spots, and it came at the end of an odyssey similar to Ulysses' when I drove to Alaska searching for great things, ended up in Greeley in graduate school, and lived the first days of the rest of my life.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Is It Spring Yet?
We’re experiencing the kind of winter that the rest of the country thinks we always have. Here it is April 1 and it’s still here. In my limited travels it has never been unusual for people, upon learning I live in North Dakota, to make off-the-cuff statements like “It’s cold up there, isn’t it,” “Those winters you have aren’t for me,” or “We sure laughed when we saw that electric plug-in cord hanging from the front end of your car.” I hope this isn’t the first of a series of bad winters again. When I was a young lad it seemed as it we were always blocked in during the winter. I remember when cars were often left sitting out at the head of the driveway because we couldn’t drive into the yard.
The flood threat seems to have passed for now, at least in the Fargo and Bismarck areas, but we’ve got a heck of a lot of snow to melt again since this last blizzard dumped a pile. In fact, the snow had melted right down, but now we have to start all over again with the thaw. The record keepers say we are just within an inch or two of having the most snow ever.
We live close to the Heart River which feeds into the Missouri River, which is also close. Water rose to high levels in those rivers, mostly attributed to ice jams. A week ago I couldn’t get over how high and wide the Heart River was running. It was packed with chunks of ice and tree branches. It reminded me of a herd of four-legged critters running through a chute, and it moved me to versify:
March 22, 2009
Heart River water
ran wide, deep, and fast beneath
the Sitting Bull Bridge
carrying grinding ice floes,
a stampeding herd
of buffalo choked into
a closing canyon.
Hunters crouched, aiming cameras
from the banks, marksmen
intent on bagging trophies
to boast while seated
around family room fires.
Then, as that deluge
passed, those foot thick carcasses
lay strewn on the banks and fields
to melt under the spring suns.
The flood threat seems to have passed for now, at least in the Fargo and Bismarck areas, but we’ve got a heck of a lot of snow to melt again since this last blizzard dumped a pile. In fact, the snow had melted right down, but now we have to start all over again with the thaw. The record keepers say we are just within an inch or two of having the most snow ever.
We live close to the Heart River which feeds into the Missouri River, which is also close. Water rose to high levels in those rivers, mostly attributed to ice jams. A week ago I couldn’t get over how high and wide the Heart River was running. It was packed with chunks of ice and tree branches. It reminded me of a herd of four-legged critters running through a chute, and it moved me to versify:
March 22, 2009
Heart River water
ran wide, deep, and fast beneath
the Sitting Bull Bridge
carrying grinding ice floes,
a stampeding herd
of buffalo choked into
a closing canyon.
Hunters crouched, aiming cameras
from the banks, marksmen
intent on bagging trophies
to boast while seated
around family room fires.
Then, as that deluge
passed, those foot thick carcasses
lay strewn on the banks and fields
to melt under the spring suns.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Letter to Mary
Dear Mary,
Not much has happened since you flew off to Minneapolis for a few days to help take care of our new granddaughter. Not much, that is, until Sunday. I got up as usual, made coffee, read the paper, and watched some news shows. Then I wandered on down to my study to look for a book and ran into one that’s been on my shelf for some time that I hadn’t even read yet, a Jim Harrison book of poetry named Saving Daylight. Harrison’s the one you might remember who wrote Legends of the Fall which was later made into the movie starring Brad Pitt. At any rate his poems always make me think of the outdoors and living the strenuous life. His style of writing is what made me take off in my younger days to search out that better world. Then I got to wondering about all the other books I’ve started to read and had laid aside planning to get back to later. I found some: John Adams by David McCullough, Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner, All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy, One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, plus a couple of others. I’ve brought them all up and set them in my little cabinet and promised myself I will read them now. I also just bought the Norman Maclean Reader. He wrote A River Runs Through It. Remember, that’s the one you didn’t like too well because the younger brother kept getting into jams and then got murdered at the end.
Around 10:00 a.m. I decided to get a cup of coffee at McDonald’s and was I ever surprised when I drove down our hill: that eighty acre alfalfa field on the river bottom looked like an ocean. I blamed it on snow thaw, but a quarter mile down the road when I crossed the Sitting Bull Bridge on 1806 I found out where it came from, from water backing up on the Heart River. Boy, talk about a placid little stream gone wild! It ran high, wide, and filled solid with chunks of ice and tree branches picked up along the way. It reminded me of a herd of buffalo, close-packed and running through a canyon. And rubberneckers, lots of people parked along the roadside to gawk and take pictures.
I made it for coffee and in there I noticed a few cowboys with their high top boots and remembered the horse sale scheduled to continue Sunday. I drove by on Saturday and saw how full the lot around Kist’s sale barn was, so I never even tried to go in. But Sunday morning, I thought, I’ll just run down there for a look see. I climbed the bleachers and sat behind an Indian fellow with a big hat. (You’ve probably noticed that Indians dress like cowboys nowadays.) The vent holes in his Stetson were on the back of the hat and were in the shape of a cross. On its side he wore a gold pin in the shape of a coup stick that had four little feathers hanging from it. I wondered if he was counting coup or scalps, but I digress.
The auctioneer rattled off his chant, a side man took the mike occasionally to inject a little information, and horses were ridden in singly and put through their paces in that little twenty foot diameter sales ring. Taunts like “She’ll please ya’, she enjoys what she’s doin’,” “Boy, here’s a horse that needs buyin’,” or “Excellent disposition, no buck in ‘im” were uttered between bids. With the last one, the gelding’s rider slid off the rear end of the horse to prove the side man told no lies. I could only think that with the way the boy’s legs were spread how the thought of emasculation might flash through his mind if the horse decided to kick.
Of course, it wasn’t only fat or skinny cowboys that rode the horses into the ring. A leopard marked appaloosa ridden by a gal with long blonde tresses changed the scenery for a bit. Others must have been watching closely, too, because that horse seemed to bring more money. I had to laugh at a little Shetland pony that trotted in being ridden by a skinny, long-legged fellow whose feet dangled way below the stirrups. It brought $750.
I decided to leave after awhile and paid a visit to the men’s restroom. I passed some private deals being made in the hallway, saw the café jammed to capacity, and entered the toilet to find it really smelly. Two fellas stood at the urinals where one said to the other, “I think your boots smell better than this!” About then a stool flushed and a tall dude stepped out all red-faced embarrassed saying, “I had a rough night last night.”
When I drove out of the lot I noticed license plates from all over the midwest: South Dakota, Montana, Minnesota, Nebraska, and Wyoming. It’s a popular sale, what more can I say. I always enjoy sitting there for a spell. I’ll never forget the time I went to a buffalo sale and saw a young bull leap ten feet straight in the air trying to get over the sale ring fence. Talk about athletic ability!
I drove back home and the water had gotten deeper and more people sat parked alongside the road gawking at it. I haven’t forgotten, and I know you haven’t either, how deep the water got in '97 when we lived in Wahpeton. I sure hope Fargo can keep ahead of the flood water this spring, but it doesn’t look good.
