Engine Troubles

I guess everyone knows by now we just came out of a big snowstorm. It dumped a bunch around here - 14 inches or so. The driveway plugged up pretty deep so I went out to start my trusty John Deere eight horse snowblower. The electric starter spun and spun but the cylinder wouldn’t fire. I’ve been telling people that the machine is ten or twelve years old and that I was so surprised it didn’t start since this was the first time it has failed me. Well, I was in for another surprise when I dug out the operator’s manual; the sales contract was still in that file and bore the date of September, 1989. The darn thing is twenty years old! Still, machines like that don’t accumulate many hours over the course of the years, so I figured nothing much could be wrong and intend for it to be the only snowblower I will ever own. The first thing I did was put in a new sparkplug (to the tune of $4.00), but nothing different happened, it still turned over but didn’t fire.

It was cold and getting late so I went out to do some shoveling so that one of the cars could be backed out. The new neighbor saw me and said he would blow it out (that’s what neighbors are for, he said), so the job got done. Of course, that evening here comes the snowplow and blocked in the driveway and piled up a huge drift in front of the mailboxes. Luckily the neighbor came to the rescue again. After thinking about what could be wrong I concluded something with the carburetor wasn’t right and suspected the float was sticking. Yesterday morning I took it apart, wiggled it up and down several times, put it back together, and sure enough, it fired and started.

Trouble with a sticky float came up once before in my life. I recalled the scene in the spring of 1971 at Ocean Lake in Wyoming where I’d visited a resort operated by a teacher in the school where I served as high school principal. He had gotten some new outboard motors for his fishing boats and wanted to take some of us out for a short cruise on a pontoon boat. Four of us stepped aboard and as he tried to start the engine we began drifting from shore. The wind came up and big white capped waves started forming. He pulled and pulled on the starter rope, but that engine just would not start. It started getting kind of dicey out there. A fisherman in a big boat tried to get close to pick us up from the pontoon, but he gave up when he could not safely close in. In my fishing tackle box I carried a small combination tool that included a small hammer head. I went back to the engine and tapped it on the carburetor a few times, after which the man pulled on the rope and met immediate success with the engine starting.

… … … … …

Sometimes we run into people who’ve gotten too big for their britches. In order for someone like that to get the proper perspective as to where he/she fits in, he/she should be referred to the following website: Youtube.com and type in “Known Universe.” This video will show them just how important they are in the whole scheme of things. There are a couple of options. The one I like best is labeled simply as “Known Universe.”

Merry Christmas - 2009

I recently watched a program on the History Channel that told of the Christmas truce that occurred spontaneously at the front lines between the British and German troops in World War I, 1914 to be exact. Commanders, aghast, on both sides watched through binoculars the mingling merriment the troops engaged in, and ordered that such a celebration would not happen again. In fact the next year artillery barrages were ordered on Christmas eve, furthermore troops were rotated in and out frequently to prevent fraternization.

The war was only about four months old, but the combatants had seen much death, were trapped in trenches and were cold, wet, and muddy. Snipers were always on alert for targets and the new invention of machine guns mowed men down in swaths. The area between the two lines earned the name “No Man’s Land” and bodies lay for days, even weeks, where they fell. To put it simply, the soldiers on both sides were sick of it, and some felt the other side should live and let live. The troops rose up to join in singing, exchanging simple gifts such as food and tobacco, and visiting with their opponents.

It would seem that without the urging of generals and politicians the war could have ended quickly and simply. Such was not the case. I ran across this story years ago in my readings of history and think it’s one of the best Christmas stories I know of and illustrates the desire for Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.

A Dream

Dear Friends,

I am writing this letter from Heaven.
As you might guess, Paradise is crowded.
The math gets tricky, but many billions
of people have died and made their way here.
You’d be surprised at some of the scoundrels
who call this home since everyone gauges
behavior in life by his own standards.

I noticed one thing as soon as I walked
in the pearly gate: huddled just outside,
a crestfallen group of Moslem terrorists
sat by a sign stating “Due to shortage
of virgins we no longer will honor
your coupons!” I hurried past their despair.

