Dear Mary,
Things haven’t gone too badly since you’ve been gone again to Mpls to babysit our grandkids. Last time you went I filled the hamper and didn’t have anything to wear - well, I figured it out this time: I haven’t changed clothes. So when you come home you won’t have to worry about washing. Just throw these away!
I know how possessive you are of your lawnmower, so --- since mine is getting repaired --- I’ve left yours alone. The grass is getting long, but that will make it seem worthwhile mowing when you get home. After 35 years of marriage I know when to leave well enough alone.
I’ve been out to the ranch helping to put up hay. It’s really pretty out there, so green. Old flatlander that I am, I didn’t know how settled I’d be when we moved out here, but there’s a beauty in this country that really appeals to me. This morning, Tuesday, was very foggy as I drove south of town and the layers and patches of fog blended into the lay of the land. One sight was especially striking: Little Heart Butte was completely surrounded by the white haze except for its peak that stood up high and clear. It reminded me of Mt. McKinley, except for its smaller scale, of course.
On Monday at the dinner table Marty asked Angie to stick around this morning to give me any change in instructions. She drug her feet a bit since she likes to take a morning walk. I suggested she could just stand in front of the house and run in place. That didn’t go over well. Her sense of humor is something like yours.
Did you hear the one about the lady who after looking in the mirror got all depressed. She told her husband, “I’m not the woman you married. My face is wrinkled, I’ve got granny-flab hanging on my arms, bags under my eyes, etc. Please, honey, say something positive about me so I can feel better about myself.” He thought a minute and offered this, “Well, your eyesight is good.”
Well, I’m writing this Tuesday night so I can get a good start in the morning to come and get you at the Fargo airport. I’m tired and could use a good night’s sleep. My back gets stiff bouncing around in the tractor, my eyes get tired in the sun, I’ve got a bit of sunburn, etc. I wonder if you’ll say something good about me to make me feel better when I see you.”
Love,
Lynn
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Channel Surfing
Sometimes, when I sit vegetating in my chair, I pick up the television’s remote control and start running through the few dozen channels cabled into my house. Once in awhile I land on a station that catches my interest and watch it through to the end. I channel surf in my thoughts, too, with a variety of images flitting in and out of my mind. Many of them get little attention and quickly pass, while others linger a bit longer to get mulled over a bit longer. I think I’ll do a little of that right now and see what pops into this screen in my head.
Channel 21 - Here comes one of Clark Douglas’s trucks with its stock rack rattling on the washboards on the gravel road. I can’t see it yet; it’s hidden in a cloud of dust, but I’ve been expecting it to come to pick up my 4-H heifer and take her to Lisbon for Achievement Days, so I know it’s him. The big Ford drives into the yard and Gene Jaster jumps out, pulls down the ramp, and my blue ribbon winning Holstein walks right up.
Channel 34 - My buddy and I pitch our tent in Manitoba, unload the boat, and proceed to do some fishing. Evening comes and some Canadians, camped near us, invite us over to drink some of their rye whisky. I drink too much and fall soundly asleep in the tent but am awakened by what I take to be my buddy’s loud snoring. I stumble out the next morning to discover our campsite has been torn to shreds by a marauding bear.
Channel 45 - The Sheldon Shadows are playing basketball in the old town hall. A time out has been called, and I’m a bench-rider standing on the outside edge of the huddle. Coach Grosgebauer, in one of his usual lapses of strategy to overcome a score deficit, looks about for someone to chew on. He spots me, “Bueling, I haven’t seen you doing anything yet!” I reply, “You haven’t put me in yet, Coach.”
Channel 53 - My first year out of graduate school and I’m the principal of Wind River High School in Wyoming. The car I drive is a 1966 Chev Impala that has served me well, taking me round trip to Alaska and through a year of grad school in Greeley, Colorado. Home for Christmas vacation I decide to treat myself by retiring the old steed and buy a new car, a 1971 Buick Skylark in which I fly off to the future.
Channel 72 - The girl who will be my future bride and I drive through the fall foliage of the Sheyenne River Valley near Fort Ransom, and she loves the scenery, brilliant colors, and my company. I think I’ll set the clicker down and watch this channel. It should be an interesting program.
