Even after we’ve aged to the place where we should know better, we like to go out and do crazy things. Take this for instance: driving 200 miles through heavy rain to get to a spot infested with mosquitoes, heat, and humidity, then climbing through barbed wire and tramping through thick growth virgin sod to a spot where there is nothing except for a few depressions in the ground, standing under a rain cloud and getting soaked, and then, when all is said and done, calling it good. And, after getting home and kicking back in my Lazy Boy and finding a tick crawling on me I tell the wife it was still good. That’s the way it was yesterday.
The primary destination was Pigeon Point in the Owego township of Ransom County and joining me for the drive and keeping good company reminiscing about the old days was Larry Strand, an old Sheldon friend. We drove to Dennis and Linda Bjugstad’s new and beautiful country home south of Kindred so that Dennis could act as our tour director. We first drove to Abercrombie to visit the new-to-me visitors center at the fort. Fort Abercrombie served as the gateway to further westward movement in the historical period that interests me. Then we headed west again, passed through Walcott, decided it was time to eat dinner and found some pretty-good home cooked food in the local bar, and continued on to Pigeon Point and the site of the Owego settlement where fascinating history has been made. The site’s name of Pigeon Point apparently came from the time when pigeons were common and how men could knock them down by the bushel in the trees there. I’ve checked the writings of a prime bird expert, John James Audubon, who verified the huge numbers of those birds that once flew in these parts. He said once,
the “light of noonday was obscured as by an eclipse.” He estimated that when he saw a flock passing overhead that if it were one mile wide when it passed for three hours, traveling at the rate of a mile a minute, allowing two pigeons to the square yard, one billion, one hundred and fifteen million plus birds passed overhead.
As we tramped around the area which is now owned and protected by Nature Conservancy we tried to envision the large wagon trains that stopped here overnight on their way to supply the new Fort Ransom. Just south of the Pigeon Point the land stands very level and most likely served as their parking place. I could almost hear the sounds of the many oxen grazing the grass that was in abundance. One of the wagon trains I’ve referenced numbered forty wagons. How many oxen were hitched to each wagon I’m not sure. If four, then 160 of them plus a spare number for replacements, maybe 200 of them. The bull-whacker drovers, known for their coarseness and profanity, would have added to the scene to make it a very colorful one, indeed.
So I’ve got my work cut out for me as I research further, write countless drafts, search out editors, and do whatever it takes to properly weave all the bits together so as to preserve this history in writing. I’m sure it will take two years or more. Dennis asked if that meant there will not be another chapbook of poems before then. My reply, “Oh, there might be one anyway.”
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Musing on Some Good Writing
“What was at the heart of those days? Things like the taste of bread right out of the oven when you were good and hungry. The smell of newly plowed earth. A horse munching oats and bending its head to be rubbed. The way the late, flat sun sent long slants of light across the prairie grass.”
I save quotations by scribbling them down in notebooks and then forget about them until running across them again, sometimes years later while searching for ideas. When after reading them I find they still resonate, then I am glad that I took the time to copy them. The above lines were taken from the book Those Days: An American Album by Richard Richfield (1931-1994). Critchfield earned recognition as a war correspondent, then as the author of several books. He happens to have been a North Dakotan, born and raised in Hunter. I remember him from the days when I spent a little time looking up information in NDSU’s Institute for Regional Studies. He, too, sat at a table in the midst of several printed works which he’d placed in a haphazard semi-circle and worked diligently away. When I looked at the copyright date of this book, 1986, I believe that An American Album ended up as the product of those hours I saw him sitting there. He stood not very tall and wore the thickest glasses I’d ever seen, but physical attributes aren’t necessary; his command of the English language excelled, and he wrote his prose so well and readable that I find it a pleasure to open the book at any point and read a few paragraphs.
Critchfield bears emulating; he, along with dozens of other accomplished writers, serves as a guidepost to follow. If I were to have written the opening quotation, it may have come out like this --- Many pleasant memories survive my late childhood, things like the taste of warm lefse, straight from the griddle, on which I smear butter that melts and runs from the rolled ends, the smell of freshly mown alfalfa or fermented, sour silage that makes me think of sauerkraut, a dog stretching out to let me scratch her belly, and the sounds of gentle breezes magnified in the rustling leaves of the cottonwoods. A Pulitzer Prize will never be awarded for those words, but I enjoyed the sensory trip it took me on.
Paging through Critchfield I randomly stopped at page 225 and read this: Whenever freight trains came through town, migrant workers would be riding on the boxcar roofs. The country’s farm economy had never recovered from the collapse of 1920 . . . a migrant army was on the move. . . Some of these men had been on the road for years - jumping freights, hitchhiking, panhandling, shunting back and forth across the country in hopes of a job. They slept in haylofts or bunkhouses . . . nomads nobody wanted to see except in the August-to-October threshing season. Dad has talked long and often about these men that his father would hire at harvest time, but the Sheldon poet Tom McGrath in his book length poem Letter to an Imaginary Friend described their lot most graphically when he wrote of the hired man named Cal whom McGrath’s uncle, the boss of the harvest crew, beat mercilessly when the threat of their unionizing through the Wobblies movement became known to him. McGrath, the young boy, witnessed this spectacle:
We were threshing flax I remember, toward the end of the run-
After quarter-time I think - the slant light falling
Into the blackened stubble that shut like a fan toward the headland -
The strike started then. Why then I don’t know.
Cal spoke for the men and my uncle cursed him.
I remember that ugly sound, like some animal cry touching me
Deep and cold, and I ran toward them
And the fighting started.
My uncle punched him. I heard the breaking crunch
Of his teeth going and the blood leaped out of his mouth
Over his neck and shirt-…
I find great pleasure in reading the literature written by great authors and enjoy making connections of these works like I have just made between Critchfield and McGrath. My deepest regret is and always will be that I have not read enough since I wasted my time doing other things for too many years.