As I walked down the streets, just exploring,
I had to jump to the side and skinny
up to a stone wall because a cattle
herd bore down on me in a wild stampede.
Yes, their brands were still on fire and I felt
their hot breath as they ran on by. Sweat-soaked
cowboys galloped along trying to turn
that herd, but in spite of the unpleasant
task they wore smiles. I had entered the range
up in the sky, the objective they’d hoped
would be theirs someday. It was frustrating
to watch, but they seemed destined to ride
forever chasing those fool cows so I
turned away and walked toward the next corner
where another amazing sight appeared.

A desert oasis sits shimmering
like a mirage where camels and goats feed
on green grasses and drink from sweet water.
Figs picked from trees by lithesome Bedouin girls
sit on platters waiting to be carried
to the men sitting in the shade of tents.
The reader begins to doubt my story,
that my pen writes nothing but fantasy.
I ask you to believe, I have seen it.

But this is not my end destination,
and I need to keep exploring, looking
for the piece of Heaven I can call home ………..

* * *
(The foregoing poem in ten-syllable lines will be completed in much longer form, revised and improved for inclusion into my next volume of poems which I hope to publish in March.)

Late and Pokey

I’m slow getting my blog writing filed today. I’m involved getting another project finished and it took priority. There’s not much else going on in my life. I’ve had a sinus infection that seems to be improving with the penicillin prescription the doctor gave me. News gets boring, especially the escapades of Tiger Woods. I’ve always thought that just because a person is good at something whether it be in athletics, performing, public service, or what have you doesn’t mean he or she is a good person. If Tiger’s wife stays married to him I will be very surprised. The news item that most intrigued me this week was the sale of Cormac McCarthy’s typewriter, a sale that brought $254,500. Wow! It must have been gold plated and jewel encrusted. Nope. It is a beat up 50 year old Olivetti portable that he has used to write all of his published works. He estimated the typing of five million words on it. At the outset it was thought the machine might bring $15-20 thousand. Surprise, surprise.

McCarthy writes some pretty good stuff. I’ve read just the one book - All the Pretty Horses, but his No Country for Old Men recently played as a popular movie and his story The Road has been playing in movie theaters, too. Different people remarked that he would start working with a computer now. Nope. A friend of his picked up a duplicate used Olivetti portable and he intends to keep on typing away.

I can hang the handle wordsmith on McCarthy. I really enjoy reading works written by a language master like him. I just read a book titled Edward R. Murrow and the Birth of Broadcast Journalism. He and the people he hired were wordsmiths, too. World War II brought out the best in them. One of them proved to be a great practitioner of the language, North Dakota-born Eric Sevareid. The book authored by Bob Edwards of National Public Radio quotes Murrow when London was being bombed: “… that faint-red angry snap of antiaircraft bursts against the steel-blue sky…” I envy people who write well.

What Is Reality?

A mind, like a home, is furnished by its owner, so if one’s life is cold and bare he can blame none but himself. Louis L’Amour
. . . . . . .

There is a type of poem called a List Poem. It doesn’t require rhythm or rhyme, but the writer needs to say something such as “Think about this.” Here is my first attempt:

What is reality?
I’ve become confused!
I’m surrounded by
faux leather,
electric fireplaces,
imitation vanilla,
decaf coffee,
diet Coke,
lite beer,
nylon, rayon, Dacron,
plastic money,
avatars,
Splenda,
Astroturf,
fake ID’s,
counterfeit handbags,
knock-off watches,
soy milk,
artificial insemination,
politicians,
Wall Street bankers,
lawyers,
Rush Limbaugh,
@#%&#*!@.

Happy Thanksgiving Day!

I had a long day yesterday and am pretty tired this morning so I’ll just let Ole’s antics fill my blog today.

It's the day before Thanksgiving, and Sven the butcher is just locking up when Ole pounds on the door. "Please let me in," says Ole "I forgot to buy da turkey, and my vife Lena vill kill me if I don't come home wid vun."

"OK" says Sven butcher. "Let me see vat's left." He goes into the freezer and discovers that there's only one scrawny turkey left. He brings it out to show Ole.

"That vun's too skinny. Vhat else have yew got?" Ole asks.

Sven takes the bird back into the freezer and waits a few minutes, then brings the same turkey back out to Ole.

"Oh no," says Ole, "dat vun doesn't look any better. Yew better give me both of dem."
…..
Ole was quite an industrious turkey farmer and was always experimenting with breeding to perfect a better turkey.

