Thursday, A Day Late

Sometimes a fellow just doesn’t have much to say. Of course, it’s probably got something to do with yesterday. I donated blood again, or more specifically half of it was plasma and the other half red blood cells. My iron count wasn’t high enough to give double red blood cells so they determined half of that was what they’d take. Whatever the decision, the process of being a donor always steals energy from me, so today I’m dragging around like a lazy dog. However, I still look on it as my little way of payback to society, so I plan to continue doing it. I’ve received blood transfusions on two different occasions in my life, and I won’t forget that somebody had to donate it for me.

I keep working at my second book and search for inspiration under every rock. It goes slowly. The problem might be that I’ve already started the third volume in my head, a fact which detracts me from the one at hand. The third one with have a unified theme, while this one as well as the first one I published bounced all over the place with poems of whatever took my fancy. The last piece I completed starts with this stanza:

Every small town bar has one, an unprincipled expert
of political issues, a verbal bull who will gore
and skewer his opponents with his horns in a quarrel…

I had lots of fun writing that one, and I only had to go so far as to dip into my own barrel of experience to dredge it up. The third volume’s theme will concern the early transportation enterprise that cut trails through my home territory. It’s a good story, and I hope I can do it justice.

Health Care

In regards to the current health insurance debate I suspected all along that something like the following was the case . My local paper yesterday carried a political cartoon where a patient wearing a tee shirt emblazoned with “No Gov’t Healthcare” sat in a doctor’s office with his mouth wide open saying “aaaahhh” and the doctor says “All that yelling and screaming at town hall meetings has damaged your throat!” The second panel shows the patient asking, “So, will my Medicare cover it?”

A few days ago another similar episode occurred where a placard reading “Keep your government hands off my Medicare” was spotted in a crowd. Bill Maher, a clever commentator on current events said, “That’s a bit like driving a thousand miles on a highway to protest road construction.”

I don’t know what health care reform will look like when it’s over, but I do wish that people would study the issue and try to think it through a bit before shooting their mouths off. They make themselves look stupid. I heard one guy tell an interviewer that he doesn’t get his news from regular network newsmen; he doesn’t trust them; instead he listens to the Fox network. (?!%@#)

For awhile the kooks were saying, “Don’t pull the plug on Grannie!” Talk about sound bites. I’m just glad I qualify for Medicare. It takes a lot of stress off from the budget. So long.

100 Degrees Today

Stiffness sets into my joints so that my body tells me of my age even though my brain still does not recognize it. Somebody has said “At the threshold of old age it will take only a few steps to walk through and enter the room.” The day will probably come when I will go to a doctor and he will say he has both good news and bad news. I will say, “Lay it on me, Doc. What’s the bad news?” He’ll say, “You have Alzheimer’s!” After gulping, I’ll say, “Good heavens! What’s the good news?” “You can go home and forget about it.”
Then I’ll put a bumper sticker on my car that says “I’m speeding because I have to get there before I forget where I’m going.”
…
I suppose I should write about the past since there is more and more of it, and I’ll never run out of material. In Winnipeg we visited a graveyard adjacent to the St. Boniface Cathedral; in it rest the remains of one Louis Riel, known as the leader of the Metis, named thus because they were part-Indian and part-Frenchmen. They felt they were encroached upon by the government of Canada which wanted to claim the lands they had been living on for years. It interests me because the Metis, by the hundreds, drove the ox-cart trails which I am presently studying. It is significant to me because the period of the Metis’ unrest and outright rebellion was 1869-70, a fact which coincides with the ox-cart freighting taking place in the part of the state where I was born and raised. From Riel’s life I am gleaning lots of information regarding the people and culture of the drovers who cut deep ruts through the prairie and forded the Sheyenne River to get to Fort Ransom.

A timeline of the years 1867-1870 reveals several events pertaining to transportation: the golden spike was driven at Promontory, Utah; transcontinental rail service began; the Suez Canal opened; first railroad bridge across the Missouri at Kansas City; construction of the Brooklyn Bridge began; etc. plus one more interesting one. In June of 1867 2000 Chinese workers on the western railroad struck because they had not been paid in weeks. They also demanded the whippings stop and that hours spent in hot tunnels be limited to eight hours a day. The Central Pacific manager cut off the strikers’ food supply and threatened to fire the workers. The strike collapsed after a week.

A Trip to Winnipeg

We returned last evening from a trip to Winnipeg where we took in a half dozen shows of Folklorama, their large multi-ethnic celebration of the many cultures that live in and mix with that city. We’ve been there a couple times before, but each season the two week long production is different. This year we attended the pavilions of Africa, Scotland, and Colombia the first evening and Israel, Russia, and Korea the second.