I save quotations by scribbling them down in notebooks and then forget about them until running across them again, sometimes years later while searching for ideas. When after reading them I find they still resonate, then I am glad that I took the time to copy them. The above lines were taken from the book Those Days: An American Album by Richard Richfield (1931-1994). Critchfield earned recognition as a war correspondent, then as the author of several books. He happens to have been a North Dakotan, born and raised in Hunter. I remember him from the days when I spent a little time looking up information in NDSU’s Institute for Regional Studies. He, too, sat at a table in the midst of several printed works which he’d placed in a haphazard semi-circle and worked diligently away. When I looked at the copyright date of this book, 1986, I believe that An American Album ended up as the product of those hours I saw him sitting there. He stood not very tall and wore the thickest glasses I’d ever seen, but physical attributes aren’t necessary; his command of the English language excelled, and he wrote his prose so well and readable that I find it a pleasure to open the book at any point and read a few paragraphs.
Critchfield bears emulating; he, along with dozens of other accomplished writers, serves as a guidepost to follow. If I were to have written the opening quotation, it may have come out like this --- Many pleasant memories survive my late childhood, things like the taste of warm lefse, straight from the griddle, on which I smear butter that melts and runs from the rolled ends, the smell of freshly mown alfalfa or fermented, sour silage that makes me think of sauerkraut, a dog stretching out to let me scratch her belly, and the sounds of gentle breezes magnified in the rustling leaves of the cottonwoods. A Pulitzer Prize will never be awarded for those words, but I enjoyed the sensory trip it took me on.
Paging through Critchfield I randomly stopped at page 225 and read this: Whenever freight trains came through town, migrant workers would be riding on the boxcar roofs. The country’s farm economy had never recovered from the collapse of 1920 . . . a migrant army was on the move. . . Some of these men had been on the road for years - jumping freights, hitchhiking, panhandling, shunting back and forth across the country in hopes of a job. They slept in haylofts or bunkhouses . . . nomads nobody wanted to see except in the August-to-October threshing season. Dad has talked long and often about these men that his father would hire at harvest time, but the Sheldon poet Tom McGrath in his book length poem Letter to an Imaginary Friend described their lot most graphically when he wrote of the hired man named Cal whom McGrath’s uncle, the boss of the harvest crew, beat mercilessly when the threat of their unionizing through the Wobblies movement became known to him. McGrath, the young boy, witnessed this spectacle:
We were threshing flax I remember, toward the end of the run-
After quarter-time I think - the slant light falling
Into the blackened stubble that shut like a fan toward the headland -
The strike started then. Why then I don’t know.
Cal spoke for the men and my uncle cursed him.
I remember that ugly sound, like some animal cry touching me
Deep and cold, and I ran toward them
And the fighting started.
My uncle punched him. I heard the breaking crunch
Of his teeth going and the blood leaped out of his mouth
Over his neck and shirt-…
I find great pleasure in reading the literature written by great authors and enjoy making connections of these works like I have just made between Critchfield and McGrath. My deepest regret is and always will be that I have not read enough since I wasted my time doing other things for too many years.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Memories Revived
This Monday evening I attended the regular monthly meeting of the Westerners Corral and listened to the guest speaker Mr. Curt Eriksmoen. He writes a weekly column that discusses some historical character in North Dakota and appears in the Bismarck Tribune, The Fargo Forum, and a Bottineau paper. A retired man, this has become his pastime, and someone asked if he ever runs out of topics to write about. He answered that his pool of possible material is now larger than when he started writing.
One of the sources Eriksmoen mentioned was that of Clement Lounsberry and his three volume history of early North Dakota and some of its characters, copyrighted in 1917. I randomly opened volume 1 to page 255 of my own set and came on this entry: The mosquitoes were almost unbearable in the timber and the valleys. Maj. Samuel Woods speaks of them, and of the terrific thunder storms and the condition of the prairies, in his report of his expedition to the Red River Valley (1849). He writes “They were driven from the timber by the mosquitoes, and being on the high, open prairie, ‘the thunder broke over us appallingly.’” Now, it doesn’t take a lot of imagination to write an essay based on that information and anyone with some writing experience could have a lot of fun expanding on that passage.
I can’t say that my own pool of ideas is larger now than when I started writing, but I think I’m more aware of things that can be written about. For this week’s Musing I let my mind’s eye wander and caught this memory when it came floating by. When I was growing up small farms were a fact of life and very few farmers had trucks or trailers to haul their cattle, hogs, or sheep to and from market. Our community depended on a man, Clark Douglas, who owned a small fleet of trucks for the express purpose of hauling livestock. Vivid memories rise to the top, I see one of these trucks with the large wooden rack appear a mile down the gravel road being chased by a large cloud of dust, and as it draws closer the stock rack and the chute gates strapped to the rack’s sides rattle and vibrate on the wash board bumps. It turns into the driveway which sets the dog to barking and pulls to a stop waiting for Dad to tell him where to load. When the driver gets his instructions he backs up to the loading point and Gene Jaster jumps out of the cab, pulls and slides out the ramp, sets the chute gates in place, and the livestock is hollered and prodded into the box. The whole process usually takes just minutes and the driver straps the ramp and gates back up and drives off to West Fargo. This little tale took a lot longer to punch the computer keys than it did to think it up. When the memory opens up stories come easily.
A picture hanging on my wall conjures up another scene. My Uncle Russell sits on his horse on a cold, snowy day by our bullet-holed mailbox with a 1948 Fraser Manhattan parked behind him. This snapshot recalls the day he rode to my Grandpa’s funeral because the roads were blocked tight with snow. Others in the family, if they could not drive in, flew in by private plane, and the snowplow came out to open up for Dad. I was only five at the time and had to stay with a neighbor. Whenever I see old pictures I wonder who they were of and what was the occasion. Often no one survives to remember. Some day that will happen to knowledge of this picture, and, for that matter, to the memory of the large, rattly stock trucks coming for a load of cattle.
One of the sources Eriksmoen mentioned was that of Clement Lounsberry and his three volume history of early North Dakota and some of its characters, copyrighted in 1917. I randomly opened volume 1 to page 255 of my own set and came on this entry: The mosquitoes were almost unbearable in the timber and the valleys. Maj. Samuel Woods speaks of them, and of the terrific thunder storms and the condition of the prairies, in his report of his expedition to the Red River Valley (1849). He writes “They were driven from the timber by the mosquitoes, and being on the high, open prairie, ‘the thunder broke over us appallingly.’” Now, it doesn’t take a lot of imagination to write an essay based on that information and anyone with some writing experience could have a lot of fun expanding on that passage.