Lena and the kids were fond of the leg portion for dinner and there were never enough legs for everyone. After many frustrating attempts, Ole was relating the results of his efforts to his friends at the general store get together. "Vell I finally did it! I bred a turkey vit 6 legs!"

They all asked Ole how it tasted.

"I Don't know" said Ole. "I never could catch the darn ting!"
…….
Ole and Lena were getting on in years. Ole was 92 and Lena was 89. They were sitting in their rocking chairs after a big Thanksgiving dinner. Ole reached over and patted Lena on her knee. "Lena, vat ever happened tew our sex relations?" he asked. "Vell, Ole, I yust don't know," replied Lena. "I don't tink ve even got a card from dem last Christmas."

Meetings

I attended two worthwhile presentations this past week. At the first event, held at the Heritage Center auditorium, we listened to Raymond Schroth who authored The American Journey of Eric Sevareid. Public TV cameras recorded his talk, and I suspect it made him a bit nervous as he seemed rather tight with his delivery. As soon as the cameras shut off, though, at the end of one hour time, he loosened up and got more interesting. I bought his book, had it autographed, and have been enjoying the excellently written biography of one of our state’s native sons. One thing that keeps coming out regarding Sevareid has to do with his high level of eloquence and insight into issues of the day.

The second event was held at Bismarck State College and was in the format of a “conversation” between the president of the college and Clay Jenkinson, our state’s historical scholar. The topic was “The History and Future of the Missouri River - The Damming of the Missouri River.” Quite young at the time - 1947-1953, I can remember only a little of the bustle surrounding the construction of the Garrison Dam which today backs up the large Lake Sakakawea, and I’ve always wanted to go back to learn more of this history. Sitting there for an hour and a half did not tell me everything there is to tell, but I found it worthwhile.

Something that doesn’t get much attention today was discussed: the negative impact of the dam’s construction and the displacement of old cultures. The best land on the Indian reservation was lost and communities were flooded over, including the town of Elbowoods. One displaced family drove their herd of cattle to a location they had found south of Raleigh.

Topics discussed dealt with aspects of recreation, irrigation, commercial traffic, etc. One point which gripes many people up here is the mismatched benefit comparing money generated on an annual basis for the shipping industry on the lower end - approximately ten million dollars and the recreation industry here that generates about fifty million dollars. The water here must be released to float the barges, and on a dry year that is giving up a precious commodity. Besides the significance of the barge traffic is minimal.

I’ll be looking forward to more meetings like the above two. I enjoy the input and mental stimulation

Veteran's Day today - A day set aside to honor all veterans. It is observed on November 11 each year, the significance of which marked the end of World War I on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918.
_ _ _ _ _ _

I ran across a verse form I hadn't known about before called Clerihews. The first line names a famous person, the second line rhymes with it plus two more lines that rhyme. Here are a few of mine:

A Collection of Clerihew Poems

George Washington
had no fear of comparison
he was the first
therefore no one could say “the worst”

Barack Obama
writes as a southpaw
and takes his stand on the left
leaving opponents’ sensibilities bereft

Adams and Jefferson
signed as Independence brethren
and strangely both happened to die
fifty years later on the Fourth of July

Michele Bachmann
self-appointed constitutional watchman
can’t seem to get things right
but likes finding people to incite

Santa Claus
some say never was -
but who else owns the ability
to make the store shelves empty

Abraham Lincoln
often sat there thinking’
we’ve got to move in unison
if we’re going to preserve the Union

John McCain
ran a poor campaign
when he chose Sarah Palin,
a major failin’

Albert Einstein
worked to define
his theory of relativity
with mathematical ingenuity

Thomas Jefferson
made sure to mention
that all men were created equal,
but his owning slaves proved it's just verbal

Ernest Hemingway
short of his 62nd birthday
took a loaded shotgun
and blew himself to oblivion
_ _ _
Hello to Marilyn, a faithful reader of this blog who resides at the Parkside Home in Lisbon. Have a nice day!