Later, in the afternoon I went to a movie: Julia Roberts in Duplicity. Not too bad. I decided to buy a popcorn because I hadn’t been eating too well, but it was so salty I had to go buy a pop, too. It cost $6.50 for a ticket, $3.00 for the corn, and $2.00 for the drink. $11.50. You always say I’m the cheap one, but you didn’t give me a very big allowance this month and now I’m broke.
I’m getting tired of eating TV dinners and di Giorno frozen pizzas. Maybe when you get home you might whip up a nice batch of those cowboy beans that taste so good. Well, I’d better close for now. I’ve got some books to read.
Love,
Lynn
p.s. The clothes hamper is full.
Not much has happened since you flew off to Minneapolis for a few days to help take care of our new granddaughter. Not much, that is, until Sunday. I got up as usual, made coffee, read the paper, and watched some news shows. Then I wandered on down to my study to look for a book and ran into one that’s been on my shelf for some time that I hadn’t even read yet, a Jim Harrison book of poetry named Saving Daylight. Harrison’s the one you might remember who wrote Legends of the Fall which was later made into the movie starring Brad Pitt. At any rate his poems always make me think of the outdoors and living the strenuous life. His style of writing is what made me take off in my younger days to search out that better world. Then I got to wondering about all the other books I’ve started to read and had laid aside planning to get back to later. I found some: John Adams by David McCullough, Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner, All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy, One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, plus a couple of others. I’ve brought them all up and set them in my little cabinet and promised myself I will read them now. I also just bought the Norman Maclean Reader. He wrote A River Runs Through It. Remember, that’s the one you didn’t like too well because the younger brother kept getting into jams and then got murdered at the end.
Around 10:00 a.m. I decided to get a cup of coffee at McDonald’s and was I ever surprised when I drove down our hill: that eighty acre alfalfa field on the river bottom looked like an ocean. I blamed it on snow thaw, but a quarter mile down the road when I crossed the Sitting Bull Bridge on 1806 I found out where it came from, from water backing up on the Heart River. Boy, talk about a placid little stream gone wild! It ran high, wide, and filled solid with chunks of ice and tree branches picked up along the way. It reminded me of a herd of buffalo, close-packed and running through a canyon. And rubberneckers, lots of people parked along the roadside to gawk and take pictures.
I made it for coffee and in there I noticed a few cowboys with their high top boots and remembered the horse sale scheduled to continue Sunday. I drove by on Saturday and saw how full the lot around Kist’s sale barn was, so I never even tried to go in. But Sunday morning, I thought, I’ll just run down there for a look see. I climbed the bleachers and sat behind an Indian fellow with a big hat. (You’ve probably noticed that Indians dress like cowboys nowadays.) The vent holes in his Stetson were on the back of the hat and were in the shape of a cross. On its side he wore a gold pin in the shape of a coup stick that had four little feathers hanging from it. I wondered if he was counting coup or scalps, but I digress.
The auctioneer rattled off his chant, a side man took the mike occasionally to inject a little information, and horses were ridden in singly and put through their paces in that little twenty foot diameter sales ring. Taunts like “She’ll please ya’, she enjoys what she’s doin’,” “Boy, here’s a horse that needs buyin’,” or “Excellent disposition, no buck in ‘im” were uttered between bids. With the last one, the gelding’s rider slid off the rear end of the horse to prove the side man told no lies. I could only think that with the way the boy’s legs were spread how the thought of emasculation might flash through his mind if the horse decided to kick.
Of course, it wasn’t only fat or skinny cowboys that rode the horses into the ring. A leopard marked appaloosa ridden by a gal with long blonde tresses changed the scenery for a bit. Others must have been watching closely, too, because that horse seemed to bring more money. I had to laugh at a little Shetland pony that trotted in being ridden by a skinny, long-legged fellow whose feet dangled way below the stirrups. It brought $750.
I decided to leave after awhile and paid a visit to the men’s restroom. I passed some private deals being made in the hallway, saw the café jammed to capacity, and entered the toilet to find it really smelly. Two fellas stood at the urinals where one said to the other, “I think your boots smell better than this!” About then a stool flushed and a tall dude stepped out all red-faced embarrassed saying, “I had a rough night last night.”
When I drove out of the lot I noticed license plates from all over the midwest: South Dakota, Montana, Minnesota, Nebraska, and Wyoming. It’s a popular sale, what more can I say. I always enjoy sitting there for a spell. I’ll never forget the time I went to a buffalo sale and saw a young bull leap ten feet straight in the air trying to get over the sale ring fence. Talk about athletic ability!
I drove back home and the water had gotten deeper and more people sat parked alongside the road gawking at it. I haven’t forgotten, and I know you haven’t either, how deep the water got in '97 when we lived in Wahpeton. I sure hope Fargo can keep ahead of the flood water this spring, but it doesn’t look good.
Later, in the afternoon I went to a movie: Julia Roberts in Duplicity. Not too bad. I decided to buy a popcorn because I hadn’t been eating too well, but it was so salty I had to go buy a pop, too. It cost $6.50 for a ticket, $3.00 for the corn, and $2.00 for the drink. $11.50. You always say I’m the cheap one, but you didn’t give me a very big allowance this month and now I’m broke.
I’m getting tired of eating TV dinners and di Giorno frozen pizzas. Maybe when you get home you might whip up a nice batch of those cowboy beans that taste so good. Well, I’d better close for now. I’ve got some books to read.
Love,
Lynn
p.s. The clothes hamper is full.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Censorship
A news article regarding my one of my favorite comedians, Steve Martin, hit the pages of our local paper a couple of days ago. He wrote a full-length play back in 1993 entitled Picasso at the Lapin Agile (Nimble Rabbit). It deals with Albert Einstein and Pablo Picasso who are both depicted at the point of making breakthroughs in their respective fields. I think it would be an interesting play to sit through; it has been produced over a hundred times in various venues and has been well received. Well received, that is, until a few weeks ago when a group in Oregon protested their high school drama group from presenting it. Seems they thought it uses too much adult language and themes for a high school group to deal with.
Given the fact that that since 1993 the play had not met resistance, it seems outrageous that it’s deemed inappropriate now. Of course, money can’t buy all the publicity and free advertising that the commotion is stirring up; therefore the intended result of the protesters is opposite of what they wanted. Recently in our own state, I think it was in Beulah, the parents of one student asked for a book to be removed from an English reading list - Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. The school board complied with their request but soon backtracked out of the storm they had created when their action received national attention with negative accusations of censorship. The word came out shortly thereafter that this book became extremely popular in North Dakota and booksellers had trouble keeping it in stock.