Channel 21 - Here comes one of Clark Douglas’s trucks with its stock rack rattling on the washboards on the gravel road. I can’t see it yet; it’s hidden in a cloud of dust, but I’ve been expecting it to come to pick up my 4-H heifer and take her to Lisbon for Achievement Days, so I know it’s him. The big Ford drives into the yard and Gene Jaster jumps out, pulls down the ramp, and my blue ribbon winning Holstein walks right up.
Channel 34 - My buddy and I pitch our tent in Manitoba, unload the boat, and proceed to do some fishing. Evening comes and some Canadians, camped near us, invite us over to drink some of their rye whisky. I drink too much and fall soundly asleep in the tent but am awakened by what I take to be my buddy’s loud snoring. I stumble out the next morning to discover our campsite has been torn to shreds by a marauding bear.
Channel 45 - The Sheldon Shadows are playing basketball in the old town hall. A time out has been called, and I’m a bench-rider standing on the outside edge of the huddle. Coach Grosgebauer, in one of his usual lapses of strategy to overcome a score deficit, looks about for someone to chew on. He spots me, “Bueling, I haven’t seen you doing anything yet!” I reply, “You haven’t put me in yet, Coach.”
Channel 53 - My first year out of graduate school and I’m the principal of Wind River High School in Wyoming. The car I drive is a 1966 Chev Impala that has served me well, taking me round trip to Alaska and through a year of grad school in Greeley, Colorado. Home for Christmas vacation I decide to treat myself by retiring the old steed and buy a new car, a 1971 Buick Skylark in which I fly off to the future.
Channel 72 - The girl who will be my future bride and I drive through the fall foliage of the Sheyenne River Valley near Fort Ransom, and she loves the scenery, brilliant colors, and my company. I think I’ll set the clicker down and watch this channel. It should be an interesting program.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
A Great Find in Rummage
Saturday mornings around here often finds us searching out two or three garage sales; it’s not that we need anything, but the thrill of the hunt supersedes any needs. And, it is only once or twice during a summer that we stumble upon choice items. The treasure I uncovered last Saturday may have been my allotment for the year, and I found it in the unlikely place of a recently closed farm implement building on main street. Odds and ends of that business were being offered as well as household items that had been brought in. There, neatly placed on shelves were a couple hundred older hardcover books from which I chose two. One of them, a history entitled Red River Runs North!, contains information I had not run across before about my historical research interest of ox-cart freighting. A wealth of facts in it will feed my writing project regarding the trail from Fort Abercrombie to Fort Ransom.
The other find grabbing my attention that day was an autobiography written by North Dakota’s own Eric Sevareid, Not So Wild a Dream. I find Sevareid’s writing pretty irresistible; how can an old farm boy not keep reading after scanning the first two lines of chapter one: “The small brown river curved around the edge of our town. The farmers plowed close to its muddy banks and left their water jugs in the shade of the willows.” Having read this book previously, I am familiar with his story. It is this book that carries the oft-quoted passage regarding how people reacted when he told them he hailed from North Dakota. To them this state “… was a large, rectangular blank spot in the nation’s mind.”
Sevareid’s use of the English language was superb! I still remember his radio and television commentaries and how precisely his two minute’s worth of words described his topic of the day. Whenever he started talking I usually stopped to listen, and since it’s been a number of years since last I read him, I’m enjoying his penned words all over again.
As a young man he demonstrated an adventurous spirit and the places he went and the enviable experiences he gained shaped his world view and influenced his professional life. He was present in Europe working as a news correspondent prior to and during World War II and sent out breaking stories and bulletins, a feat few other correspondents were able to accomplish. He’d beg or bluster his way through the management of radio stations and get small doses of airtime to inform the world what Hitler was doing at the outset of this period. His report was the first indication to the outside world that France had capitulated, offering little resistance to the Nazi army. When things started getting dicey for him and his family he knew he had to get his wife and one week old twin boys out of Paris and safely home to the United States. That story alone raises goose bumps when he found out that procuring transportation made him compete with the thousands of refugees who wanted a place on available ships, too. After a time when he knew his own life to be in danger, he made his way to England to find and report to his boss Edward R. Murrow. He had left Paris without permission, something I suppose most of us would do if our lives were in danger, but worried whether or not Murrow might fire him for insubordination. Murrow’s response to the contrary, “This is the best news I’ve had for a long time … You have pulled off one of the greatest broadcasting feats there ever was.”