Roamin' Around the Internet

Each day I take the time to wander around “Bookmarked” section of my computer. The first stop is the Fargo Forum site to look at the obituary section where I look for acquaintances’ names for both North Dakota and Minnesota. Here in Mandan we only get the death notices of North Dakotans and often that is posted two or three days late. The next website is the New York Times where they have an open door to look at all their sections. Yesterday I spotted an especially interesting video posted there: The Man Who Opened the Gate. It featured the person who was in charge of the border guard in East Germany just before the wall came down. Officials in that country knew the time had arrived to allow access to West Germany, but orders to subordinates were sketchy or non-existent which left them free to make their own decisions. As people began climbing over the wall he had the power to order his guards to shoot, but his conscience would not let him do it. Consequently, the dam broke and thousands crossed over. I called Mary in to look at it since I thought it so interesting.

Of course, I need to check out YouTube, Betty Lou’s Guitar Site, Poetry Foundations, Montana Radio Café, Last.fm, Pandora Radio,
Reflections on Tom McGrath’s Letter to an Imaginary Friend, EBay, etc. etc. The three radio stations I’ve bookmarked get a lot of play. On a couple of them I pick my style of music, and no ads interfere.

There is so much on the internet, I’m finding I need to restrict myself. Otherwise, I could sit here all day looking at things. Bing.com gives me another way to roam without using Google all the time. It seems to bring up a different variety of responses compared to Google, but both are good.

What I really need to do is quit looking at the internet, open up my word processor, and just write my thing, but variety seems to spice it up.

Sophistry

For reasons unknown to me
the word sophistry keeps running
through this old word warrior’s head
today. Dad always used to say
You’re shootin’ your mouth off
if I argued with him without knowing
what I was talking about. You want
to see sophistry in action? Walk
into a saloon around five o’clock
in the afternoon when men line
the bar like blackbirds on telephone
wire and start talking politics. You
soon discover the absence of facts
never gets in the way of a good
argument. Potemkin sure fooled
Catherine the Great when he built
villages with hollow buildings to make
her think things were going well
in the realm. That reminds me
of the galvanic bloviators in the media
who sway folks with their hollow
reasoning. They open their mouths
and start chattering, but maybe
it’s no different than being a poet
who doesn’t know what will flow
from the tip of his pen.

Repressed Memories

I wish we could have had a little warmer October, but things haven’t worked out that way. I remember some years where it has been hot and others where we have had quite a little snow. One result from the early hard frost is that we lost our fall colors, in fact, we never had any since they went right from green to dry brown and blowing away in a couple windy days.

I am a faithful reader of several news magazines: Time, Newsweek, and The Nation. Yesterday’s Newsweek carried a short book review that I related to. The headline read “The Luxury of Memory,” with the article discussing the book Enemies of the People. Kati Marton, born and raised Hungarian, was the daughter of AP and UPI correspondents who wrote freely about the shortcomings of the communist regime ruling that country. As the girl grew older she’d ask her parents about their work and what they knew, but they’d wave her off saying, “You cannot ever understand” and consequently told her very little. After the death of her parents, however, she researched and discovered who her parents were, how imperiled they were, and how they thought thinking about the past was an American luxury. They did not want to look back. Most people have encountered how little war veterans will tell you of their war experiences. Dad tells of one veteran who while very drunk told him of throwing explosives into a German bunker and hearing the sounds of the wounded dying soldiers. When sober I don't think he ever told these stories.

My Grandma Bueling as a girl the age of eleven came with her family from the Ukraine in the midst of the mass migration of Germans from Russia. Since she was very stoic we never learned much of her life there, but the stories she did tell spoke of their hardship of life. This one is indelibly printed in my mind: she had to herd cows in the cold and wore no shoes. To warm her feet she’d stand in the warm piles of manure the cows pooped out. We knew there was much else she did not want to remember. My wife has learned tales of her German-Russian relatives and some of the horrific incidents they experienced. This far removed from that time, she has a felt need to not resurrect those memories for public consumption. I know because I wanted to make reference to one of the stories and was censored. The psychological term for this, I believe, is repressed memory. Some things should not be remembered. In my life I have experienced something horrific; it is not something I talk about (with anyone).