Censorship does not work! History proves that. I’ve liked reading about the scientist Copernicus who determined that our earth was not the center of everything, but instead we circled the sun. The Catholic Church’s hierarchy charged him with blasphemy against their accepted teachings. It contradicted the Bible: “Thou hast fixed the earth immovable and firm” as proclaimed in Psalm 93. Mr. Copernicus became very sensitive to the criticism and did not publish his book with his findings until the end of his life. In effect, he self-censored his work. Galileo accepted the Copernican findings but the church forced him to declare, against his better judgment that the earth was the center of the universe. So on and on the arguments went until recently I believe the church finally stated the principles set forth by the scientists were correct. The unwillingness of people to change their thinking if confronted with facts to the contrary is a pet peeve of mine.
Given the fact that that since 1993 the play had not met resistance, it seems outrageous that it’s deemed inappropriate now. Of course, money can’t buy all the publicity and free advertising that the commotion is stirring up; therefore the intended result of the protesters is opposite of what they wanted. Recently in our own state, I think it was in Beulah, the parents of one student asked for a book to be removed from an English reading list - Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. The school board complied with their request but soon backtracked out of the storm they had created when their action received national attention with negative accusations of censorship. The word came out shortly thereafter that this book became extremely popular in North Dakota and booksellers had trouble keeping it in stock.
Censorship does not work! History proves that. I’ve liked reading about the scientist Copernicus who determined that our earth was not the center of everything, but instead we circled the sun. The Catholic Church’s hierarchy charged him with blasphemy against their accepted teachings. It contradicted the Bible: “Thou hast fixed the earth immovable and firm” as proclaimed in Psalm 93. Mr. Copernicus became very sensitive to the criticism and did not publish his book with his findings until the end of his life. In effect, he self-censored his work. Galileo accepted the Copernican findings but the church forced him to declare, against his better judgment that the earth was the center of the universe. So on and on the arguments went until recently I believe the church finally stated the principles set forth by the scientists were correct. The unwillingness of people to change their thinking if confronted with facts to the contrary is a pet peeve of mine.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Where'd 50 Years Go?
A few days ago one of my old classmates suggested we should start thinking about celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of our high school graduation in 2010. A reunion would be a great time, and if it can be organized, I will be in attendance. I got to thinking how fast these forty-nine years have passed by and all that has transpired.
When we graduated in 1960 Dwight D. Eisenhower sat in the Oval Office. Since then ten others have been elected, one being assassinated, one resigning in disgrace, and a couple more who probably should have.
It’s hard to count the number of wars we’ve fought in, but Vietnam ranks as the toughest one, evidenced by the black wall with the names of over 50,000 dead inscribed on it. We’ve gone to Iraq twice, Bosnia once, and now Afghanistan. Our forces have also been involved in little skirmishes in South America and Africa and have gotten our noses bloodied by Castro in the Cuba Bay of Pigs fiasco. And I still remember getting the daylights scared out of me when Kennedy and Khrushchev faced off with atomic missiles pointing at each other over another Cuban matter.
Periods of prosperity come and go, and now we are facing a serious downturn of the economy. On a personal note, I’ve reached the age where I have retired and, thankfully, did not stick too much of my savings into stocks in spite of those around me who kept bragging about how much money they were making in the market. (He who laughs last laughs best?) I have married one woman, raised one family, built one new home, bought a few cars, and could never figure out what people were doing who were building all the large mansions. It turns out they didn’t know either since they have to figure out how to pay for them in this economy. Well, that’s enough of a blog for now, but that’s where I stand.
When we graduated in 1960 Dwight D. Eisenhower sat in the Oval Office. Since then ten others have been elected, one being assassinated, one resigning in disgrace, and a couple more who probably should have.
It’s hard to count the number of wars we’ve fought in, but Vietnam ranks as the toughest one, evidenced by the black wall with the names of over 50,000 dead inscribed on it. We’ve gone to Iraq twice, Bosnia once, and now Afghanistan. Our forces have also been involved in little skirmishes in South America and Africa and have gotten our noses bloodied by Castro in the Cuba Bay of Pigs fiasco. And I still remember getting the daylights scared out of me when Kennedy and Khrushchev faced off with atomic missiles pointing at each other over another Cuban matter.
Periods of prosperity come and go, and now we are facing a serious downturn of the economy. On a personal note, I’ve reached the age where I have retired and, thankfully, did not stick too much of my savings into stocks in spite of those around me who kept bragging about how much money they were making in the market. (He who laughs last laughs best?) I have married one woman, raised one family, built one new home, bought a few cars, and could never figure out what people were doing who were building all the large mansions. It turns out they didn’t know either since they have to figure out how to pay for them in this economy. Well, that’s enough of a blog for now, but that’s where I stand.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Wisdom of the Elders
I like to listen to people who look at things in a different light. This past weekend I tuned into “Book TV” on C-Span2, something I occasionally do on weekends because I find their discussions stimulating. One of the authors during a panel discussion contended in his book, the name of which I didn’t get, that there seems to be little or no room for adult or mature voices in the digital media where today’s youth spend much of their time. They live in a horizontal world where their learning and information come from each other, sort of a blind leading the blind. Not enough time or interest gets paid in vertical character formation where older people, knowledge, stories, and wisdom exist such as that found with parents, grandparents, clergy, neighbors, books, etc.
One time I remember reading that when an old person dies it can be likened to a library burning down taking with it all the information stored within. I have explored that concept a bit in my poetry and plan to delve into it even more deeply. That thought came to me again when I recently attended a funeral where I wondered to myself how much of her life has been lost because she never shared it with her family. Stories she never got around to telling have now disappeared into a deep, dark void and can never be retrieved.
Dad tells stories of old days that I always enjoy listening to. While visiting him last Friday he told a tale of a man whose descendants may never even have heard it. It was a story of Johnny Anderson, a man who, when I knew him, lived just north of Sheldon on a farmstead he’d built, the place now occupied by Joe Bartholomay, his wife, and their Arabian horses. We were talking about a recent weather event in the Bowman, ND area, and Dad was reminded of the time when Mr. Anderson rode horseback to Bowman from Sheldon to visit a brother out there and check on homestead opportunities. Few other facts of this journey are known to Dad, but it made me think about things like how and where did he cross the Missouri River, how many days the trek may have taken, when did he go, did he return in the same manner, etc. We decided he may have ridden straight west to the Fort Yates area where I know a ferry operated and probably rode about 40 miles per day which would then have taken him at least five or six days. What else can be conjectured about a journey of this length? Maybe he preserved his memories of that journey in some manner, but I have to doubt it. Old timers like him took facts of a hard life for granted, no big deal!
A passage in Arnold Toynbee’s history book states: “The Greek historian Herodotus reports that the Persian emperor Xerxes wept after he had reviewed his immense expeditionary force because he realized that not a single member of it would still be alive one hundred years later.” I can stand in any cemetery and wonder about all the knowledge and wisdom that lies buried there just as Edgar Lee Masters did when he wrote The Spoon River Anthology. In it he twines and interrelates each buried person to the other, showing all their strengths and weaknesses. Some were scoundrels, some had illegitimate children by someone buried nearby, some were stalwarts in the community, some were just average people, but each had his or her own story. It’s a fictional account loosely based on the actual town where Masters lived.