The book is long and wordy, but I enjoy every page of this great writer. A symposium on Eric Sevareid will be held in Bismarck next April, and a one night lecture is scheduled at the Heritage Center in November. I plan to attend both events.
The other find grabbing my attention that day was an autobiography written by North Dakota’s own Eric Sevareid, Not So Wild a Dream. I find Sevareid’s writing pretty irresistible; how can an old farm boy not keep reading after scanning the first two lines of chapter one: “The small brown river curved around the edge of our town. The farmers plowed close to its muddy banks and left their water jugs in the shade of the willows.” Having read this book previously, I am familiar with his story. It is this book that carries the oft-quoted passage regarding how people reacted when he told them he hailed from North Dakota. To them this state “… was a large, rectangular blank spot in the nation’s mind.”
Sevareid’s use of the English language was superb! I still remember his radio and television commentaries and how precisely his two minute’s worth of words described his topic of the day. Whenever he started talking I usually stopped to listen, and since it’s been a number of years since last I read him, I’m enjoying his penned words all over again.
As a young man he demonstrated an adventurous spirit and the places he went and the enviable experiences he gained shaped his world view and influenced his professional life. He was present in Europe working as a news correspondent prior to and during World War II and sent out breaking stories and bulletins, a feat few other correspondents were able to accomplish. He’d beg or bluster his way through the management of radio stations and get small doses of airtime to inform the world what Hitler was doing at the outset of this period. His report was the first indication to the outside world that France had capitulated, offering little resistance to the Nazi army. When things started getting dicey for him and his family he knew he had to get his wife and one week old twin boys out of Paris and safely home to the United States. That story alone raises goose bumps when he found out that procuring transportation made him compete with the thousands of refugees who wanted a place on available ships, too. After a time when he knew his own life to be in danger, he made his way to England to find and report to his boss Edward R. Murrow. He had left Paris without permission, something I suppose most of us would do if our lives were in danger, but worried whether or not Murrow might fire him for insubordination. Murrow’s response to the contrary, “This is the best news I’ve had for a long time … You have pulled off one of the greatest broadcasting feats there ever was.”
The book is long and wordy, but I enjoy every page of this great writer. A symposium on Eric Sevareid will be held in Bismarck next April, and a one night lecture is scheduled at the Heritage Center in November. I plan to attend both events.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Freedom of Speech
As aggravating and damaging as it can be at times, it is our duty as citizens of this country to promote and protect free speech. As a youngster I clearly remember how frustrating it was to be bullied and intimidated by older, stronger boys and then be forced to follow their dictates. Being made to “shut up” developed into strongly entrenched resentment and prevented useful, satisfying dialogue from ever developing. The present national political scene emulates this childish approach to important debate and I am sad for that. I always enjoy hearing the oft-repeated anecdote regarding Ronald Reagan and Tip O’Neill. During the day their ideological differences were topics of fierce debate, but occasionally at night they set their differences aside by enjoying each other’s company over drinks and story telling.
My history book tells me that the first attempt to codify personal rights came about with the Magna Carta signed into effect in 1215 by King John who was forced to do so because some of the English barons rebelled. The thought set down in that document became a guiding star our own forefathers borrowed from when they wrote the U. S. Constitution and guaranteed Freedom of Speech in the First Amendment. One of my sources states “The First Amendment, also called the Great Amendment, is in many ways the cornerstone of America’s free, open, and tolerant society… It guarantees that Americans can share the information they need for a robust public debate on the issues, and to act on those issues.”
I doubt whether the one-sided diatribes heard daily on television and radio shows meet the criteria for and add to a robust public debate and I have for the most part stopped listening. I choose to open my books and study them for the knowledge therein and not feel as though I’m being told to “shut up.” After drawing my own conclusions, I am grateful to have the freedom and opportunity to express myself on this humble web log.
