Fleeting Memories

Sometimes a memory comes zipping through my mind for no apparent reason, some good, some not so. Yesterday one that I have carried around for sixty years or so visited me, and I smiled at remembering it. I once saw a man riding a fast horse that would not stop until it got inside the barn; it forced the rider to almost crawl inside the critter’s skin to get low enough so as not to get knocked off its back. The rider was my uncle Robert whom I have known forever as Buddy. Health issues have caused him to alter his life style, and I thought a phone call to him to reminisce about this scene would be welcomed. I think it was. “Stubby was his name, a pretty good horse. Dad got him for me from A. C. Weig.”

We visited for quite some time, and I enjoyed talking with him again. Other topics got discussed. I’ve always enjoyed listening to army veteran’s tales of service. His was in Korea as an artilleryman. He told me of once coming under such a heavy mortar barrage that they had to stay hunkered down so much that they couldn’t shoot back. It seems like some of the most enjoyable moments in life are unplanned, as was this spontaneous phone call to him. The brief e-mails or message texting so prevalent now do not replace a pleasant visit on the phone. To take it further, personal letter writing has declined; it is a rare occasion to receive one in this present day of immediate electronic communication.

Back to the topic of memories, I took enough psychology courses in my liberal arts education to learn just how complicated the brain is and that memory recall varies from person to person. A book on my shelf titled Man’s Unconquerable Mind contains a passage I have returned to many times: “Day and night, from childhood to old age, sick or well, asleep or awake, men and women think. The brain works like the heart, ceaselessly pulsing. In its three pounds’ weight of tissue are recorded and stored billions upon billions of memories, habits, instincts, abilities, desires and hopes and fears, patterns and tinctures and sounds and inconceivably delicate calculations and brutishly crude urgencies, the sound of a whisper heard thirty years ago, the resolution impressed by daily practice for fifteen thousand days, the hatred cherished since childhood, the delight never experienced but incessantly imagined, the complex structure of stresses in a bridge, the exact pressure of a single finger on a single string, the development of ten thousand different games of chess, the precise curve of a lip, a hill, an equation, or a flying ball, tones and shades and glooms and raptures, the faces of countless strangers, the scent of one garden, prayers, inventions, crimes, poems, jokes, tunes, sums, problems unsolved, victories long past, the fear of Hell and the love of God, the vision of a blade of grass and the vision of the sky filled with stars.”

Weather, Politics, and Old News

Saturday’s weather came off lousy with wind, snow, heavy roads, limited visibility, yet still the turnout for my parents’ birthday celebration was gratifying. Dad will be 95 on the 20th of February and Ma reached 90 today, the 17th, this date also marking their 69th anniversary. Years keep piling on; I guess I should know since my 68th occurred on the 15th. As long as we can keep counting all is well. Of that generation of Buelings only Dad remains of the family and two of the wives with that surname remain living, my mother, and the wife of Leslie, Kathy, whose birthday was the 16th.
…
A headline in today’s paper: Where did the moderates go? The first sentence in the article reads “The moderate middle is disappearing from Congress.” The story is often told about President Reagan and Tip O’Neill of how they’d fight over political issues but would join each other for jokes and drinks after hours. Apparently that doesn’t happen much with the present bunch of polarized politicians. I can’t help but refer to a W. B. Yeats poem “The Second Coming.” The first few lines say:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

While the poem does not speak to political issues, it has been said that it is open to differing levels of interpretation. I think it fits well with the situation in Washington.

…
I wondered how things were going one hundred years ago during the month of February in the old home town so I went to the well again and hauled up a bucket full of items. My great-grandfather made this news: “We noticed an item in the Progress a few weeks ago stating that coyotes were very thick out in Owego. Well, I guess they must be. A few weeks ago Tom Anderson, with the aid of his two dogs and a pitchfork, killed one. Keep the good work going, Tom.”

The Ransom County Immigration Association have just completed the overhauling of their three big cars, the Marmon and two Maxwells. Chauffeur Blanchard has carefully inspected the mechanism of the machines and pronounced them to be in perfect working order. The land company is expecting a heavy influx of land seekers this spring, and their three cars are now in readiness to show the hungry seekers a good share of their land within a short time.