When I was young I went about my merry way playing cowboys and Indians or whatever. Now I wish I would have paid more attention to older family members as they told their stories. I would be richer for it.
One time I remember reading that when an old person dies it can be likened to a library burning down taking with it all the information stored within. I have explored that concept a bit in my poetry and plan to delve into it even more deeply. That thought came to me again when I recently attended a funeral where I wondered to myself how much of her life has been lost because she never shared it with her family. Stories she never got around to telling have now disappeared into a deep, dark void and can never be retrieved.
Dad tells stories of old days that I always enjoy listening to. While visiting him last Friday he told a tale of a man whose descendants may never even have heard it. It was a story of Johnny Anderson, a man who, when I knew him, lived just north of Sheldon on a farmstead he’d built, the place now occupied by Joe Bartholomay, his wife, and their Arabian horses. We were talking about a recent weather event in the Bowman, ND area, and Dad was reminded of the time when Mr. Anderson rode horseback to Bowman from Sheldon to visit a brother out there and check on homestead opportunities. Few other facts of this journey are known to Dad, but it made me think about things like how and where did he cross the Missouri River, how many days the trek may have taken, when did he go, did he return in the same manner, etc. We decided he may have ridden straight west to the Fort Yates area where I know a ferry operated and probably rode about 40 miles per day which would then have taken him at least five or six days. What else can be conjectured about a journey of this length? Maybe he preserved his memories of that journey in some manner, but I have to doubt it. Old timers like him took facts of a hard life for granted, no big deal!
A passage in Arnold Toynbee’s history book states: “The Greek historian Herodotus reports that the Persian emperor Xerxes wept after he had reviewed his immense expeditionary force because he realized that not a single member of it would still be alive one hundred years later.” I can stand in any cemetery and wonder about all the knowledge and wisdom that lies buried there just as Edgar Lee Masters did when he wrote The Spoon River Anthology. In it he twines and interrelates each buried person to the other, showing all their strengths and weaknesses. Some were scoundrels, some had illegitimate children by someone buried nearby, some were stalwarts in the community, some were just average people, but each had his or her own story. It’s a fictional account loosely based on the actual town where Masters lived.
When I was young I went about my merry way playing cowboys and Indians or whatever. Now I wish I would have paid more attention to older family members as they told their stories. I would be richer for it.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
All This on Feb. 25
We made a trip to Lisbon on Saturday to visit my parents at the Lisbon medical facility and hosted a small gathering of relatives and friends who dropped in for cake to celebrate their birthdays and anniversary. Dad turned 94, Ma turned 89, and being married in 1941, they marked their 68th anniversary. From there it was off to Richfield, MN to make the acquaintance of our new granddaughter Lily Grace who, of course, we found to be perfect.
Sad news often accompanies good news. My cousin’s wife called this morning to tell us that Violet Bueling passed away early this morning. I am glad that I stopped in to see her several times in the hospital and that she was always in good spirits those times.
I will be off shortly to pick up the new computer I bought at Best Buy yesterday. While this humble laptop still does the job, it does it just barely, and I thought it was time for an upgrade, especially since I started publishing some of my written efforts.
I began writing this as President Obama gave his first address to the U. S. Congress. Much had been said in anticipation of what he would say and how he should say it. I have confidence in his ability as an intelligent and independent thinker to believe that he would give the right message. As with all previous presidential addresses where I remember watching the minority party sit on their hands with almost comic reactions of not cheering or standing in union with the boisterous assent of the majority party, so it was with this address. I noticed, however, that as his speech developed through carefully chosen words and phrases the minority party felt they were given the openings to stand and cheer in bi-partisan support of many of his plans. I am still confident that he will bring about an improved nation.
Sad news often accompanies good news. My cousin’s wife called this morning to tell us that Violet Bueling passed away early this morning. I am glad that I stopped in to see her several times in the hospital and that she was always in good spirits those times.
I will be off shortly to pick up the new computer I bought at Best Buy yesterday. While this humble laptop still does the job, it does it just barely, and I thought it was time for an upgrade, especially since I started publishing some of my written efforts.
I began writing this as President Obama gave his first address to the U. S. Congress. Much had been said in anticipation of what he would say and how he should say it. I have confidence in his ability as an intelligent and independent thinker to believe that he would give the right message. As with all previous presidential addresses where I remember watching the minority party sit on their hands with almost comic reactions of not cheering or standing in union with the boisterous assent of the majority party, so it was with this address. I noticed, however, that as his speech developed through carefully chosen words and phrases the minority party felt they were given the openings to stand and cheer in bi-partisan support of many of his plans. I am still confident that he will bring about an improved nation.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The Pendulum Swings
I heard a talking head make a point of interest the other day that just might have some truth in it. He said people like Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, John McCain, etc., all U.S. Senators, seem to be more than ready to assume other roles besides that of Senator. The Senate has become such a dogpile of argument, stalemate, petty maneuvering, and individual feelings of powerlessness that other jobs look attractive. In the history of this world it is only occasionally that lone figures stand out to steer their constituents towards a new direction of thought or action, be it good or bad. A list of examples is unnecessary since everyone can remember some from high school history classes. In our state I am reminded of a man who started a movement for change with his willingness to put himself on the line, organize support, and wring change from the status quo.
In 1916 this prepossessed man and a fleet of Model T Fords transformed the politics of North Dakota with a new political reality. His name was A. C. Townley, the organizer of the Non-Partisan League in North Dakota. By 1917 the movement he led had taken control of the state legislature, but after 1923 it diminished to become just a memory. The time was right for change since farmers experienced hard times, a fact fostered by the railroad monopoly, eastern grain millers, and a puppet state legislature. Townley was a bankrupt farmer who studied socialist ideas to create better times in his way of thinking. Many farmers in this state were first generation Europeans who came from backgrounds where socialistic thought was thought the standard. When Townley found organizers willing to go out to recruit farmers he furnished them a Model T car so they could range about the countryside at large. The farmers listened to the pitch and signed on.
The effort worked — for a time, that is. But in-fighting developed and the overly ambitious Townley set his sights on and became involved in a national movement which weakened North Dakota’s because without his leadership no one stepped up to take his place. Looking back one historian wrote “All that was left of the League in 1923 was its office furniture, a large volume of uncollected postdated checks, and a fleet of old Ford cars...” Vestiges of the NPL’s accomplishments remain here, namely the State Bank of North Dakota and the State Mill and Elevator. Todays’s national politicians probably do not look to our small bit of history and our socialist institutions, but I note with interest the current discussion of nationalizing the nation’s banking system. Auto industry? Housing industry? The cover of the February 16 Newsweek proclaims “We Are All Socialists Now.”
In 1916 this prepossessed man and a fleet of Model T Fords transformed the politics of North Dakota with a new political reality. His name was A. C. Townley, the organizer of the Non-Partisan League in North Dakota. By 1917 the movement he led had taken control of the state legislature, but after 1923 it diminished to become just a memory. The time was right for change since farmers experienced hard times, a fact fostered by the railroad monopoly, eastern grain millers, and a puppet state legislature. Townley was a bankrupt farmer who studied socialist ideas to create better times in his way of thinking. Many farmers in this state were first generation Europeans who came from backgrounds where socialistic thought was thought the standard. When Townley found organizers willing to go out to recruit farmers he furnished them a Model T car so they could range about the countryside at large. The farmers listened to the pitch and signed on.