***
Family health concerns concerning our three surviving parents weigh heavily and take up quite a bit of our time and energies. A trip to Lisbon yesterday prevented my posting this blog. I am certain faithful readers of this blogsite will understand. We are glad the auction sale in Lisbon went well. It took lots of energy, but we were gratified by the large turnout, the good sales, and the great crew who came to help us load their possessions and haul and unload them at the site of the auction. We were also gratified to hear that their landlord was pleased with the clean condition of the property. My brother and his wife worked hard at cleaning when they came to visit, and anyone who knows my wife knows how hard she worked.
My history book tells me that the first attempt to codify personal rights came about with the Magna Carta signed into effect in 1215 by King John who was forced to do so because some of the English barons rebelled. The thought set down in that document became a guiding star our own forefathers borrowed from when they wrote the U. S. Constitution and guaranteed Freedom of Speech in the First Amendment. One of my sources states “The First Amendment, also called the Great Amendment, is in many ways the cornerstone of America’s free, open, and tolerant society… It guarantees that Americans can share the information they need for a robust public debate on the issues, and to act on those issues.”
I doubt whether the one-sided diatribes heard daily on television and radio shows meet the criteria for and add to a robust public debate and I have for the most part stopped listening. I choose to open my books and study them for the knowledge therein and not feel as though I’m being told to “shut up.” After drawing my own conclusions, I am grateful to have the freedom and opportunity to express myself on this humble web log.
***
Family health concerns concerning our three surviving parents weigh heavily and take up quite a bit of our time and energies. A trip to Lisbon yesterday prevented my posting this blog. I am certain faithful readers of this blogsite will understand. We are glad the auction sale in Lisbon went well. It took lots of energy, but we were gratified by the large turnout, the good sales, and the great crew who came to help us load their possessions and haul and unload them at the site of the auction. We were also gratified to hear that their landlord was pleased with the clean condition of the property. My brother and his wife worked hard at cleaning when they came to visit, and anyone who knows my wife knows how hard she worked.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Random Thoughts on the 3rd of June
The auction sale is done! A nice crowd attended; some things sold well, others not so well. My mother expressed relief that a prized trunk built by her dad stayed in the family when one of the Devitt girls bought it. The saddest part of the sale is that the financial proceeds from it will be eaten up in about one month at the nursing home.
---
Mary and I have an anniversary coming up, number 35. Those years have passed by quickly. I guess that’s what happens when you marry the right one.
---
This Saturday marks the 65th anniversary of D Day. There are several good websites containing history of that battle. One of the good ones: www.militaryhistoryonline.com. A scene from that battle plays over and over. A few men are pictured coming ashore and one soldier is hit and goes down. I’ve always wondered if he survived his wound. Casualties that day amounted to 1,500 Americans killed with 3,200 wounded and 1,900 missing in action. A veteran told me once that the term "missing in action" often means being blown to bits by an explosion and no trace of the body could be found.
---
Much is being made of the Republican party’s demise and how they can’t get it together. I presume they will in the future, but there sure is a lot of acid coming from the mouths of some of their commentators. It makes me think of Newton’s Law of Motion - To every action there is an opposite and equal reaction. Having just suffered through eight years of government ineptitude and corruption, this new administration’s approach to governing should have been expected.
---
We heard of a Norwegian who was so dumb he thought the word “innuendo” was an Italian word for Preparation H.
---
I watched the NBC special last evening of Brian Williams and crew roaming around the White House for a day. One thing that impresses me about Obama is that for his youth and inexperience he exudes a confident air. Whether or not his term(s) in office will be successful remains to be seen.
---
Mary and I have an anniversary coming up, number 35. Those years have passed by quickly. I guess that’s what happens when you marry the right one.
---
This Saturday marks the 65th anniversary of D Day. There are several good websites containing history of that battle. One of the good ones: www.militaryhistoryonline.com. A scene from that battle plays over and over. A few men are pictured coming ashore and one soldier is hit and goes down. I’ve always wondered if he survived his wound. Casualties that day amounted to 1,500 Americans killed with 3,200 wounded and 1,900 missing in action. A veteran told me once that the term "missing in action" often means being blown to bits by an explosion and no trace of the body could be found.