I can’t say that my own pool of ideas is larger now than when I started writing, but I think I’m more aware of things that can be written about. For this week’s Musing I let my mind’s eye wander and caught this memory when it came floating by. When I was growing up small farms were a fact of life and very few farmers had trucks or trailers to haul their cattle, hogs, or sheep to and from market. Our community depended on a man, Clark Douglas, who owned a small fleet of trucks for the express purpose of hauling livestock. Vivid memories rise to the top, I see one of these trucks with the large wooden rack appear a mile down the gravel road being chased by a large cloud of dust, and as it draws closer the stock rack and the chute gates strapped to the rack’s sides rattle and vibrate on the wash board bumps. It turns into the driveway which sets the dog to barking and pulls to a stop waiting for Dad to tell him where to load. When the driver gets his instructions he backs up to the loading point and Gene Jaster jumps out of the cab, pulls and slides out the ramp, sets the chute gates in place, and the livestock is hollered and prodded into the box. The whole process usually takes just minutes and the driver straps the ramp and gates back up and drives off to West Fargo. This little tale took a lot longer to punch the computer keys than it did to think it up. When the memory opens up stories come easily.
A picture hanging on my wall conjures up another scene. My Uncle Russell sits on his horse on a cold, snowy day by our bullet-holed mailbox with a 1948 Fraser Manhattan parked behind him. This snapshot recalls the day he rode to my Grandpa’s funeral because the roads were blocked tight with snow. Others in the family, if they could not drive in, flew in by private plane, and the snowplow came out to open up for Dad. I was only five at the time and had to stay with a neighbor. Whenever I see old pictures I wonder who they were of and what was the occasion. Often no one survives to remember. Some day that will happen to knowledge of this picture, and, for that matter, to the memory of the large, rattly stock trucks coming for a load of cattle.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Just Thinking
I’m where I’ve always wanted to be because I’m able to read, write, think about writing, research topics that take my fancy, etc. I know it assails some people’s sensibility whenever they ask “whatcha doin’” and I answer “thinking.” What kind of activity is that they wonder with their German-Russian blood? Personally I think it’s wonderful. I know that even my wife has had to go through years of orientation on this subject since most of her waking hours are spent getting her hands dirty in her large and numerous flower gardens. It is a source of pride and curiosity in this neighborhood since people, strangers to us, will stop and ask if they can walk through the backyard, something which happened again last week.
We were told a great story in the first person a few years back. An acquaintance who had been widowed married for the second time a Norwegian bachelor farmer. She, with the strong German heritage, moved to his farm and proved right away she was willing to help with the work. He owned both cattle and sheep, so they split winter feeding chores. She told us that this one morning they left the house, each going to their respective duties, hers the cows, his the sheep. She finished hers and returned to the house, but he did not return at the usual time and made her wonder what had happened. Eventually he came and she asked him why so late. He said he just thought it such a nice day that he laid back on a haystack and watched the clouds float by. Her words, and I quote, “You gotta be shittin’ me!” Of course, with my own Norwegian heritage, I could identify with that.
Now, I’ve got to get my train of thought back on track, and relate as to how I spend my time. I recently returned to the research library at the heritage library and found some interesting notes in my hometown newspaper dated July, 125 years back. First off, this bit caught my eye. The publisher editorialized “Some of our young gents, not having the fear of their Creator before their eyes, indulged in a match game of baseball last Sunday. Don’t do so anymore, boys.” I imagine that a strong conservative religious element existed in town at the time, a general feeling that probably gave rise to the “blue laws” that forbade certain retail businesses from opening. Anything goes now, though.
In another piece the publisher wrote “There is a loud call all over the country for the clearing out of the great cattle companies which have virtually taken possession of the Indian country for pasturage…” Being a student of western history for many years I knew they only needed to wait a couple of years and the wish would be granted. The winter of 1887-88 was so severe that hundreds of thousands of cattle perished on the overgrazed grasslands. Teddy Roosevelt lost a fortune since he’d invested heavily in a cattle spread in the Badlands.
A full page was devoted to the death of Ulysses Grant on July 23rd. Reading that I was reminded of something I learned in Hannibal, Missouri this past spring. Grant, admirably, worked hard before his death to finish an autobiography so that the financial proceeds would benefit his wife and family. He had no wealth besides this personal story and found a publisher who offered a sum of money to be agreed on in a contract. Mark Twain, a friend of Grant’s, happened to be present just prior to signing. Twain, the experienced author, protested vigorously saying that a much better contract could be procured. Grant argued he wanted his wife to have something, but he did hold off on signing. Twain soon delivered what he promised, and instead of Grant making only $20,000 offered on the original deal he made closer to $500,000. By the way, Grant’s autobiography is considered to be an excellent work.
Well, that’s about all the thinking and writing I’m going to do today. My wife is calling to do some darn job upstairs. It’s all come like a bolt out of the blue which was the topic of another short article I read: “The lightning struck and instantly killed a 1-year old thorough-bred Durham bull valued at $125 at the Helendale Stock Farm. Mr. Power states that the bolt came out of a clear blue sky."
So much of our time can be spent in the past; it is the only thing we know. The present time instantly becomes the past, and the future is unknown. Mandan recently hosted another of their annual classic car shows downtown and main street filled with hundreds of old cars and people. I wrote this short poem in response to the event:
classic cars
lined up on main street
draw hundreds
always looking back
to the life we left
We were told a great story in the first person a few years back. An acquaintance who had been widowed married for the second time a Norwegian bachelor farmer. She, with the strong German heritage, moved to his farm and proved right away she was willing to help with the work. He owned both cattle and sheep, so they split winter feeding chores. She told us that this one morning they left the house, each going to their respective duties, hers the cows, his the sheep. She finished hers and returned to the house, but he did not return at the usual time and made her wonder what had happened. Eventually he came and she asked him why so late. He said he just thought it such a nice day that he laid back on a haystack and watched the clouds float by. Her words, and I quote, “You gotta be shittin’ me!” Of course, with my own Norwegian heritage, I could identify with that.