Each of the two nights we ate appetizers at the first location, the main course at the second, and dessert at the third. Some of the food was good, some not so. My favorite was the main course we ate at the Russian venue; it seemed like real food. Scotland’s main course included haggis, a dish I’d heard much about. It was a dark lump of heavily seasoned sausage-like tripe that I did not care for, but then some people don’t think much of lutefisk and lefse either, so I can’t condemn that whole culture because of their favorite dish.

Music performances from each of the countries were a great crowd pleaser, even though some of it was loud. Korea included a demonstration of tae kwon do; I would not want to pick a fight with any of those people because of what they showed they could do to an opponent.

Israel’s show was held on a Jewish campus in the city, and I could not help but notice the patches on the uniforms of the men directing parking. They identified them at that campus’s private security force. With Jews under attack from terrorists in so many parts of the world, this Winnipeg enclave of Jews obviously planned to take no chances by leaving themselves open to attack.

Winnipeg’s mural painters are given exterior walls of businesses to create their large scale art which gives the city an attractive, decorated look. The city overall has a clean proud look about it that makes it a pleasure to visit.

Bumper Stickers

I find a world of wisdom in bumper stickers. For example here we are in the growing season with lots of moisture and the grass needs more than its fair share of attention. This sticker could well be my motto: “I fought the lawn and lawn won.” One that applies to me as well as almost everyone I’ve ever known cautions us to “never miss a good chance to shut up.” If my better angel had been sitting on my shoulder to remind me of this countless times, I would have appreciated it. Alas, where was he?

Money is a popular topic on bumper stickers. A few of them are - “Money talks, but all mine ever says is good-bye!” “Money wouldn’t be so important if everybody didn’t want some.” “If work is so terrific, how come they have to pay you to do it?”

This one especially hits the mark at my house. “Laugh and the world laughs with you. Snore and you sleep alone.” My wife tells me I am afflicted with this ailment, so I have tried the sticky butterfly thingies on the outside of my nose as well as the oval inserts you stick up your nostrils, neither of which seems to work very well. I always can tell when there has been a problem in the night when I wander into the living room in the morning and find a rumpled quilt on the couch.

I love this one. “More hay, Trigger? No, thanks, Roy, I’m stuffed.” Does that one might make you think a bit? Speaking of the dead, these work for me - “I intend to live forever. So far, so good.” and “Never knock on Death’s door. Ring the bell and run, he hates that!”

I know this stuff is silly, but what the heck. Here are a couple that remind me of me - “Whenever I think of the past it brings back so many memories,” and “My life is based on a true story.”

The one I have found to be the most profound deals with physics (I think, something to do with every action having an equal and opposite reaction) - “What would happen if the whole world farted at once?”

Good-bye!

Buzz Aldrin, etc.

We just marked the 40th anniversary of the moon landing. Some people just won’t accept facts as evidenced by those who say that walking on the moon was all a hoax, (a hoax akin to those who contend the earth is flat or that Obama is not a U. S citizen even though he was born in Hawaii of a mother who was a U. S. citizen.) I am convinced the moon landing really happened because if there had been some shenanigans taking place regarding its authenticity the just-elapsed forty year span would have exposed people with a guilty conscience who would have taken the opportunity to write a book and make some money from the supposed scam. One of the astronauts, Buzz Aldrin, has become my hero, because when confronted by a verbally abusive critic, he up and popped him. The guy tried to sue but the judge declared he had it coming. You can watch it happen. Go to Huffingtonpost.com and scroll down in "Most popular on Huffington Post" until it comes into view. The video is titled “Buzz Aldrin Punches Moon Landing Conspiracy Theorist in the Face.”
… … …
I worked in the hayfield again Monday morning even though the weather threatened to drive me out. A dark blue storm cloud slid around to the south but put on quite a show with all the sharp lightning it produced. It made me think back to another time when I was in a wheat field near Kiowa, Kansas. Cauliflower clouds had grown tall all that afternoon and when night came on and our combines still threshed away sharp lightning lit the sky and kept coming toward us. With lightning dancing all around we finally got scared enough to stop, shut the machines down, and dismount. That decision was not what the owner of the field thought should occur. He came roaring up in his pickup and swore up and down that we should keep those machines going. He was more than likely afraid of hail wiping out the nice crop and our safety was not particularly high on his list, an attitude I found to exist among certain other farmers down there. Luckily he backed off and we did not combine anymore that evening.