---
Much is being made of the Republican party’s demise and how they can’t get it together. I presume they will in the future, but there sure is a lot of acid coming from the mouths of some of their commentators. It makes me think of Newton’s Law of Motion - To every action there is an opposite and equal reaction. Having just suffered through eight years of government ineptitude and corruption, this new administration’s approach to governing should have been expected.
---
We heard of a Norwegian who was so dumb he thought the word “innuendo” was an Italian word for Preparation H.
---
I watched the NBC special last evening of Brian Williams and crew roaming around the White House for a day. One thing that impresses me about Obama is that for his youth and inexperience he exudes a confident air. Whether or not his term(s) in office will be successful remains to be seen.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Recorded History
I’m getting ready to go to Lisbon regarding auction sale business for the last time; however, I’ll probably be there until Sunday this time and will be very glad when it is over. The next trips out there will be to just relax and visit with the folks. Going through their possessions gives one a handle on the passage of time. For instance, Ma’s wedding dress from 68 years ago was dredged up from the bottom of her beloved cedar chest and the shirt Dad wore at the time revealed itself, too. Pictures are especially interesting: who is this, when would that have been, where was this one taken, etc. The bedroom set they were given as a wedding present will have to be sold. No one has room for it. The “Box” built by Grandpa Sandvig in the 1920’s has to go. No one has room for it. The ornate china closet with side board has to go. No one has room for it.
The written word might be the best way to preserve things, anyway. I will have lots of stories to relay through my blog regarding my parents, but in the interest of time today (remember, I’m heading to Lisbon shortly) I’m going to bring out a story my father-in-law told from his past that was transcribed by my wife Mary. It recalls the time when Adam and his brother went out one morning to milk the cows and do other chores. Quite a little time passed and “still their younger sisters and father hadn’t come out of the two story farmhouse to get the milking started. ‘Na, wo siens ah?’ In German he says, ‘the cows stand here leaking milk; they have already let down their milk. Finish up here, Lazarus, I guess I’ll have to go wake them up-- they must have overslept. I could smell smoke before I even got close to the house.
Putrid smelling smoke from a collapsed chimney enveloped me when I opened the door. ‘Good God in Heaven! Mutta! Mutta!’ Mother was the first one I saw but I couldn’t pick her up off the bedroom floor; she was just too heavy for this 15 year old boy. Getting a grip under her arms I pulled her out of the house, left her on the front stoop and ran back into the house. I returned to find Dad still conscious enough to be able to walk. I grabbed him, blankets and all, and he walked out of the house with my help. ‘Go upstairs and get the girls,’ he whispered hoarsely. The smoke was so thick and noxious I thought I’d collapse, too. I grabbed a diaper and held it over my nose and mouth as I sprinted up the 16 foot staircase of our tall, two story farmhouse. ‘Helen, Katy, Clara, wake up! Wake up!’ They couldn’t be roused and one by one I pulled, tugged, dragged them down the steep, narrow staircase outdoors to safety. ‘Come on, Helen, we’ve got to get out of here!’ I had to pull them down backwards and once I almost fell. Klunk, klunk, klunk, their feet hit every step. [Several sentences here are omitted] Once Felix was outside the house he plopped down beside his family as they lay helpless and disoriented for a time, coughing like crazy until they came to and started throwing up. They were all terribly sick and Mother had a terrible headache that didn’t go away for a long time. I wanted them to go to the doctor but no they said, ‘we’ll be all right now.’”
The written word might be the best way to preserve things, anyway. I will have lots of stories to relay through my blog regarding my parents, but in the interest of time today (remember, I’m heading to Lisbon shortly) I’m going to bring out a story my father-in-law told from his past that was transcribed by my wife Mary. It recalls the time when Adam and his brother went out one morning to milk the cows and do other chores. Quite a little time passed and “still their younger sisters and father hadn’t come out of the two story farmhouse to get the milking started. ‘Na, wo siens ah?’ In German he says, ‘the cows stand here leaking milk; they have already let down their milk. Finish up here, Lazarus, I guess I’ll have to go wake them up-- they must have overslept. I could smell smoke before I even got close to the house.