Confusing Place

This world is a mighty confusing place, and what is true one year becomes untrue the next. For instance, the new Time magazine carries an article titled “The Survivor” and is in regards to Secretary of Defense Robert Gates. A passage in it surprised the devil out of me. First off, there is a picture of him sitting at the controls of a Russian-made Mi-17 helicopter in Kabul, Afghanistan. That in itself didn’t call much attention to itself because prior to our being in that country Russia’s military had occupied the country. Maybe that helicopter was a left-over. No! Gates wants to buy some from Russia because they’re very dependable and are considered the Kalishnikovs of the sky. That reference to the rifle carried by many fighting men in the world means they are simple and very dependable, and they’re said to be easier to fly than Black Hawks with their engines working better at the higher Afghan altitudes. Why I’m surprised is that it wasn’t all that many years ago Russia and the U. S. considered each other to be their bitter enemy.

I crave a simpler world and have enrolled in an adult class: “The Iron Horse’s Gallop Across North Dakota.” It’s offered by the University of North Dakota on the campus of Bismarck State College and has no tests, no homework, no grades. The only requirement is to attend and learn in a high-interest environment. Of course, there is a small fee but it is really minimal, so I registered for this six week course. I’ve always been interested in early statehood history and the railroads played a large part in that.

And then, as if I needed more to do, I ordered another course, “Building Great Sentences: Exploring the Writer’s Craft.” In this class I will be sent DVD’s that cover different topics. It’s taught by a professor from Iowa State U, a well-thought-of school for teaching writing. Again, no tests, no homework, no grades. I’ll just listen and learn.

Rebel

I’ve taken a small bedroom in our home’s lower level and claimed it for my study, office, man-cave, or escape hatch; whatever, it is a room forever in need of cleaning or straightening. Its condition is such that it drives wife-Mary crazy, but I can’t help it, I was born this way. In the mess and jumble I house my modest library collection which in large part consists of favorite books of poetry. While I rummaged through those many volumes a couple of days ago I ran across a slim
one I’d forgotten about that gives me a theme on which to write this little essay. That volume, much the same size as the little chapbooks that I write, bears the title Open Songs: Sixty Short Poems by Thomas McGrath.

McGrath, an internationally recognized poet, came from Sheldon, and since Sheldon is my hometown, I’ve developed a strong interest in his work. He earned the reputation as a left-wing rebel who continually fought against the system. Several parts of his long book-length poem Letter to an Imaginary Friend center on locations or people I have known, and the magic of his writing draws me in every time I open that volume. Back to the little Open Songs, … book, a faded Fargo Forum news clipping fell out as I riffled through the pages. Dated October 1, 1978, the article clarified a couple things: # 1 - a shooting he was involved with, but more interesting to me # 2 - his near-participation in the Spanish Civil War in the 1930’s. A misdirected University of North Dakota student, he at first sided with the Spanish leader Franco, but after learning about Franco’s Fascism and Franco being supported by both Hitler and Mussolini, he changed his allegiance to the International Brigades and volunteered to fight with them in Spain; however they came home before he could ship over.

Ernest Hemingway set his famous novel For Whom the Bell Tolls in this Spanish Civil War, and that book also sits on my shelf near the top of the “must-read-again” pile. Hemingway took the title from the 17th century poet John Donne who wrote “No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; … any man’s death diminishes me, and I am involved in mankind therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

Donne’s intention may have either been that when one person dies we all die a little or when we hear a funeral bell it is a reminder that we are a bit nearer death ourselves each day. Hemingway’s use of it was to show he was in concert with the groups fighting the fascists, and if he could be considered an intellectual he was really one with many intellectuals around the world who feared fascism might take root world-wide if unchecked. It is with this philosophy that McGrath aligned himself.

I've Got the Blues

I’m blue today, thinking too much, I guess. What about? Well, mostly about how little anybody’s opinion counts. It all started when I read an article in a recent Rolling Stone magazine titled “As the World Burns - How big oil and big coal mounted one of the most aggressive lobbying campaigns in history to block progress on global warming.” I don’t see how any thinking person can deny there is global warming and like the article says big energy companies know they’ll lose in the long run, but they are out to make as much in the short term as they can.