The Days Are Full

I attended an interesting “Conversation” moderated by Clay Jenkinson and BSC president Larry Skogen at Bismarck State College on Sunday. The topic was “The Poetry of ‘No Man Is an Island,’” dealing with works written by John Donne in the 17th century. This one of Donne’s quotations is most familiar to us, “No man is an island, entire of itself… any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” It seems as if back in those days whenever someone died church bells would ring to announce the event. Donne was a preacher who was always trying to prepare people for death and the saving of their souls, thus when it tolls for a death, it is also associated with your needing to get prepared.

Ernest Hemingway obviously liked the quote when he used part of it for one of his novels For Whom the Bell Tolls. For some reason all this literary talk reminded me of a short story I had read in high school English class. I could not think of the title or the author, so I had to do quite a bit of searching on the internet to come up with it. The story was “The Bet” by Anton Chekov; it’s on the internet, not long, and within a few minutes I had reread it. My memory had failed though. The ending wasn’t quite as I remembered it, but it’s still a great story. At the beginning a bet was made between two gentlemen that the one couldn’t stay voluntarily imprisoned for fifteen years, but if he did, the other would pay two million dollars. Well, the years passed by and the man never came out of his prison. The money-man began to worry greatly for if he had to pay off the bet it would bankrupt him. The only thing for him to do was to murder the prisoner. Over the years the prisoner had read all the world’s great literature and had come to the conclusion he wanted no part of materialism or money so a few minutes before the deadline he walked out of his cell.

On Thursday Mary flies off to Minneapolis to act the part of a grandma and I’m off to Dickinson for a symposium at the college. It’s the Theodore Roosevelt meeting. This year’s topic: Family Man in the Arena. Any reader of this can find lots of information at this website: theodorerooseveltcenter.com. By clicking on “Video Clips” in the Media box most of the talks and lectures can be viewed in the archive.

Old News

Yesterday I drove over to the capitol grounds to do some reading in the heritage center where there are on file hundreds of microfilms of old state newspapers. I think it’s fun to read through my old hometown paper and this time chose the century old 1909 volume of The Sheldon Progress. The writers wrote with flowery terms such as in the article about twin colts being born at the Creswell farm. “One survived only a few hours while the other one lived for several days when it followed its mate to the equine’s paradise.” I’ve known baseball was important during this period: “A little comedy on the great national game was perpetrated when the Enderlin high school team came over for a little practice session. The Sheldon team has had no practice whatever and can therefore be excused for the rotten exhibition it put up. About seven innings were played when by mutual consent the game ended, Enderlin at that time having secured twelve runs and Sheldon a fine, fat goose egg.”

Politically correct language was not in use yet, and minority groups were often the butt of slang expressions: “One coon cut another at Minot making a gash to close which surgeons took twenty-one stitches.”

One week a business advertised twine made at the state penitentiary, then a couple weeks later this item appeared: “A man named Bacon got a team from Farmer Lakin of McLean County with the understanding that he would work in the Ward County harvest fields awhile and divide the proceeds. He sold the team and skipped. He was recently captured in Minnesota and may develop into an expert twine maker.”

The following item shows vigilante justice was favored: “A number of Enderlin’s valuable dogs have recently gone to the dog heaven via the poison route. The bereaved owners are showing considerable feeling over the affair and threaten to make a present of a coat of tar and feathers to the poison artist if he is discovered.” This story wasn’t over yet. A few weeks later I read: “Bey Shafer autoed over to Enderlin on Sunday afternoon and took his two dogs along. When he returned he had but one dog, the other having died on the way home. While in the Soo Line town the dead dog evidently made a meal on some of the poison which an enterprising Enderlinite, as yet unknown, has been spreading broadcast over that village and which has already been the means of removing some thousand dollar’s worth of dogs from this dust blown sphere to the canine happy hunting grounds. Bey says the tragedy has not impaired his appetite or wrung his heart strings to any great extent, as the departed animal had been given away several times during his lifetime and always came back. This time he’s confident he won’t come back.”

The issue dated October 8, 1909 carried this headline: “Orville reaches unprecedented height of over 1600 feet - Ascends for fifteen minutes - Aviator descents in five minutes at a simply terrifying speed.”

More 10-8-09 items: “Owego - Albert Anderson is now handling the mail on route no. 2 and dishing out the pretty post cards to the rural dwellers.” “White Sox manager tolerates no loafing on bases - speed big factor in winning game.” “Peru is sending its president’s son to learn scientific farming in Wisconsin, though llama raising is but indifferently taught here.”