Putrid smelling smoke from a collapsed chimney enveloped me when I opened the door. ‘Good God in Heaven! Mutta! Mutta!’ Mother was the first one I saw but I couldn’t pick her up off the bedroom floor; she was just too heavy for this 15 year old boy. Getting a grip under her arms I pulled her out of the house, left her on the front stoop and ran back into the house. I returned to find Dad still conscious enough to be able to walk. I grabbed him, blankets and all, and he walked out of the house with my help. ‘Go upstairs and get the girls,’ he whispered hoarsely. The smoke was so thick and noxious I thought I’d collapse, too. I grabbed a diaper and held it over my nose and mouth as I sprinted up the 16 foot staircase of our tall, two story farmhouse. ‘Helen, Katy, Clara, wake up! Wake up!’ They couldn’t be roused and one by one I pulled, tugged, dragged them down the steep, narrow staircase outdoors to safety. ‘Come on, Helen, we’ve got to get out of here!’ I had to pull them down backwards and once I almost fell. Klunk, klunk, klunk, their feet hit every step. [Several sentences here are omitted] Once Felix was outside the house he plopped down beside his family as they lay helpless and disoriented for a time, coughing like crazy until they came to and started throwing up. They were all terribly sick and Mother had a terrible headache that didn’t go away for a long time. I wanted them to go to the doctor but no they said, ‘we’ll be all right now.’”
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Graduation
We attended a reception for a high school graduate on Sunday. When I congratulated her, I spotted a twinkle in her eyes which I presumed came from earning this accomplishment paired with her dreams for the future; she told me she plans to attend a good university. Young folks at this stage of their life begin to strongly think of independence. My wish for her and all high school graduates is to realize that with this freshly minted diploma all they have really done is open a gate. Now comes the tricky part; they have to decide how large the yard beyond will be. For some it will be small and thick with weeds growing alongside the fence line. Grass will grow ragged and unmown with lots of dandelions abloom. At the opposite, others will fertilize and maintain a huge yard, multi-colored and textured with flower beds, bushes, and trees where song birds and butterflies make their homes.
My high school class adopted the motto One goal reached, many beyond. I suppose that sufficed, but who cared much about mottoes then? The fallacy with those words is that not many people set goals. They take life day to day, or put another way, paycheck to paycheck.
A life’s motto that makes more sense to me - If you can dream it, you can achieve it.
Dream Big - Author unknown
If there were ever a time to dare,
To make a difference
To embark on something worth doing
It is now.
Not for any grand cause, necessarily –
But for something that tugs at your heart
Something that is worth your aspiration
Something that is your dream.
You owe it to yourself
To make your days count.
Have fun. Dig deep. Stretch.
Dream big.
Know, though,
That things worth doing
Seldom come easy.
There will be times when you want to
Turn around
Pack it up and call it quits.
Those times tell you
That you are pushing yourself
And that you are not afraid to learn by trying.
Persist.
Because with an idea,
Determination and the right tools,
You can do great things.
Let your instincts, your intellect
And let your heart guide you.
Trust.
Believe in the incredible power
Of the human mind
Of doing something that makes a difference.
Of working hard
Of laughing and hoping
Of lasting friends
Of all the things that will cross your path.
Next year
The start of something new
Brings the hope of something great.
Anything is possible.
There is only one you
And you will pass this way but once.
Do it right
My high school class adopted the motto One goal reached, many beyond. I suppose that sufficed, but who cared much about mottoes then? The fallacy with those words is that not many people set goals. They take life day to day, or put another way, paycheck to paycheck.
A life’s motto that makes more sense to me - If you can dream it, you can achieve it.
Dream Big - Author unknown
If there were ever a time to dare,
To make a difference
To embark on something worth doing
It is now.
Not for any grand cause, necessarily –
But for something that tugs at your heart
Something that is worth your aspiration
Something that is your dream.
You owe it to yourself
To make your days count.
Have fun. Dig deep. Stretch.
Dream big.
Know, though,
That things worth doing
Seldom come easy.
There will be times when you want to
Turn around
Pack it up and call it quits.
Those times tell you
That you are pushing yourself
And that you are not afraid to learn by trying.
Persist.