Now, I’ve got to get my train of thought back on track, and relate as to how I spend my time. I recently returned to the research library at the heritage library and found some interesting notes in my hometown newspaper dated July, 125 years back. First off, this bit caught my eye. The publisher editorialized “Some of our young gents, not having the fear of their Creator before their eyes, indulged in a match game of baseball last Sunday. Don’t do so anymore, boys.” I imagine that a strong conservative religious element existed in town at the time, a general feeling that probably gave rise to the “blue laws” that forbade certain retail businesses from opening. Anything goes now, though.
In another piece the publisher wrote “There is a loud call all over the country for the clearing out of the great cattle companies which have virtually taken possession of the Indian country for pasturage…” Being a student of western history for many years I knew they only needed to wait a couple of years and the wish would be granted. The winter of 1887-88 was so severe that hundreds of thousands of cattle perished on the overgrazed grasslands. Teddy Roosevelt lost a fortune since he’d invested heavily in a cattle spread in the Badlands.
A full page was devoted to the death of Ulysses Grant on July 23rd. Reading that I was reminded of something I learned in Hannibal, Missouri this past spring. Grant, admirably, worked hard before his death to finish an autobiography so that the financial proceeds would benefit his wife and family. He had no wealth besides this personal story and found a publisher who offered a sum of money to be agreed on in a contract. Mark Twain, a friend of Grant’s, happened to be present just prior to signing. Twain, the experienced author, protested vigorously saying that a much better contract could be procured. Grant argued he wanted his wife to have something, but he did hold off on signing. Twain soon delivered what he promised, and instead of Grant making only $20,000 offered on the original deal he made closer to $500,000. By the way, Grant’s autobiography is considered to be an excellent work.
Well, that’s about all the thinking and writing I’m going to do today. My wife is calling to do some darn job upstairs. It’s all come like a bolt out of the blue which was the topic of another short article I read: “The lightning struck and instantly killed a 1-year old thorough-bred Durham bull valued at $125 at the Helendale Stock Farm. Mr. Power states that the bolt came out of a clear blue sky."
So much of our time can be spent in the past; it is the only thing we know. The present time instantly becomes the past, and the future is unknown. Mandan recently hosted another of their annual classic car shows downtown and main street filled with hundreds of old cars and people. I wrote this short poem in response to the event:
classic cars
lined up on main street
draw hundreds
always looking back
to the life we left
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Some Days Are Downers
Yesterday we took a regular trip to Lisbon to visit with my parents at the Parkside Home. Over the phone a couple days previous to that I’d asked Dad if he wanted to take a drive to Sheldon and look things over. Yes, he wanted to very badly. After a nice fish dinner at the home we took off. Along Highway 27 and the road south of Sheldon the crops looked good even though some of the sloughs were full. At the junction of the two roads a dozen potato hauling trucks stood parked at their site making me wonder if a good potato harvest is being expected. Arriving in Sheldon we drove slowly around the streets looking at the mostly run-down condition of the houses in town. We pulled into Curt Black’s yard and drove around his circle drive to find him sorting through a junk bucket in preparation for his September sale. He is one of Dad’s last remaining friends since he’s outlived most everyone else. After exchanging a few pleasantries we drove east of Sheldon to look around.
The conditions of the fields were as we expected to find them - wet and weedy; many of the quarter sections haven’t seen a tractor wheel turn on them this spring, the second year of absolutely no production. Township roads are under water in some spots so we had to pick our way to get to the farm location where I was raised. Even in good growing conditions, my travels through this countryside are somewhat depressing. We passed the farm site where I was brought into the world, the same farm pictured on the cover of my recent book, and where now there is nothing except a few trees. Straight south a half mile is the site of the farmstead that the folks built up and is the scene of my growing years. It is gone, the few remaining cottonwoods shoved into a pile. Another half mile and we passed the historical site plowed under, an old wagon road from Owego to Sheldon. Another half mile used to stand my grandparents farmstead, a place were 52 years ago I met with a life-changing accident. Further along the road, the Lyle Schimming farmstead has vanished. So much has changed, so much gone.
Returning to Sheldon we repeated our trip through the gloomy field situations and came in on the east side. There our once nicely kept school and grounds stands in shambles with junk sitting around and a large hole cut in the gym’s east end so that trucks can come and go within.
Main street had only one car on it and we surmised it was probably the bar keeper’s. The only site of real activity has been and still is the grain elevator where several people can draw a paycheck. Then out west we turned to drive past our land there. We were met with a large sign stating there was no traffic allowed. We’ve heard that’s because of water flowing over a low spot. We turned before that though to drive south to the farm my folks bought from Ma’s parents. There the tenant had put up a nice crop of alfalfa bales on the north field by the railroad tracks, and we could see grain waving in the wind over on the west side of the creek.
While Dad was with us I asked him to verify some property lines since he and Ma had sold five acres a few years back. Stopping there on the road and scanning things over we were met with four barking dogs that came out of the yard signaling in their animal way that we were unwanted there. We could not continue driving south since the creek water stood over that road, so we backtracked and headed back to Lisbon. So for the day we saw one person we knew, Curt Black, and two strangers standing on main street as we came back through. I guess we can call it a ghost town.
The conditions of the fields were as we expected to find them - wet and weedy; many of the quarter sections haven’t seen a tractor wheel turn on them this spring, the second year of absolutely no production. Township roads are under water in some spots so we had to pick our way to get to the farm location where I was raised. Even in good growing conditions, my travels through this countryside are somewhat depressing. We passed the farm site where I was brought into the world, the same farm pictured on the cover of my recent book, and where now there is nothing except a few trees. Straight south a half mile is the site of the farmstead that the folks built up and is the scene of my growing years. It is gone, the few remaining cottonwoods shoved into a pile. Another half mile and we passed the historical site plowed under, an old wagon road from Owego to Sheldon. Another half mile used to stand my grandparents farmstead, a place were 52 years ago I met with a life-changing accident. Further along the road, the Lyle Schimming farmstead has vanished. So much has changed, so much gone.