Whenever I want a change of pace I can go back to the heritage library and find lots of amusing entertainment. Times were different then, except I found one striking article that seems to translate to today’s concern for any changes or advancements: “The charge is made that the phonograph and the automatic piano are lowering public taste. That is one way of looking at the situation. These new inventions are taking music into homes where it never was before and never would be but for them. They are doing for music what the invention of printing did for the art of reading. There is still literature - and some of the beautiful creations in lit. come from those who under old conditions would never have learned to read. There may be hope for music.”

A Bit of a Rant

A few days ago a person we know sent us this bit of wisdom: “Never hold your farts in. They travel up your spine, into your brain, and that is where shitty ideas come from!”

The first thing I thought of after reading that was John McCain who must have squeezed his sphincter tight when he picked Sarah Palin to be his running mate. Without her he would have stood an even chance to be elected.

But I’m not here to criticize McCain, I’m writing to criticize Senator Conrad for not supporting a public option for health reform. After listening yesterday to reports that he had not voted for it in committee meeting I fired off the first letter I’ve ever written to a member of Congress. In it I reminded him that I’ve voted for him in every election but that I’m disappointed in his stand. State newspapers reported that he has taken money from the insurance industry, and I asked him if that influenced him. I reminded him that he should be an advocate for the common man, not the insurance industry. It is our votes that put him in office.

Recent figures show that one percent of the U. S. population holds more wealth than the other 99 % put together. I think of the elite status they must hold themselves in. The insurance industry needs no further assistance, but they must be clapping their hands with glee at the prospect of writing so many more policies. I place them in the same category as big oil and the banking industry. North Dakota’s BC/BS has had to have their hands slapped a few times for the “shitty ideas” they promulgate.

The greatest deterrence in this country to prosperity is the high cost of medical care. People are either in debt because of past medical events or are paycheck poor if they have to buy their own policies or are unemployed and have to beg for services. I pay no heed to those who say this is socialistic. What this country suffers from borders on criminal. We should stand idly by and let big business continue to steal from us? I don’t think so!

On the Road to Yellowstone Park - Part II

Traveling with the expectation that Yellowstone Park and the motels catering to its tourists would have few patrons at this time of year, we were surprised to find out we were very wrong. Most of the people we encountered were willing participants of social security checks, that is, older folks. We thought getting a room at Gardiner would be easy, but nothing doing. The best option remaining was to drive to Livingston, fifty-some miles to the north. The extra miles proved to not be a problem though: the drive was beautiful as it passed through the Gallatin Mountains and Forest, and we experienced it again the next morning, only this time the sun lit the valley from the opposite direction.

The last time we visited the park we observed the charred rubble left by the huge forest fire in 1989. Now you can observe a lush new growth of trees caused by the fire’s heat which opened the tough-hided pine cones so they could reseed themselves. Old Faithful gave a good show with a powerful eruption lasting several minutes. We needed an ice cream treat after that where I saw someone I thought I knew from Leonard. I said “You’re from Leonard, ND, aren’t you, but I can’t remember your name. No, my name is Paul Smith and I’m from Texas.” A bit embarrassed, I added, “Well, it was nice meeting you anyway.” The ice cream was good.

After our sightseeing we exited the park at the West Yellowstone entrance for our drive back to Livingston. This highway wound through the Madison Mountains and the Gallatins past the Big Sky recreation area. Many fly fishermen waded the creeks and rivers as we drove along. We talked with one fellow from Chicago who had been in Montana fishing for three weeks and planned to stay another three. I dug out my copy of A River Runs Through It when I got home to re-read that author’s take on the sport. I know this type of fishing counts many passionate followers.

When we left home we thought we would stay 5-7 days in Montana, but we decided to head for home on the third day. I thought it funny when leaving the motel that morning to hear and see a chattering magpie perched on the roof. I don’t know what he was saying, but I imagined him laughing at us and telling us to go home.

Montana in places looked very dry, especially so in the Miles City area. Only where irrigators painted the landscape green did we see any color. Just east of Medora near the Painted Canyon exit a truck hauling bales sat burning. Lots of flashing lights from park ranger, highway patrol, and fire department vehicles created a scene of excitement, and west bound traffic stood backed up quite a distance.