Because with an idea,
Determination and the right tools,
You can do great things.
Let your instincts, your intellect
And let your heart guide you.
Trust.
Believe in the incredible power
Of the human mind
Of doing something that makes a difference.
Of working hard
Of laughing and hoping
Of lasting friends
Of all the things that will cross your path.
Next year
The start of something new
Brings the hope of something great.
Anything is possible.
There is only one you
And you will pass this way but once.
Do it right
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Busy, busy, busy
I've been so occupied with other things that I almost forgot it's Wednesday, the day I usually write a blog. Writing is one of my favorite things, and I never intend to give that up. The primary draw for my time has been the auction sale we are preparing for in Lisbon on May 30. A reader of this might be interested in scanning the sale bill posted on the internet. A couple different versions of the bill are located on these sites: www.rdauction.com --- or --- www.globalauctionguide.com/rd.
When June comes I will finally be able to do other things, but what am I doing here, feeling sorry for myself? Dad expressed his thanks for our preparing the sale. I replied, I just hope that when I get old and unable to do for myself that someone will step up to take care of our affairs.
When June comes I will finally be able to do other things, but what am I doing here, feeling sorry for myself? Dad expressed his thanks for our preparing the sale. I replied, I just hope that when I get old and unable to do for myself that someone will step up to take care of our affairs.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
More Memories
The grass is greening up, shirtsleeves seem sufficient to keep the breeze off, and we got in a damn car accident yesterday - rear ended at a stop light. I went to the emergency room afterwards, had a CT scan and the doctor reported he saw a hollow chamber within the walls of my skull. Well, I am still mobile and the other party’s insurance will take care of the repairs (they say).
We will be heading to my aunt’s funeral tomorrow in Lisbon where I will be a pall bearer. This leaves my dad as the sole surviving offspring of Charles and Tillie Bueling. Eleven brothers and sisters have preceded him in death. He is 94 years old, now lives in a home, and still makes plans for the future. I am taking carving tools and wood along since he wants to start carving his creations again.
There is still work to do preparing for the auction sale, so any spare time tomorrow will be spent at that job. We’ve come across many items of interest when we sort and box things up, some to be sold, some to be kept as heirlooms. An example of this is an old postcard addressed to my grandmother Clara. The sender located at St. Cloud, MN said, “It is easy to go to the show here, just jump on the street car and away you go. The Birth of a Nation is coming … Saw Charlie Chaplin in the movies some time ago. He sure is some funny guy.” A long letter stamped with two one-centers to Grandma and a one cent postcard are written in Norwegian, a language I took a class in one time but still cannot read.
Yellowed newspaper clippings abound, some announcing engagements, some obituaries, some four or five generation family pictures, etc. Lots of beautiful old Valentine cards of outstanding quality were saved, crafted with a quality you just don’t see in today’s. Loose pictures, mostly of relatives and acquaintances who have passed on (which makes me stop to think of my own mortality). After all is said and done with this transition period there will be many more stories to tell and pass on. This blogging effort of mine has always been intended as a method of letting my sons and their descendants know more about me and my thoughts.
To conclude, the most yellowed clipping I’ve run across in this memory trip speaks to my folks' life period probably the best way it can be stated. It is a poem entitled “The Old Milk Cow.” Its first verse goes like this: When crop failure hits / And we’re down to two bits, / With our creditors we’re in for a row. / To another crop it appears / We will have to shift gears, / And go back to the old milk cow.
We will be heading to my aunt’s funeral tomorrow in Lisbon where I will be a pall bearer. This leaves my dad as the sole surviving offspring of Charles and Tillie Bueling. Eleven brothers and sisters have preceded him in death. He is 94 years old, now lives in a home, and still makes plans for the future. I am taking carving tools and wood along since he wants to start carving his creations again.
There is still work to do preparing for the auction sale, so any spare time tomorrow will be spent at that job. We’ve come across many items of interest when we sort and box things up, some to be sold, some to be kept as heirlooms. An example of this is an old postcard addressed to my grandmother Clara. The sender located at St. Cloud, MN said, “It is easy to go to the show here, just jump on the street car and away you go. The Birth of a Nation is coming … Saw Charlie Chaplin in the movies some time ago. He sure is some funny guy.” A long letter stamped with two one-centers to Grandma and a one cent postcard are written in Norwegian, a language I took a class in one time but still cannot read.