Reminded of old combining stories, there is another that comes to mind. I was atop a machine running in road gear for several miles down some highway in Nebraska, it was cold and drizzly, and, with no cab, I drove all hunched up. The highway was a bit narrow, and I guess I was weaving across the center line a bit, but I didn’t think much. A man and woman in a car passed me; I remember seeing grocery bags in the back seat but thought little else of it, except when he passed and pulled over to the side of the road which blocked me from going further. He got out and proceeded to holler and scream at me about keeping “that goddamn thing on my side of the road!” He kept at it, and I was not going to take any more of it and took the machine out of gear, locked the brakes, and started getting out of my seat to confront him. He saw my reaction and screamed, “If you don’t know it, I’m the sheriff of this goddamn county!” Just then the boss of the outfit pulled up in his pickup and everything settled down. I may just have punched him out, but unlike Buzz Aldrin, I don’t think the judge would have sided with me to tell the sheriff he had it coming.

...What we choose to recall

Merle Haggard sings a line “… everything does change, except what we choose to recall.” I heard it again this morning, and for some reason I have been running it through my head a bit today. When I attended graduate school I ran with a great group of guys who had lots of fun together. We hung out after hours at a joint called The Driftwood and enjoyed a carefree life. Since that time, however, I’ve only seen two of the guys one time each and neither was the same fellow I knew back then. I wonder if the Driftwood still stands to dispense the fun and drink. Probably not. It was in Greeley, CO, a town which has seen lots of growth since 1969. The way things sometimes go it was probably leveled to make room for a shopping mall.

A picture of Sheldon’s main street, taken about 1900, hangs on my study’s wall which shows at least two city blocks solid with store fronts with standing horse teams and buggies tied in front of them. I don’t have that particular memory, but the one I do have differs greatly from the reality of today’s main street. Only a few buildings still stand, and I have heard several of them are going to be taken down because of their vacancy and state of disrepair. A couple of years ago the old city hall and Newton’s cream station and feed store met with demolition. Each time I drive down that street I still picture how it used to look.

In any small town drive around a bit and then make your way out to the community cemetery. It’s usually the only that’s growing. Farms grew larger, families shrunk in numbers, the kids went off to the bigger towns for employment. I guess it is only the memory we choose to recall that stays the same.
…
A Swede enters the bar in the town where he stopped for the night. He grabs a barstool and orders a drink. After sitting there for a while, he yells to the bartender, "Hey, you wanna hear a Norwegian joke?

The bar immediately falls absolutely quiet. In a very deep, husky voice, the woman him says, "Before you tell that joke, sir, I think it is only fair — given that you are new here — you should know five things:
1. The bartender is a Norwegian.
2. The bouncer is a Norwegian.
3. I'm Norwegian and a professional weightlifter.
4. The woman sitting next to me is Norwegian with a black belt in karate.
5. The man to your right is a Norwegian and a professional wrestler.

Now think about it seriously, Mister. Do you still wanna tell that joke? The Swede thinks about it for a second, shakes his head, and declares: "Nah, not if I'm gonna have to explain it five times."

July 4th Considered

Another July 4th has come and gone. I really believe that with each year I reflect a bit more on why we celebrate that day. Reminded of a recent book by David McCullough entitled 1776 when a local columnist in our daily paper made mention of it, and with lots of spare time that day I drove over to Barnes and Noble and bought a copy. McCullough proves himself a very readable historian; I think any history researched and written by him is worthwhile reading. I haven’t finished reading the book yet, but it gives a clear picture of the political and military workings of the period.

An event in England surprised me completely when I read that the House of Lords and the House of Commons did not, in their debate, wholly support King George III by voting for military action in the colonies. Approximately 1/3 of the members in each body voted nay, but with their country’s rule of law the majority prevailed and the war commenced.

In the colonies complicated feelings for or against freedom from England did not encourage simple actions in the colonies, but, driven by strong leadership, we all know the final outcome was independence and freedom from domination.

History and biography always take priority in my reading, and I’ve just finished a volume that illustrates the length that people go to protect freedom. The book - World War II on the Air, Edward R. Murrow and the Broadcasts that Riveted a Nation - tells of the CBS newsmen led by Murrow who invented on the spot reporting in the European war zones. Because of these men the world received news of Hitler’s armies and his attempts to dominate the world. The book and its companion CD of actual wartime recordings made by the reporters clearly draws the picture of the struggle and the lengths that the Allies went to to defeat the menace.

A quotation by Murrow stood out prominently, “Europe has no doubt that America is mighty in battle. Our nation, which was created by people who wanted to leave Europe, is the center of the hopes and some of the fears of millions who are in Europe today.”

Dear Mary

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.’”

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.