I’m not sure the number of coal trains that pass through Mandan-Bismarck each day headed east, but it must be at least one an hour. They are long trains, 115-20 cars each. Multiplied that makes about 2760 cars per day, loaded to heaping. I won’t venture a guess as to dollar value but the imagination places it in the clouds someplace. Dollars accumulate causing lobbyists to buzz around like flies on a cowpie. I don’t even need to mention the monetary strength of petroleum companies; we’ve all been victims of their price schemes and maneuverings.

Of course, there is more scheming in other industries: health care, pharmaceuticals, military industries, et al. And now we have a N. D. senator saying he wants to retire, which translated I think means he wants a piece of the lobbying pie, too. I’m sure his mouth is watering. And here comes the governor of N. D. saying he wants the senator’s job, and he intends to make things right in Washington. Ha, he without any seniority whatever! What would it take, two terms before he even gets noticed.

So that’s why I’m blue. This modest blogsite isn’t going to print a multitude of examples to prove the point, but our individual insignifance is glaring. My Nation magazine came today and I’ll quote from it: “The EPA ushered in the new year with a dark reminder of the coal industry’s sway over the Obama administration. On January 4 the agency approved the Hobet 45 mine expansion in West Virginia, the largest mountaintop-removal operation in Appalachia. The decision was announced only days before a group of environmental scientists released a long-awaited peer-reviewed study in the journal Science denouncing mountaintop-removal mining and calling for a moratorium on new permits.” I guess it doesn’t matter who thinks they hold the power in Washington. We know where it really lies.

Still Learning

If I live long enough I should learn lots more. At the gym this morning I heard an interesting anecdote. I overheard one of the ladies who regularly comes to workout tell someone that she was late because their power was out this morning. Why? When the heavy frost buildup on the bottom line broke off and dropped away the line danced up and struck the one above it causing it to short out. Who knew that?

I learn other things, too. Our household has decided to donate to the survivors of the earthquake tragedy in Haiti and have been looking around for a trustworthy organization to handle it. We settled on a local organization called “God’s Child.” Their main interest has been Guatemela but have shifted their priority for this event. Anyway, we went into their office yesterday and was met by a nice young gentleman who gladly accepted our check. We visited a bit about different South American countries, and I commented he looked like he probably came from somewhere down there. No, he said his father came from India. Opening my mouth wide and shoving a foot in it I replied I could see he wasn’t a Norwegian. “Oh, but I am. I’m half Norwegian. Mother came from Minnesota.”
***
A few more news items from one hundred years ago:

Now that flying is practical and the North Pole has been discovered, the only thing left for next year appears to be perpetual motion. --- Professor William Klimmick, the Fargo piano tuner, was here last week. This is nothing unusual as Mr. Klimmick has been in Sheldon a dozen different times during the past summer, but this time he had a photograph which he was showing that he prized very highly! It was of the design for the silver service of the Battleship North Dakota. His son Hans is the designer. --- Mrs. Henry Hawk, living on the old Colton farm some 5 or 6 miles southeast of Lisbon was given a severe scare on last Sunday evening. About nine o’clock five masked men entered her house and proceeded to tear things up in general. At first she thought the men were joking but in this she was mistaken. Her pleading with them to go away went unheeded and it was not until her 17 year old son succeeded in getting the Winchester rifle and threatening to shoot if they did not leave the house that they left. After going some distance from the house they all stopped and one of the party returned, this time unmasked, and again insisted upon going into the house. Again efforts were made to keep him out and not until the boy had struck him over the head with the gun did he give way. The doors were then locked and the telephone put to good use. By the time assistance arrived the men got away. Two of the men were recognized. Mrs. Hawk and the children were frightened nearly to death and the affair will not be forgotten soon. The next time anything like this happens, Mrs. Hawk will be prepared to give the masked men a “warm” reception.