The effort worked — for a time, that is. But in-fighting developed and the overly ambitious Townley set his sights on and became involved in a national movement which weakened North Dakota’s because without his leadership no one stepped up to take his place. Looking back one historian wrote “All that was left of the League in 1923 was its office furniture, a large volume of uncollected postdated checks, and a fleet of old Ford cars...” Vestiges of the NPL’s accomplishments remain here, namely the State Bank of North Dakota and the State Mill and Elevator. Todays’s national politicians probably do not look to our small bit of history and our socialist institutions, but I note with interest the current discussion of nationalizing the nation’s banking system. Auto industry? Housing industry? The cover of the February 16 Newsweek proclaims “We Are All Socialists Now.”
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Roll Up Your Sleeves
Ole honest Abe Lincoln will soon celebrate his 200th birthday. It seems to be a given that he ranks as one of this country’s best presidents. Even though his Emancipation Proclamation was considered a great act, I believe his greatest achievement was the preservation of the Union. Without accomplishing that fact we would have divided into two separate countries with unknown futures. Lincoln’s generals, at the outset, provided little success in battles. Finally, Lincoln chose U. S. Grant to head the army because he had confidence that Grant would engage with the Confederate Army and aggressively fight to the finish. Previous generals gave Lincoln too many excuses why they weren’t able to win victories or even enter into battle. His estimation of Grant was correct.
Teddy Roosevelt worded it the best when he gave his “Man in the Arena” speech. He said in part “The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood ... his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat.” His entire statement can be found on the internet with a search for his “Man in the Arena” speech.
I stick with President Obama in his efforts to improve this country’s economy. He is rolling up his sleeves and engaging in the battle. I think back to times when I tried to make changes and got battered by naysayers who wanted to stay comfortable in their old ways of doing things. Even though I failed at times, I do not regret the effort and the sincerity of thought I put into the issues. NPR’s website carried an article that interested me a great deal this past weekend. The headline “Is America Weighed Down By Dead Ideas?” really jumped out at me because of my past experiences. The gist of the article stated “... while many of our current notions of economic and social well-being made sense when they first gained traction 50 years ago, they don’t hold much water today.” In the article he says “In every era, people grow comfortable with settled ideas about the way the world works. It takes an extraordinary shock to expose the conventional wisdom as obsolete...” The writer goes on to name what he thinks are dead ideas: 1. Your kids will earn more than you, 2. Free trade is good, no matter how many people get hurt, 3. Your company must fund and manage your health and pension benefits, 4. Taxes hurt the economy, 5. Schools are a local matter, and 6. Money follows merit.
It looks like we are being extraordinarily shocked with the present economic crisis. The concept of socialism often gets lumped with the word Communism in our discussions , but my February 16 issue of Newsweek magazine proclaims on its front cover “We Are All Socialists Now.” The sub-heading says, "The perils and promise of the new era of big government." I don’t know how we’ll emerge from this situation, but I’ve been doing some reading of high interest into how citizens of North Dakota once took over the reins of state government throught the Non-Partisan League. It’s a fascinating story, and I’ll write of it next week.
Teddy Roosevelt worded it the best when he gave his “Man in the Arena” speech. He said in part “The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood ... his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat.” His entire statement can be found on the internet with a search for his “Man in the Arena” speech.
I stick with President Obama in his efforts to improve this country’s economy. He is rolling up his sleeves and engaging in the battle. I think back to times when I tried to make changes and got battered by naysayers who wanted to stay comfortable in their old ways of doing things. Even though I failed at times, I do not regret the effort and the sincerity of thought I put into the issues. NPR’s website carried an article that interested me a great deal this past weekend. The headline “Is America Weighed Down By Dead Ideas?” really jumped out at me because of my past experiences. The gist of the article stated “... while many of our current notions of economic and social well-being made sense when they first gained traction 50 years ago, they don’t hold much water today.” In the article he says “In every era, people grow comfortable with settled ideas about the way the world works. It takes an extraordinary shock to expose the conventional wisdom as obsolete...” The writer goes on to name what he thinks are dead ideas: 1. Your kids will earn more than you, 2. Free trade is good, no matter how many people get hurt, 3. Your company must fund and manage your health and pension benefits, 4. Taxes hurt the economy, 5. Schools are a local matter, and 6. Money follows merit.
It looks like we are being extraordinarily shocked with the present economic crisis. The concept of socialism often gets lumped with the word Communism in our discussions , but my February 16 issue of Newsweek magazine proclaims on its front cover “We Are All Socialists Now.” The sub-heading says, "The perils and promise of the new era of big government." I don’t know how we’ll emerge from this situation, but I’ve been doing some reading of high interest into how citizens of North Dakota once took over the reins of state government throught the Non-Partisan League. It’s a fascinating story, and I’ll write of it next week.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Drawing Blanks
Sometimes it's hard to be creative. Recent events puts one's mind into a mode of taking care of business. My father is in a Fargo hospital after having fallen and breaking his hip. At the same time we put my mother in the Lisbon swing bed facility because she is unable to live alone with her ailments. So, until the future, adios.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Spring Will Come
Often times when I walk across the street to get the mail in the cold air with deep snow covering the ground I tote back seed and garden catalogs addressed to my wife. I don’t have a green thumb, but she does, is included on several mailing lists, and now shows signs of itching to get out and start digging. Just the other day our thermometer registered 20 below, and she was rummaging around to find her little starter flats. She had seen to it a couple of weeks ago that I buy potting soil at Menard’s, and her seeds were already on hand. With a planter rack placed by the sunny patio door, we now watch the tiny seeds sprout into skinny little tendrils. I’m reminded of an Indian snake charmer who blows melodies on his flute to entice a cobra to slowly uncoil and rise from its basket. There are probably two dozen little compartments in that starter flat and each is properly identified with a little name tag, namely geranium - hot pink, geranium - red, spinach, and lettuce. Now, mind you, this is only the beginning of her seed germination efforts. Before she is done that rack will groan with the weight of as many flats as can be reasonably squeezed onto its crowded shelves.
Long ago when I was the little boy I remember watching with fascination Dad’s placing of grain seeds into a damp, rolled cloth and setting the bundle in the southern window of our house. I learned an early lesson at that time about percentages; he counted the number of seeds he placed in the roll and after a few days could see how many of them had sprouted compared to the duds and came up the the percentage of germination, a figure that is still important for a farmer to know. It’s been a long time since I’ve inspected the tag on a bag of seed grain, but the last I saw that number is listed.