Returning to Sheldon we repeated our trip through the gloomy field situations and came in on the east side. There our once nicely kept school and grounds stands in shambles with junk sitting around and a large hole cut in the gym’s east end so that trucks can come and go within.
Main street had only one car on it and we surmised it was probably the bar keeper’s. The only site of real activity has been and still is the grain elevator where several people can draw a paycheck. Then out west we turned to drive past our land there. We were met with a large sign stating there was no traffic allowed. We’ve heard that’s because of water flowing over a low spot. We turned before that though to drive south to the farm my folks bought from Ma’s parents. There the tenant had put up a nice crop of alfalfa bales on the north field by the railroad tracks, and we could see grain waving in the wind over on the west side of the creek.
While Dad was with us I asked him to verify some property lines since he and Ma had sold five acres a few years back. Stopping there on the road and scanning things over we were met with four barking dogs that came out of the yard signaling in their animal way that we were unwanted there. We could not continue driving south since the creek water stood over that road, so we backtracked and headed back to Lisbon. So for the day we saw one person we knew, Curt Black, and two strangers standing on main street as we came back through. I guess we can call it a ghost town.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Historical Bits
Small town newspapers in days-gone-by published their news stories with a certain flair that, unfortunately, today’s schools of journalism teach their students not to write. I enjoy reading the stories written a century ago.
100 Years Ago in Sheldon
(ad) Lock Step Binder Twine is guaranteed to be as smooth and even and as free from knots and weak spots as are the characters of the men who spin it . . .
Adolph Ihme, living nine miles northwest of here, crossed over the state line into South Dakota a few days ago and returned via Fargo on Saturday morning last with a handsome bride . . .
Charles Ufer, Sr. met with a serious accident. While driving in a couple of horses from the pasture one of the animals kicked him in the face, cutting it quite badly. He was unconscious for two hours and when he got to the house was in such a dazed condition that he could not explain how the accident happened. Restoratives were applied and he is improving slowly.
For Sale - Northwest Quarter Section 17, one mile south of Coburn. Bargain at $15 per acre. A. F. Anderson, Lemmon, S. D.
There are the usual battles being waged on the dandelions - with the usual effect.
The east bound freight train got tired of keeping in the middle of the road on last Friday and when between Elliott and Lisbon, jumped the track and bumped along over the ties for several hundred feet.
(The citizens of the village of Sheldon have often spoken with a sort of questionable pride of their infamous outlaw well. The following item might remind one in an eerie way of the runaway oil well in the Gulf.) The large outside casing is now being put down in the artesian gusher, but as yet nothing can be known as to what the result will be.
. . .
Last evening Mary and I attended a “premiere” at the Belle Mehus Theater in downtown Bismarck featuring a film about a past North Dakota governor William L. Guy. It was very good and surprisingly there were a lot of audience laughs during the showing because of the way politics of the time was portrayed. A box seat situated in a place of honor at the front of the auditorium went empty. Instead, Mr. and Mrs. Guy walked almost unnoticed down the aisle until they reached the midway point when everyone realized it and then stood for the ovation. Neither did they sit in the front row. They sat five or six rows from the front, more in the middle of the audience. I read it as their not wanting to be “elevated,” but instead looked on as one with the people. I thought it was a nice gesture on their part
100 Years Ago in Sheldon
(ad) Lock Step Binder Twine is guaranteed to be as smooth and even and as free from knots and weak spots as are the characters of the men who spin it . . .
Adolph Ihme, living nine miles northwest of here, crossed over the state line into South Dakota a few days ago and returned via Fargo on Saturday morning last with a handsome bride . . .
Charles Ufer, Sr. met with a serious accident. While driving in a couple of horses from the pasture one of the animals kicked him in the face, cutting it quite badly. He was unconscious for two hours and when he got to the house was in such a dazed condition that he could not explain how the accident happened. Restoratives were applied and he is improving slowly.
For Sale - Northwest Quarter Section 17, one mile south of Coburn. Bargain at $15 per acre. A. F. Anderson, Lemmon, S. D.
There are the usual battles being waged on the dandelions - with the usual effect.
The east bound freight train got tired of keeping in the middle of the road on last Friday and when between Elliott and Lisbon, jumped the track and bumped along over the ties for several hundred feet.
(The citizens of the village of Sheldon have often spoken with a sort of questionable pride of their infamous outlaw well. The following item might remind one in an eerie way of the runaway oil well in the Gulf.) The large outside casing is now being put down in the artesian gusher, but as yet nothing can be known as to what the result will be.
. . .
Last evening Mary and I attended a “premiere” at the Belle Mehus Theater in downtown Bismarck featuring a film about a past North Dakota governor William L. Guy. It was very good and surprisingly there were a lot of audience laughs during the showing because of the way politics of the time was portrayed. A box seat situated in a place of honor at the front of the auditorium went empty. Instead, Mr. and Mrs. Guy walked almost unnoticed down the aisle until they reached the midway point when everyone realized it and then stood for the ovation. Neither did they sit in the front row. They sat five or six rows from the front, more in the middle of the audience. I read it as their not wanting to be “elevated,” but instead looked on as one with the people. I thought it was a nice gesture on their part
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Exploring A Tangent
To me it’s always fun and interesting to explore a tangent. That is what has happened as I read up on the early surveying of my home area. How did those guys do it? I’ve found a few recently published books that have told me much more than I knew before. The most important idea that comes out is that when land began to be surveyed and its limits or borders were established is when it began to have a monetary value. Andro Linklater authored two these books: The Fabric of America and Measuring America. The first mentioned book bears the subtitle How Our Borders Shaped the Country and Forged Our National Identity. Without property assignments that can be recorded we would just be a bunch of squatters on a piece of land, holding on to it only unless someone stronger came along and decided to take it away.
I remember seeing one time in a box of junk Dad had purchased at an auction a length of chain with oblong links the likes of which I’d never seen before. Without knowing what it was, it was just some more junk he had brought home. I know now what it was, it was a Gunter’s Chain invented by Edmund Gunter in the early 1600’s. He designed them to be an exact length, 66 feet, and one of the important facets of surveying was born. It’s a topic much too long to discuss in this modest blog, but I’m finding it very interesting and will be able to use a lot of information in my next project.