Yellowed newspaper clippings abound, some announcing engagements, some obituaries, some four or five generation family pictures, etc. Lots of beautiful old Valentine cards of outstanding quality were saved, crafted with a quality you just don’t see in today’s. Loose pictures, mostly of relatives and acquaintances who have passed on (which makes me stop to think of my own mortality). After all is said and done with this transition period there will be many more stories to tell and pass on. This blogging effort of mine has always been intended as a method of letting my sons and their descendants know more about me and my thoughts.
To conclude, the most yellowed clipping I’ve run across in this memory trip speaks to my folks' life period probably the best way it can be stated. It is a poem entitled “The Old Milk Cow.” Its first verse goes like this: When crop failure hits / And we’re down to two bits, / With our creditors we’re in for a row. / To another crop it appears / We will have to shift gears, / And go back to the old milk cow.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Dad's Memory
Sitting at this keyboard the day after we returned from Lisbon after another two-day stay I can take time to think about the people I am descended from. My folks now reside there in the Parkside Home, and Mary and I each week have been taking regular trips to their apartment to sort and pack things in preparation for an auction sale on May 30. We’ve come across many things of a high-interest nature such as old cards, letters, and pictures, and during the 3:00 coffee hour at Parkside we sit and ask questions about them.
The ladies at the home were all a-twitter yesterday because it was their inaugural organizational meeting of a “Red Hat Society.” It so happened I had taken to Dad a red cap emblazoned with “Sheldon Shadows” so Ma able to wear that until we shop for something more appropriate. I had wheeled Dad down there too because we thought we were going to have our coffee with them, but, no, they kicked us out, ladies only. So we returned to the spot where the men were being served. Their discussion turned to weather and Dad started remembering the spring of 1936 when he said he and a hired man put in the crop with horses, and it was so cold they had to walk behind the horses to keep warm. A question arose: was it the year the dust blew so bad? No, that was 1934.
I had taken pictures to the folks so they could identify for posterity the people on them. While we were waiting for the ladies to crown their queen and finish with festivities we went down to his room and looked at pictures. I found that I couldn’t write fast enough because of the wellspring of information that flowed by the gallons. A picture of his brother Leslie holding four work horses brought this comment: That’s Queen, Topsy, Bird, and Dolly, and Queen was a daughter of Topsy. I eventually got Bird and Russell got the two white ones. The memory was pretty strong. I’d guess that photo was seventy-five years old.
A photo, about 85 years old, of a threshing scene we’d blown up to fit on an 8 ½ by 11 sheet soon filled completely on the back side with written reminisced information. It was snapped about 1927 and pictured his Dad’s threshing machine, a Nicholson-Shepard Red River Special that was worn out by the time Dad worked with it and consequently seemed like it was always broken down. Two men shown were Nels Bjerke on the left with horse team of Sam and Molly, and Ludvig Davidson on the right with Cub and Jesse. The tractor powering the machine was an Allis-Chalmers 20/35. The facts kept pouring forth. The 1924 Model T touring car had been modified into a pickup and Grandpa came to own it by trading his Willys 6 to Richard Fritz even-up. Oh, by the way, when Dad was ten years old the Model T was the first car he ever drive.
The earlier mentioned Ludvig Davidson once hired Dad to help him haul hay for two days and paid him $4 for his labor. Grandma Bueling, his mother, was so happy because then Dad could buy a pair of Star Brand shoes to wear while, at nine years of age, he ran a McCormick binder. Otherwise, he would have had to work barefooted in the grain field.
Dad has always had a soft spot for the heavy work horses did during this period and told of a time he hauled grain on a gravel road and how sore their feet got. It also was hard on the wooden wagon wheels so at the end of the day he ran the wagon into some water so the spokes would soak and tighten up a bit. The memories never stopped coming. I am going to start carrying my recorder so I don’t have to write so fast. Then, the ladies came back energized from their Red Hat gathering so our history lesson drew to a close.
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.
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.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)