I know Mary’s dreaming about making the yard come alive with her plants and flowers which in turn draw lots of bees, birds, butterflies, etc. We watched a great program on public tv last night that focused on the migration of the Monarch butterfly. They are a remarkable creature. In the fall they migrate 2,000 miles from Canada to a small spot in Mexico, and nobody knows how they do it. Their targeted spot has been set aside as a reserve by the Mexican government, but, of course, thieves come and go with their illegal cutting down of the trees the butterflies depend on. It so happened the night before my old college friend Jens called from Nebraska. We hadn’t visited for a few years so we reminisced about quite a little. One event came back regarding a summer school session we attended: he was enrolled in an entomology course and needed to collect bugs to identify and display. We had the perfect solution. He drove along a country road and I held a net out the passenger window over the tall grass on the shoulder. Occasionally we would stop and inspect our catch and usually caught up quite a collection, butterflies included. To lubricate this scenario we several times took an empty gallon jug into a little hide-away bar where the bartender filled it with tap beer for a dollar and away we’d go. Those were the days we talk about.
With all past things aside, this summer we again look forward to our little property coming alive with growing things and beating wings.
Long ago when I was the little boy I remember watching with fascination Dad’s placing of grain seeds into a damp, rolled cloth and setting the bundle in the southern window of our house. I learned an early lesson at that time about percentages; he counted the number of seeds he placed in the roll and after a few days could see how many of them had sprouted compared to the duds and came up the the percentage of germination, a figure that is still important for a farmer to know. It’s been a long time since I’ve inspected the tag on a bag of seed grain, but the last I saw that number is listed.
I know Mary’s dreaming about making the yard come alive with her plants and flowers which in turn draw lots of bees, birds, butterflies, etc. We watched a great program on public tv last night that focused on the migration of the Monarch butterfly. They are a remarkable creature. In the fall they migrate 2,000 miles from Canada to a small spot in Mexico, and nobody knows how they do it. Their targeted spot has been set aside as a reserve by the Mexican government, but, of course, thieves come and go with their illegal cutting down of the trees the butterflies depend on. It so happened the night before my old college friend Jens called from Nebraska. We hadn’t visited for a few years so we reminisced about quite a little. One event came back regarding a summer school session we attended: he was enrolled in an entomology course and needed to collect bugs to identify and display. We had the perfect solution. He drove along a country road and I held a net out the passenger window over the tall grass on the shoulder. Occasionally we would stop and inspect our catch and usually caught up quite a collection, butterflies included. To lubricate this scenario we several times took an empty gallon jug into a little hide-away bar where the bartender filled it with tap beer for a dollar and away we’d go. Those were the days we talk about.
With all past things aside, this summer we again look forward to our little property coming alive with growing things and beating wings.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
A New President
What else could be more interesting to write about than yesterday’s presidential inauguration, an event of historic proportions that really gripped the country as evidenced by that huge mass of people who gathered standing in the cold to witness it first hand. I watched on television much of the day from the comfort of an easy chair with a computer on my lap so I could write and record these thoughts. The throngs of people expressed high spirits of hopefulness and expectations of a better future. To me it is obvious that common folks feel an empowerment that they had not felt for some time and that they will be well represented in the Office of the President by an honest, intellectual executive.
From my read of history I couldn’t help but be reminded of the stories surrounding the inauguration of Andrew Jackson. A well-known name, Daniel Webster, made this observation: “Persons have come five hundred miles to see General Jackson, and they really seem to think that the country is rescued from some dreadful danger!” Jackson didn’t want much commotion since his wife had died not long before this, but he couldn’t stem the enthusiasm of the people. Right after he was sworn in the crowd pressed upon him so tightly that he had a difficult time escaping. A near riot developed and they headed to the White House, entered without being invited and proceeded to wreck the place looking for food and drink. After a time White House servants baited the revelers to withdraw from the building by serving wine and ice cream on the lawn.
When Teddy Roosevelt assumed the presidency after the assassination of McKinley he created a fury shortly thereafter. He invited Booker T. Washington to dine with him in the White House. Some southerners thought this was a terrible affront. What would they think now that Obama sits in the Oval Office?
A book in my personal library contains all the presidents’ inaugural addresses. I have looked at them and thought as I listened to Mr. Obama’s speech that it was of average quality. More ear-catchy statements have probably been made by others, i.e. Kennedy’s “... ask not what your country can do for you— ask what you can do for your country,” FDR’s “...the only thing we have to fear is fear itself,”or Lincoln’s “With malice toward none, with charity for all... .” However, Obama uttered solid words which he will now need to back with deeds and action. He has told us repeatedly that there is much to do and it will take a long time before improvement can be seen, but I remember one of his statements where he implored America to get up, dust themselves off, and begin again.
I couldn’t help interjecting myself into Washington after I saw a news item this weekend. Cameras caught Bush landing for the last time onto the White House lawn in his helicopter. In the background stood the Washington Monument, tall and white in the distance. I made sure to look to the top of the spire and note the tiny window just under the roof line. Only a few years ago I, the tourist, peered through that window towards the White House and saw the same helicopter land where Bush and his wife stepped onto the grass. Now I can say I’ve seen the event from two different directions.
My hope for the future is that at the end of eight years there will be as great a feeling of good will towards President Obama as there is presently.
From my read of history I couldn’t help but be reminded of the stories surrounding the inauguration of Andrew Jackson. A well-known name, Daniel Webster, made this observation: “Persons have come five hundred miles to see General Jackson, and they really seem to think that the country is rescued from some dreadful danger!” Jackson didn’t want much commotion since his wife had died not long before this, but he couldn’t stem the enthusiasm of the people. Right after he was sworn in the crowd pressed upon him so tightly that he had a difficult time escaping. A near riot developed and they headed to the White House, entered without being invited and proceeded to wreck the place looking for food and drink. After a time White House servants baited the revelers to withdraw from the building by serving wine and ice cream on the lawn.
When Teddy Roosevelt assumed the presidency after the assassination of McKinley he created a fury shortly thereafter. He invited Booker T. Washington to dine with him in the White House. Some southerners thought this was a terrible affront. What would they think now that Obama sits in the Oval Office?
A book in my personal library contains all the presidents’ inaugural addresses. I have looked at them and thought as I listened to Mr. Obama’s speech that it was of average quality. More ear-catchy statements have probably been made by others, i.e. Kennedy’s “... ask not what your country can do for you— ask what you can do for your country,” FDR’s “...the only thing we have to fear is fear itself,”or Lincoln’s “With malice toward none, with charity for all... .” However, Obama uttered solid words which he will now need to back with deeds and action. He has told us repeatedly that there is much to do and it will take a long time before improvement can be seen, but I remember one of his statements where he implored America to get up, dust themselves off, and begin again.
I couldn’t help interjecting myself into Washington after I saw a news item this weekend. Cameras caught Bush landing for the last time onto the White House lawn in his helicopter. In the background stood the Washington Monument, tall and white in the distance. I made sure to look to the top of the spire and note the tiny window just under the roof line. Only a few years ago I, the tourist, peered through that window towards the White House and saw the same helicopter land where Bush and his wife stepped onto the grass. Now I can say I’ve seen the event from two different directions.