. . .
Main street in Mandan filled up last Sunday with classic cars, 550 of them plus some classic farm tractors. And bring a crowd of lookers it does! My favorites are the ones I wished I could have had when it would have made a difference. I think I’d liked to have owned a ‘57 Chevy most of all, and there were a few of those beauties there. The rare car present was a 1908 Maxwell that exists in its original condition. Apparently it found a good storage shed all its life.
. . .
Monday evening Mary and I attended a picnic sponsored by a history group I have joined, The Westerners. The site, located about ten miles south of Mandan, sat in some of the prettiest country in North Dakota. With ample rain, the grass shone green and lush, and the rugged terrain was as good as the food. Clay Jenkinson spoke about the West and its early inhabitants
I remember seeing one time in a box of junk Dad had purchased at an auction a length of chain with oblong links the likes of which I’d never seen before. Without knowing what it was, it was just some more junk he had brought home. I know now what it was, it was a Gunter’s Chain invented by Edmund Gunter in the early 1600’s. He designed them to be an exact length, 66 feet, and one of the important facets of surveying was born. It’s a topic much too long to discuss in this modest blog, but I’m finding it very interesting and will be able to use a lot of information in my next project.
. . .
Main street in Mandan filled up last Sunday with classic cars, 550 of them plus some classic farm tractors. And bring a crowd of lookers it does! My favorites are the ones I wished I could have had when it would have made a difference. I think I’d liked to have owned a ‘57 Chevy most of all, and there were a few of those beauties there. The rare car present was a 1908 Maxwell that exists in its original condition. Apparently it found a good storage shed all its life.
. . .
Monday evening Mary and I attended a picnic sponsored by a history group I have joined, The Westerners. The site, located about ten miles south of Mandan, sat in some of the prettiest country in North Dakota. With ample rain, the grass shone green and lush, and the rugged terrain was as good as the food. Clay Jenkinson spoke about the West and its early inhabitants
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Garage Sale
We’re getting ready to hold a garage sale this Friday and Saturday. Stuff accumulates. Some people don’t save it but live their lives slick and clean. I don’t know if it’s admirable or not. A spoken line repeated over and over at one school I worked at said: a clean desk is the sign of a sick mind. My life is messy; it is hard to throw things away. My wife is the opposite, and since they say opposites attract it might be interesting to note that we celebrated our 36th anniversary yesterday.
My philosophy has evolved over the years, but I have come to the place where if I want to look at something antiquey, I will go to a museum. So out go those two pair of hames, that broken cow bell, two gopher traps, one pair of buggy steps, assorted metal ends for single trees, a wooden hay pulley, some rusty horseshoes with the nails still sticking out of them, and a string of sleigh bells on a rotten leather strap.
A few things stay though. There is that white leather show halter I bought to lead my 4-H calves at judging shows. I remember showing a blue ribbon Holstein heifer at Lisbon and had a hard time controlling her with the tie-up halter. The judge overlooked that and kindly recommended a show type. I’m keeping a solid brass steam engine valve. Why, I guess just because it is such a high quality item from another time. I’m keeping the Craftsman wrenches one inch and above even if I don’t use them. I looked up their price on the internet, and I know I could not get what they are worth. Other things even though they are priced and on the table might yet get retrieved, too, however I will have to do that without the wife seeing it.
I told the wife I think we’ve got another ten years at this place and then we’ll move to a smaller place that is easier to take care of. Of course, she hasn’t put her stamp of approval on that one, but time works against us. Ten years hence I will be 78 years old!
My philosophy has evolved over the years, but I have come to the place where if I want to look at something antiquey, I will go to a museum. So out go those two pair of hames, that broken cow bell, two gopher traps, one pair of buggy steps, assorted metal ends for single trees, a wooden hay pulley, some rusty horseshoes with the nails still sticking out of them, and a string of sleigh bells on a rotten leather strap.
A few things stay though. There is that white leather show halter I bought to lead my 4-H calves at judging shows. I remember showing a blue ribbon Holstein heifer at Lisbon and had a hard time controlling her with the tie-up halter. The judge overlooked that and kindly recommended a show type. I’m keeping a solid brass steam engine valve. Why, I guess just because it is such a high quality item from another time. I’m keeping the Craftsman wrenches one inch and above even if I don’t use them. I looked up their price on the internet, and I know I could not get what they are worth. Other things even though they are priced and on the table might yet get retrieved, too, however I will have to do that without the wife seeing it.
I told the wife I think we’ve got another ten years at this place and then we’ll move to a smaller place that is easier to take care of. Of course, she hasn’t put her stamp of approval on that one, but time works against us. Ten years hence I will be 78 years old!
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
50 Years - Come and Gone
It wasn’t so long ago that I realized our high school graduation took place fifty years ago, just like that. I only heard from one classmate who suggested a get-together might be in order, but nary a spark of interest from anyone else. I guess everyone in our class just wants to forget how long ago that event occurred. At the time, it was big! In our eyes the girls were prettier, the fish bigger, and we thought we would live forever. Two of the classmates I remember being with us at one time or another have passed on, and I suppose it means we all will. So the words and melody of a song come into my head, “Let’s live, love, laugh, and be happy!”
We’ll be attending a fiftieth wedding anniversary of a cousin of mine this coming weekend. She probably wonders how the time slipped by. I don’t feel like I’ve been married long but it’ll soon be our 37th anniversary. Over those years along with the wife, I’ve gained children and grandchildren, a house, and a two-car garage. That’s been the American dream all along.
And to finish off, I ran into a ditty that made me stop and think. Looking around the Huffington Post book section I found this taken from a college graduation speech given by David Foster Wallace. He said, "There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way who nods at them and says 'Morning, boys. How's the water, and the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, 'What the hell is water.'" His point was on making conscious choices on how to perceive the world.
We’ll be attending a fiftieth wedding anniversary of a cousin of mine this coming weekend. She probably wonders how the time slipped by. I don’t feel like I’ve been married long but it’ll soon be our 37th anniversary. Over those years along with the wife, I’ve gained children and grandchildren, a house, and a two-car garage. That’s been the American dream all along.