I thought as I neared home how the mountain scenery let me forget my every day cares and how I hadn’t watched or heard any news for three days. My imagination still worked when near Dickinson I saw the oil pumps and told Mary they look like big birds bobbing down to peck seeds from the ground.

It was a quick trip but a long one: 1488 miles in three days. The Fusion told us on her digital mpg meter we made 29 miles to the gallon, but when I filled gas and did the math with a calculator I came up with 28.25 mpg at a cost $142.40. Considering we encountered a stiff headwind for most of the first day plus a lot of mountain climbing we were happy with the economy.

On the Road to Yellowstone Park - Part I

We left Mandan Monday, September 21 at 6:00 am with the intention of driving to Red Lodge and spending the evening. Montana hasn’t shrunk any since the last time we drove across it. The buttes and hills still seem so lonesome that they talk to each other sending messages airmail by hawkback. Fences still crawl up crazy little hills and knolls as if placed there by gymnasts. We stopped for coffee at a Conoco in Glendive; the gal there was talkative, she said a lot of people moved away since they built the prison. Why? Afraid of escaped convicts? No taxes went up and the older folks couldn’t afford to stay.

We kept driving along the interstate, past where the Yellowstone River crawls along like a snake, where the horizon looked like teeth on a rough-cut saw, where black Angus cows looked like pencil marks against dry parchment hills, where a sign advertising red Angus read “Better Bred Red,” (say that a fast a few times) where herds of antelope seemed to say “We’ve live here and we’re used to it,” where an old sheepherder’s wagon stood with big holes in its canopy top.

Our Ford Fusion ran like a hound through that countryside, past Billings, past Red Lodge, up and over the Bear Tooth Pass, and still we kept driving. Above the tree line there was a light dusting of snow. We stopped at the main overlook and looked down at the big trough we had just driven and climbed through, at the slides of scree, scrub brush, stunted plant life, an Alpine meadow. Mary thought I was looking around too much as we rolled along and got too close to the cliff edges. She’d holler at me as we passed through the switchbacks and curly loops.

We peaked and then dropped down again past a sign reading “This Is Grizzly Bear Country,” where we didn’t see any, past a sign reading “Open Range, Expect Cows On Road,” which we did see and had to slow down for. We stopped in Cooke City and bought ice cream at a funky little shop filled with old books and classical music albums lining the walls. The manager said he has chess tournaments in the winter; I told him I could enjoy a place like that.

There were some buffalo on the hillsides; Mary stated there were buffalo all over the place. Huh? I looked again. I should have realized her eyes were getting road weary - what she saw where rocks that in the shadowed light did look something like those critters lying down. I laughed at her but admitted she was right. We thought we would stay in Gardiner for the night, but when we arrived we couldn’t find a single available room. The place was crawling with older folks like us thinking we would travel in the fall when there weren’t so many people around. We drove north to Livingston to stay the night. The trip meter registered 650 miles.

Almost Forgot

Another Wednesday has rolled around, and a short while ago I realized I hadn’t yet written this blog. If I would have forgotten to write today the world would have continued to spin, the sun still would have glowed in the sky, and anyone who reads it would have discovered they got along just fine without it. But, this has all gotten to be a habit and is probably one that I will not break (even though I threaten to do so occasionally). My near-omission in writing came to light as I listened to public radio and heard Meryl Piepkorn and Clay Jenkinson discussing the Teddy Roosevelt Symposium scheduled for the middle of October, and I said to Mary as we drove home from the Merle Norman beauty works store in Bismarck, “Hey, is today Wednesday? I haven’t written my blog yet!”

The symposium at Dickinson State College this year is their fourth one and bears the title Theodore Roosevelt: Family Man in the Arena. TR raised quite a brood of children and the topics will discuss how he interacted with the family. Prominent writers and speakers always attend and the author of one of the best single volume histories of Roosevelt will speak: Kathleen Dalton, author of Theodore Roosevelt: A Strenuous Life.

Mary flies off to Minneapolis during that time to babysit our grandkids, so I will be free to make like a bird and go to Dickinson and soak up some interesting information. Part of the symposia will be a trip on Saturday to the Elkhorn Ranch in the Badlands. Jenkinson said today that past authors and speakers have all said they wished they would have visited that site before writing their books.