January, 1910

I wanted to see how things were going back in the old hometown a century ago and went digging in the microfiles at the Heritage Center a couple of days ago. Here are a few of the interesting news items:
How many patrons of the rural routes leading out of Sheldon stop to think of the inconvenience occasioned to the carriers who are obliged to pick pennies from the mail boxes on a cold winter day? It is the most annoying duty which falls to the lot of “the boys,” so the carriers from the Sheldon office are agreed. To jerk off your mittens, dive into a snow laden mail box for a penny or two, and then perhaps drop the coppers in the snow and have to make up to Uncle Sam from your own private fortune is anything but conducive to good humor. --- Another date has been set for the world’s end. But these dates are generally postponed on account of the weather. So ordinary business plans can be continued. --- Dogden - The man found in a hay stack by a Russian settler badly frozen recently died at the hospital in Bismarck. --- Chickens have been disappearing in an unaccountable manner from the coops of their owners in Sheldon and vicinity during the past few weeks. A month ago, J. W. Doty, who is quite a chicken fancier, had 125 of the feathered beauties. A few days ago he noticed that his flock seemed somewhat reduced in numbers, and after rounding them up, he found that there were only 67 left. Mr. Doty has purchased a new lock for his chicken coop and oiled up his old shotgun, and woe betide any marauder who attempts to disturb the slumbers of his prized pullets. --- Gus Kratt has purchased a brand new 40 horsepower Overland automobile to be delivered in April and will be able to bowl along our good roads next summer with the best of them. --- George Patterson, whose corn won first honors at the National Corn Exposition in Omaha, Nebraska a few weeks ago, has received his prize in the shape of eighty rods of wire fencing. --- (Terrorists then, too!) Members of the U. S. Senate showed more than ordinary interest in the report that a letter was received from a man declaring he intends to blow up the upper branch of Congress with nitroglycerin. --- While hunting Saturday Charles Banks lost one of his ferrets. It had gone into a hole in search of a rabbit, and upon emerging therefrom, one of the dogs thinking it was the rabbit, seized it on the part of the anatomy that lies just behind the ears, and shook it so violently that it soon expired. --- About a week ago while Andrew Arntson was eating a hearty supper and thinking about what he was going to do to the other fellow at the gymnasium later on, someone with malice aforethought sneaked into his backyard and appropriated several articles of clothing that were hanging on the line. Andrew, not knowing the offender, took his revenge on “the other fellow” at the gym. --- Robert McRitchie, one of the big and good natured farmers down in Owego country, was a caller at the Progress office last press day and left a couple simoleons to be deposited in our strong box. Mr. McRitchie located there eleven years ago and since then has made many improvements about his farm. He now has a good set of buildings on the banks of the Sheyenne River and is well content to make that his home for many years to come. He is also a firm believer in diversified farming and pays a good deal of attention to stock raising.

Horse Soldiers

When the Publishers Weekly says it’s the best book of 2009 and the New York Times says it’s a notable book of 2009, I get very tempted to find a copy to read. So it was with Horse Soldiers by Doug Stanton. As one might guess from the title that the story relates to a scenario taking place about a century and a half ago where the cavalry mounted a charge against Indians, but no, it features a small band of special forces who entered Afghanistan shortly after 9-11-2000. This country’s leadership, Rumsfeld in this case, demanded an immediate response to the attack and murder of U. S. citizens, and small groups of special forces were picked to secretly enter the hotbed of Taliban radicalism and engage the enemy.

Given such short notice the men picked to go resorted to scrounging around for equipment themselves to properly outfit them for this duty. They bought clothing and equipment from places like Wal-Mart, REI, LL Bean, etc. Military uniforms were not going to be worn. The book relates a hairy helicopter ride for several hours into the mouth of the action, and when they arrived and met the general in charge of the Northern Alliance army they received quite the surprise. He took them on a day long trip to his headquarters - on horseback. Of the half dozen Special Forces members who rode in the saddle only one of them had riding experience. One of them related as to how he bled in the saddle from saddle sores being rubbed raw.

There is a cavalry charge in the story. I wonder how long it will take Hollywood to make the movie? Apparently one is in the works.

I remember reading several years ago the novel Caravans by James Michener, a story centered in Afghanistan. One point that author made has stayed with me all these years. He said in all of world history no foreign conqueror has ever succeeded in subduing that country. They are unbeatable. I hope the U. S. has no long range plans in there. If Michener is right, our values can never be imposed on them.

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.