And to finish off, I ran into a ditty that made me stop and think. Looking around the Huffington Post book section I found this taken from a college graduation speech given by David Foster Wallace. He said, "There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way who nods at them and says 'Morning, boys. How's the water, and the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, 'What the hell is water.'" His point was on making conscious choices on how to perceive the world.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Tales of Impalement
In doing some background reading for my newest research/writing project I ran across an anecdote that interested me. It told of a teamster/bullwhacker in the nineteenth century who, while trying to yoke one of his oxen, got hooked under his chin by the critter’s horn, lifted aloft, and carried around the corral area until help arrived. According to the story teller he recovered but was forced to eat mush for the rest of his life. I thought that was a singular event until yesterday when I found this story. A Spanish bullfighter entered the ring and worked to subdue the bull - as they usually do. The bull hooked him, but much worse than the man in the aforementioned tale, the tip of the bull’s horn pierced the soft skin of the bullfighter’s throat and exited through the man’s mouth. He survived with the help of a surgeon but is in pretty tough shape. Readers of this blog can find several references to the event by googling the words “bullfighter gored in neck.” The pictures are graphic and might make you squeamish. I thought to myself that we can’t blame the animal in either case for doing something in his self-defense.
So much of interest to be found when I poke around history. In my opening line I mentioned my current research/writing project. The place name of Pigeon Point in Owego Township will receive some attention because it was an overnight stop between Forts Abercrombie and Ransom on the freight trail. Why the name Pigeon Point? In my reading I found where one of the old-timers related as to how numerous the passenger pigeons roosted in the trees at that spot. That species is now extinct, but still in the 1860’s and 70’s they were numerous. The famous John James Audubon spoke of them. He set about trying to count them one day and gave up after tallying 163 flocks having passed him in 21 minutes. He said, “The air was literally filled with pigeons; the light of noon-day was obscured as by an eclipse, the dung fell in spots, not unlike melting flakes of snow…” He did some estimating over the next three hours that if the flock was one mile wide and traveled at the rate of a mile a minute, allowing two pigeons to the square yard, that one billion, one hundred and fifteen million, one hundred and thirty-six thousand passed by. The flight of pigeons he observed lasted for three days. I don’t know how accurate he was, but there surely were a lot of pigeons in the air.
And, to finish off with another story of impalement one of the old settlers writing in the WPA history project in the 1930’s told of the family Thomas Wilson, the first settlers in my home township of Greene who farmed just a short while before moving into the just-platted town of Sheldon in 1882. Wilson went to work for storekeepers Goodman and Grange as a butcher. One day he butchered 100 hogs in a fenced enclosure and stuck each severed head on one of the posts, “a very queer looking sight it was!”
So much of interest to be found when I poke around history. In my opening line I mentioned my current research/writing project. The place name of Pigeon Point in Owego Township will receive some attention because it was an overnight stop between Forts Abercrombie and Ransom on the freight trail. Why the name Pigeon Point? In my reading I found where one of the old-timers related as to how numerous the passenger pigeons roosted in the trees at that spot. That species is now extinct, but still in the 1860’s and 70’s they were numerous. The famous John James Audubon spoke of them. He set about trying to count them one day and gave up after tallying 163 flocks having passed him in 21 minutes. He said, “The air was literally filled with pigeons; the light of noon-day was obscured as by an eclipse, the dung fell in spots, not unlike melting flakes of snow…” He did some estimating over the next three hours that if the flock was one mile wide and traveled at the rate of a mile a minute, allowing two pigeons to the square yard, that one billion, one hundred and fifteen million, one hundred and thirty-six thousand passed by. The flight of pigeons he observed lasted for three days. I don’t know how accurate he was, but there surely were a lot of pigeons in the air.
And, to finish off with another story of impalement one of the old settlers writing in the WPA history project in the 1930’s told of the family Thomas Wilson, the first settlers in my home township of Greene who farmed just a short while before moving into the just-platted town of Sheldon in 1882. Wilson went to work for storekeepers Goodman and Grange as a butcher. One day he butchered 100 hogs in a fenced enclosure and stuck each severed head on one of the posts, “a very queer looking sight it was!”
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
A Strange Bird Flew By
A couple of days ago as I browsed in the stacks of the Bismarck Public Library I spotted a book which jumped out at me because it revived a strong memory. The book Flying MacArthur to Victory written by Dusty Rhoades relates in diary form the author’s experiences in World War II piloting MacArthur’s personal plane The Bataan, a converted B-17 heavy bomber. Several thousand of these were built and were notable for their ability to continue flying even after suffering battle damage. My experience was this: in the early 1970’s mosquitoes were infecting horses with sleeping sickness - equine encephalitis - which could transfer to humans, and it was decided that a general spraying program would help to control the outbreak. After the B-17’s usefulness ended most of them headed for salvage. The Bataan, even with its historical significance, survived and sat on a runway somewhere available to be adapted to the job at hand.
At the time I worked at the Sheldon school which needed basement remodeling because of flooding from heavy rainfall. Lots of junk needed to be hauled away and one morning George Bartholomay, Kenny Lewis, and I took a pickup loaded with it to the dump grounds. After unloading, I hopped in the back end of the pickup to let the wind blow through my hair on the sultry summer day and remember this scene so distinctly. Sensing something I looked back as we drove along and saw the huge four-engine bomber bearing directly at us and flying only about 500 feet off the ground. I banged on the roof of the cab and hollered so the other two could see it as it passed overhead dragging its large shadow. We watched it make just a few passes over Sheldon as it sprayed the chemicals and then it was gone, off to another town.
Whether or not the spraying program succeeded I doubt anyone can say that it did. Maybe it caused a few cancers in people who happened to have it rain on them as they stood watching the plane. It was something out of the ordinary, the biggest thing to happen that day in lots of little towns.
At the time I worked at the Sheldon school which needed basement remodeling because of flooding from heavy rainfall. Lots of junk needed to be hauled away and one morning George Bartholomay, Kenny Lewis, and I took a pickup loaded with it to the dump grounds. After unloading, I hopped in the back end of the pickup to let the wind blow through my hair on the sultry summer day and remember this scene so distinctly. Sensing something I looked back as we drove along and saw the huge four-engine bomber bearing directly at us and flying only about 500 feet off the ground. I banged on the roof of the cab and hollered so the other two could see it as it passed overhead dragging its large shadow. We watched it make just a few passes over Sheldon as it sprayed the chemicals and then it was gone, off to another town.