Dickinson State University has earned some notoriety in the academic world because they have worked with the Library of Congress in developing and now housing a digitized library of all of TR’s writings, a massive undertaking. Anyone interested in looking at this work go to www.theodorerooseveltcenter.com and click on Documents.

Tonight

I will forgo listening to the president’s speech to congress tonight and will instead attend a talk given by George McGovern who is in town to discuss his recent book Abraham Lincoln. I’m sure tomorrow I will find the president’s address all over the talk shows and internet where it will be thoroughly replayed and dissected then. I’m glad some voices of reason came from the Republican ranks yesterday regarding his talk to school kids. Laura Bush, always known for her graciousness, supported it, and Newt Gingrich found it to be of value, too.

McGovern’s book is very readable and interesting. I know, I bought a copy at Barnes and Noble yesterday. I’ve always admired the man and since he isn’t getting any younger I’m going to take this one chance to see him. He is a World War II veteran, and that puts him somewhere in his 80’s. Here is a good place to let Ole and Sven have their say:

Ole and Sven, the old retired Norwegian boys, lived at the Old Retired Norwegian Home. One afternoon they were sitting on the front porch looking at the sunset and talking about this and that. Lena, who lived there too, was standing around the corner and heard the boys talking. Being a mischevious lady, Lena decided to play a trick on the boys. Taking off all her clothes, she ran around the corner and raced past Ole and Sven as fast as she could run.

Ole and Sven watch in astonishment as Lena runs past. Finally, Ole asks, "Vasn't dat Lena?" Sven replies, "Yah, ay - ay tank so..." Ole says, "But, vat vas she vearing?" Sven shakes his head and says, "Yah, ay don't know, but vatever it vas, it sure needed ironing!"

…

A doctor in Duluth wanted to get off work and go hunting, so he approached his assistant. ‘Ole, I am goin’ huntin’ tomorrow and don’t want to close the clinic. I want you to take care of the clinic and take care of all my patients.’ ‘Yes, sir!’ answers Ole.

The doctor goes hunting and returns the following day and asks: ‘So, Ole, How was your day?’ Ole told him that he took care of three patients. ‘The first one had a Headache so I gave him TYLENOL.’

‘Bravo, Mate, and the second one?’ asks the doctor. ‘The second one had stomach burning and I gave him MAALOX, sir,’ says Ole.

Bravo, bravo! You’re good at this and what about the third one?’ asks the Doctor. ‘Sir, I was sitting here and suddenly the door opens and a woman enters. Like a flame, she undresses herself, taking off everything including her bra and her panties and lies down on the table and shouts: HELP ME – I haven’t seen a man in over two years!!

‘Tunderin’ Lard Yeezus, Ole, what did you do?’ asks the doctor.

‘I put drops in her eyes!!

Rambling

I wondered out loud to Mary if all the street work in Bismarck might be the result of an injection of stimulus money. Sure enough, an article in the Bismarck Tribune said it was. Forget about getting someplace fast in that town for awhile. Four lane streets line with orange cones that funnel traffic into two lanes.

This news is so fresh that reactions haven’t been recorded yet, but the Bobcat plant in Bismarck will close by the end of the year, and all the production will be moved to the Gwinner site. Good for Gwinner, Lisbon, and the surrounding area, bad for Bismarck. I know two men who work at the Bismarck plant who will have to look elsewhere for employment.

I drove over to the Target store this morning to develop pictures taken of my pickup in preparation for an ad to sell it. While waiting for them I went across the street to Barnes and Noble for a good cup of half-caff coffee and some reading time. I picked up a book in the New Biography section about Abraham Lincoln written by George McGovern of South Dakota, a past nominee for president. McGovern has always fascinated me. In the seventh grade a gym teacher branded him a “physical coward” because he wouldn’t somersault over a vaulting horse. The teacher’s undeserved assessment of McGovern’s bravery psychologically bothered McGovern a lot through the years, but it never stood up since McGovern enlisted in the army air force at the start of WWII, became a B-24 bomber pilot, and flew 35 missions over enemy territory. He was highly decorated for his BRAVERY.

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.