My hope for the future is that at the end of eight years there will be as great a feeling of good will towards President Obama as there is presently.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Remember the Memories
With some mild respite from the weather, I can think about other things this morning, even though after I’m done writing I will go out to move some snow around, such as that which has piled up on our deck, our roof line, and other piles that don’t belong where they lay. I experienced a bit of synchronicity last night as I sat reading with one eye and watching a public tv program with the other. The chapter in the book I was reading from bore the title “Writing from Memory;” the tv program’s title was “Colorblind.” It was about an elementary school class from Detroit, MI that experienced the tutelage of a great teacher who happened to be African-American. One of the class members, prompted by her curiosity, started contacting members of the class to reminisce about their experiences in school and how their teacher guided them through their mixed feelings of racial problems during the time of Martin Luther King’s murder.
It might be a bit of a stretch to compare the theme of the program to the material I was reading, but the relationship stood out for me. One quote from the book states, “If you are open to a short safari into the Country of Memory just fifteen minutes will give you enough things to write about to last all morning.” Like those students mentioned above who revived strong memories, I know I can conjure up images and feelings from the past without much trouble. For example, I saw myself as maybe a six or seven year old on a Saturday night when a fellow youngster told me there was a bum sleeping in the old stockyards on the west edge of town. We wanted to go see in the worst way, but parental influence dissuaded us from that. Another time someone told of laying a nickel on the railroad tracks, then after the smoke-belching steam engine and its train had passed, picking it up all squashed and flattened. They, trying to talk me into doing it, met resistance; a nickel bought a single-dip ice cream cone. I wasn’t going to waste it on a train. One other time, the school superintendent came to tell us to stay out of the grain elevator over the noon hour. It seems one of the older students went into the alleyway and fooled around with the manlift. It’s counter-balance was set for the weight of the employee, and when the student got on he shot to the top of the elevator in very fast time.
Now, I’ve gone and opened a gate and the memories are running through like hungry calves to their mothers. I’ll take the space and tell of one more. A grain elevator that used to sit in Sheldon was purchased and moved to a farm site south of Casselton. I can still see it being jacked up and hauled slowly away and think of it each time I pass the spot where it presently sets.
Since I want to spend time researching and writing other things I need to cut back on time thinking and writing blog-things. Instead of posting this several times each week I am going to cut it back to once a week, most probably on a Wednesday. Abe Lincoln once said “Give me six hours to chop down a tree, and I will spend the first four sharpening the axe.” I need to free up those first four hours.
It might be a bit of a stretch to compare the theme of the program to the material I was reading, but the relationship stood out for me. One quote from the book states, “If you are open to a short safari into the Country of Memory just fifteen minutes will give you enough things to write about to last all morning.” Like those students mentioned above who revived strong memories, I know I can conjure up images and feelings from the past without much trouble. For example, I saw myself as maybe a six or seven year old on a Saturday night when a fellow youngster told me there was a bum sleeping in the old stockyards on the west edge of town. We wanted to go see in the worst way, but parental influence dissuaded us from that. Another time someone told of laying a nickel on the railroad tracks, then after the smoke-belching steam engine and its train had passed, picking it up all squashed and flattened. They, trying to talk me into doing it, met resistance; a nickel bought a single-dip ice cream cone. I wasn’t going to waste it on a train. One other time, the school superintendent came to tell us to stay out of the grain elevator over the noon hour. It seems one of the older students went into the alleyway and fooled around with the manlift. It’s counter-balance was set for the weight of the employee, and when the student got on he shot to the top of the elevator in very fast time.
Now, I’ve gone and opened a gate and the memories are running through like hungry calves to their mothers. I’ll take the space and tell of one more. A grain elevator that used to sit in Sheldon was purchased and moved to a farm site south of Casselton. I can still see it being jacked up and hauled slowly away and think of it each time I pass the spot where it presently sets.
Since I want to spend time researching and writing other things I need to cut back on time thinking and writing blog-things. Instead of posting this several times each week I am going to cut it back to once a week, most probably on a Wednesday. Abe Lincoln once said “Give me six hours to chop down a tree, and I will spend the first four sharpening the axe.” I need to free up those first four hours.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Sky Continues to Fall
The headline on the front page of the Bismarck Tribune says it all this morning: Sky Continues to Fall. We’re at the five foot depth and it’s only January 14. Emerson’s poem “The Snow Storm” says it well with these first few lines:
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
...
I start to dream of better times and better places. Some show on the Travel Channel, Anthony Bourdain’s I think, pictured a fellow in a foreign location carrying a quarter of meat from some critter on his shoulder on the way to the barbecue pit. That image took me back to Wyoming and the elk hunting season, 1969, in the Wind River Mountains. I hooked up with a local hunting party to grunt and climb in that rough terrain and admit to having had a good time experiencing it. My friend had purchased a pack burro from somebody who bested him on the deal. The beast had a set of broken down pasterns and fetlocks that creaked and dragged on the ground with every step, so much so that it was decided the animal could carry but little weight. This was decided after one of the party did bag a large bull. Beasts of burden were not in plentiful supply, so yours truly got to shoulder one of the quarters and hike out a couple of miles to the nearest pickup.
One of the men decided he was hungry and started slicing raw meat off the animal and doling it out to us to hold over a small fire to barbecue on the spot. Without salt, pepper, and tenderizing we could as well have been chewing on shoe leather. As I write I remember one other amusing thing. When I went to slide my rifle into its case I realized I never would have been able to hit an animal if I tried. It was missing the front sight. I could just as well have shot with my eyes closed.
Those memories came back and to add to the reverie our next door neighbor called last night all excited telling us to look out a back window. Two deer were eating on dried flower vines right next to our house. If a window had been open I could have reached out with a fly swatter and touched one of them.
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
...
I start to dream of better times and better places. Some show on the Travel Channel, Anthony Bourdain’s I think, pictured a fellow in a foreign location carrying a quarter of meat from some critter on his shoulder on the way to the barbecue pit. That image took me back to Wyoming and the elk hunting season, 1969, in the Wind River Mountains. I hooked up with a local hunting party to grunt and climb in that rough terrain and admit to having had a good time experiencing it. My friend had purchased a pack burro from somebody who bested him on the deal. The beast had a set of broken down pasterns and fetlocks that creaked and dragged on the ground with every step, so much so that it was decided the animal could carry but little weight. This was decided after one of the party did bag a large bull. Beasts of burden were not in plentiful supply, so yours truly got to shoulder one of the quarters and hike out a couple of miles to the nearest pickup.
One of the men decided he was hungry and started slicing raw meat off the animal and doling it out to us to hold over a small fire to barbecue on the spot. Without salt, pepper, and tenderizing we could as well have been chewing on shoe leather. As I write I remember one other amusing thing. When I went to slide my rifle into its case I realized I never would have been able to hit an animal if I tried. It was missing the front sight. I could just as well have shot with my eyes closed.
Those memories came back and to add to the reverie our next door neighbor called last night all excited telling us to look out a back window. Two deer were eating on dried flower vines right next to our house. If a window had been open I could have reached out with a fly swatter and touched one of them.
Monday, January 12, 2009
More Snow and Thoughts
I joined the Rooster Tail Society again this morning. A one-day blizzard came through yesterday afternoon and evening and left deep snow in places that necessitated cranking up my John Deere blower again. I was thinking today that we are really getting set up for a catastrophic winter storm. If we’d get one of the infamous three day blizzards that can hit this area it would really do a lot of harm to livestock, wildlife, and people. It is only January and a lot of bad weather can strike for the next three months. I hope it doesn’t happen.
I’m not in too bad a physical condition, but I still get tired messing around with the snow. It saps mental energy, too, and leaves many things pile up on my desk that I want to get done. I’ve got lots of books to read and poems to write. I’m writing a “cycle” of poems that deal with the earliest white settlements and activity in my home area. I just finished one that deals with an interesting, though tragic, event. When Fort Ransom was still a viable installation being served by the ox cart freighters that interest me it so happened that a huge prairie fire swept down on an encampment of Indians near the fort and at least twenty were burned to death. Two little girls tried to flee the fire with a cart trying to get to the safety of a spring. Their cart struck a rock and overturned:
A glowing-orange ribbon
colored the far horizon
long after the setting sun
ceased to paint the sky. The men
worried where it burned and if
it may block their trail and wrap
them and their slow train in flames.
***
Strong winds drove that blaze for days.
It closed on the Indian
camp near Fort Ransom to taste
its sweet, screaming flesh, then chased
two girls fleeing in a cart,
catching them when a wheel broke.
They and eighteen others died.
I’m not in too bad a physical condition, but I still get tired messing around with the snow. It saps mental energy, too, and leaves many things pile up on my desk that I want to get done. I’ve got lots of books to read and poems to write. I’m writing a “cycle” of poems that deal with the earliest white settlements and activity in my home area. I just finished one that deals with an interesting, though tragic, event. When Fort Ransom was still a viable installation being served by the ox cart freighters that interest me it so happened that a huge prairie fire swept down on an encampment of Indians near the fort and at least twenty were burned to death. Two little girls tried to flee the fire with a cart trying to get to the safety of a spring. Their cart struck a rock and overturned:
A glowing-orange ribbon
colored the far horizon
long after the setting sun
ceased to paint the sky. The men
worried where it burned and if
it may block their trail and wrap
them and their slow train in flames.
***
Strong winds drove that blaze for days.
It closed on the Indian
camp near Fort Ransom to taste
its sweet, screaming flesh, then chased
two girls fleeing in a cart,
catching them when a wheel broke.
They and eighteen others died.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Back at My Keyboard
Yesterday I joined the chorus of members of the Rooster Tail Society, that is, the many of us who went about arching plumes of snow through our snowblowers. Two more snowstorms have been predicted to pass through next week, followed by low-dipping temperatures.
...
I read a thought-provoking article recently that stated the gene pool in wildlife is being weakened. No longer can the strongest of the species survive to pass on their characteristics --- they are the quarry of hunters out to bag a trophy to hang on their wall.
...
I agree with our president-elect's seeming strategy of lowering expectations by telling us it will take awhile before things get better economy-wise. If he goes into office painted as a superman out to swiftly right wrongs, we will all get disappointed in him real fast.
...
I read a thought-provoking article recently that stated the gene pool in wildlife is being weakened. No longer can the strongest of the species survive to pass on their characteristics --- they are the quarry of hunters out to bag a trophy to hang on their wall.
...
I agree with our president-elect's seeming strategy of lowering expectations by telling us it will take awhile before things get better economy-wise. If he goes into office painted as a superman out to swiftly right wrongs, we will all get disappointed in him real fast.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
January 7, 2009
A man with a duck on his head walks into a doctor’s office. The nurse asks what the doctor can do for him. The duck answers, “I want him to get this guy off my ass.”
...
A headline on an article in today’s local paper caught my eye, “More cows in the sales ring.” The sub headline stated, “Rising market value, inclement weather prompt sales increases.” Kist Livestock Market in Mandan serves as the major market for area farmers and ranchers and always bustles with a high amount of activity, but today they are expecting more than 6,000 head to run through their auction ring. A normal sale would see fewer animals than that. Mary called my attention to the article this morning and noted that yesterday afternoon when she drove by the entrance to the sale barn many pickups hooked to cattle trailers were parked on Memorial Highway waiting to turn into the long driveway and get to the unloading docks. Problems surround the cattle producers in a hard winter - water supplies icing over, cattle consuming larger quantities of feed, slower weight gain, hay costs for those in short supply approach $110 per ton delivered, etc.
...
Newsweek says, “Give Us a Sonnet, Doggonit.” The writer here speaks in reference to the upcoming presidential inauguration where sometimes a poet has been asked to present an original piece. She mentioned JFK’s ceremony where Robert Frost could not read the poem he composed because the winds kept fluttering the pages. I remember that time, and I believe he was also having trouble seeing the print because of the harsh glare of the sun. At any rate, he scrapped that effort and recited another one of his poems from memory.
...
In the same magazine a full two page picture caused me to stare in dumb solemnity. A four year old girl is being laid into a crypt by two men after she was killed in the most recent Israeli-Palestinian fight. Her body is wrapped in a green shroud, but her face is unadorned, and except for the trickle of dried blood coming from an unwashed nostril, she appears to be asleep.
...
A headline on an article in today’s local paper caught my eye, “More cows in the sales ring.” The sub headline stated, “Rising market value, inclement weather prompt sales increases.” Kist Livestock Market in Mandan serves as the major market for area farmers and ranchers and always bustles with a high amount of activity, but today they are expecting more than 6,000 head to run through their auction ring. A normal sale would see fewer animals than that. Mary called my attention to the article this morning and noted that yesterday afternoon when she drove by the entrance to the sale barn many pickups hooked to cattle trailers were parked on Memorial Highway waiting to turn into the long driveway and get to the unloading docks. Problems surround the cattle producers in a hard winter - water supplies icing over, cattle consuming larger quantities of feed, slower weight gain, hay costs for those in short supply approach $110 per ton delivered, etc.
...
Newsweek says, “Give Us a Sonnet, Doggonit.” The writer here speaks in reference to the upcoming presidential inauguration where sometimes a poet has been asked to present an original piece. She mentioned JFK’s ceremony where Robert Frost could not read the poem he composed because the winds kept fluttering the pages. I remember that time, and I believe he was also having trouble seeing the print because of the harsh glare of the sun. At any rate, he scrapped that effort and recited another one of his poems from memory.
...
In the same magazine a full two page picture caused me to stare in dumb solemnity. A four year old girl is being laid into a crypt by two men after she was killed in the most recent Israeli-Palestinian fight. Her body is wrapped in a green shroud, but her face is unadorned, and except for the trickle of dried blood coming from an unwashed nostril, she appears to be asleep.
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