Whether or not the spraying program succeeded I doubt anyone can say that it did. Maybe it caused a few cancers in people who happened to have it rain on them as they stood watching the plane. It was something out of the ordinary, the biggest thing to happen that day in lots of little towns.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Some Lighter News
As is usually the case the past week’s news is mind-numbing and items of importance are shunted off to the side to make room for the next new and exciting thing. The oil leak in the Gulf, Nashville inundated, the nomination of a new Supreme Court judge, the sharp drop in the stock market, etc. all grab at our attention during the daily news cycles. It gets so we have to pick and choose if we want to keep up. Mix in Tiger Woods, global warming, health care, volcanic ash and the brew thickens.
News in my hometown paper was much simpler in May of 1885. The following are a few gleaned from the records of the Heritage Center: Thousands of dozen of eggs are being shipped from Sheldon to the Fargo market . . . P. P. Goodman has planted twenty-five acres of corn down on his Sheyenne River farm . . . Business has been lively during the past week. The business side of front street having been crowded with teams from early morn until dewy eve . . . City Marshal Sanborn has given some of the hilariously inclined farmer citizens a little whatcome advice lately in consequence of which they crawled into their wagons and made tracks for home . . . Several prairie schooners passed through town yesterday bound for the west.
Jumping ahead twenty-five years we find these tidbits: Hans Bjugstad, while strolling around through the hills last Saturday ran on to a den of young coyotes. He dug out seven of the little animals . . . For centuries scientists have been racking their brains in an effort to discover the elixir of life, a recipe for perpetual youth. But it remains for man unknown to the world of science to find the true preventative for old age, the fountain of perpetual youth. That man is Chauncy Durgin. He attributes his extremely youthful appearance at the age of ninety-three to his habit of eating pie every morning for breakfast and conveying it to his mouth with a knife. Since he gave his discovery to the world several of our young men upon whom Father Time has laid his hand, have been following his example. As a result the pie market has been rapidly rising in price . . . ad: Burke’s Auto Livery takes you anywhere. Expert and sober chauffeurs only employed. Phone 63, Sheldon . . . Tuesday morning Mail Carrier Good’s “bronco” went out on a strike, decided that he wouldn’t carry Uncle Sam’s mail any longer and proceeded to kick the mail cart into kindling wood. He succeeded admirably and Mr. Good had to return to town and make the trip by bicycle route.
In the hallway of the Heritage Center, an exhibit of the front page of various state newspapers caught my eye. The Fargo Daily Courier of January 17, 1917 had this headline in large letters: Ballot Is Given to North Dakota Women. Hanging beside it was this front page from the December 28, 1930 issue of the Bismarck Tribune: Fire Destroys State Capitol. I don‘t think the state historians were making any type of statement.
News in my hometown paper was much simpler in May of 1885. The following are a few gleaned from the records of the Heritage Center: Thousands of dozen of eggs are being shipped from Sheldon to the Fargo market . . . P. P. Goodman has planted twenty-five acres of corn down on his Sheyenne River farm . . . Business has been lively during the past week. The business side of front street having been crowded with teams from early morn until dewy eve . . . City Marshal Sanborn has given some of the hilariously inclined farmer citizens a little whatcome advice lately in consequence of which they crawled into their wagons and made tracks for home . . . Several prairie schooners passed through town yesterday bound for the west.
Jumping ahead twenty-five years we find these tidbits: Hans Bjugstad, while strolling around through the hills last Saturday ran on to a den of young coyotes. He dug out seven of the little animals . . . For centuries scientists have been racking their brains in an effort to discover the elixir of life, a recipe for perpetual youth. But it remains for man unknown to the world of science to find the true preventative for old age, the fountain of perpetual youth. That man is Chauncy Durgin. He attributes his extremely youthful appearance at the age of ninety-three to his habit of eating pie every morning for breakfast and conveying it to his mouth with a knife. Since he gave his discovery to the world several of our young men upon whom Father Time has laid his hand, have been following his example. As a result the pie market has been rapidly rising in price . . . ad: Burke’s Auto Livery takes you anywhere. Expert and sober chauffeurs only employed. Phone 63, Sheldon . . . Tuesday morning Mail Carrier Good’s “bronco” went out on a strike, decided that he wouldn’t carry Uncle Sam’s mail any longer and proceeded to kick the mail cart into kindling wood. He succeeded admirably and Mr. Good had to return to town and make the trip by bicycle route.
In the hallway of the Heritage Center, an exhibit of the front page of various state newspapers caught my eye. The Fargo Daily Courier of January 17, 1917 had this headline in large letters: Ballot Is Given to North Dakota Women. Hanging beside it was this front page from the December 28, 1930 issue of the Bismarck Tribune: Fire Destroys State Capitol. I don‘t think the state historians were making any type of statement.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
My Two Cents
So much to read, so little time! It seems like I spend all my money on books. A new title caught my eye so I bought it: The Long Way Home - An American Journey from Ellis Island to the Great War. The first lines in the dust jacket of the book read “When the United States entered World War I in 1917, one-third of the nation’s population had been born overseas or had a parent who was an immigrant. At the peak of U. S. involvement in the war, nearly one in five American soldiers was foreign-born.” Since my maternal grandfather fit into that category I thought it would be informative. The author traces the lives of a dozen men, one of whom came from Norway. When I looked deeper into the tale I discovered he marched with the 362nd Regiment of the 91st Division, the same one Grandpa was a member of. Reading this account should give me a bit more insight into the sketchy history of the battles he fought in.
The 91st, identified as the Wild West Division, included a lot of cowboy types from Wyoming and Montana. One of my uncles told the story he knew of the time when Grandpa’s troop train carried the raw recruits to their training camp in Washington. At a station stop some sergeant started bawling orders at them and one of them promptly decked the sergeant. He didn’t take kindly to being ordered around. At the remaining station stops armed guards stood on the platform to keep order.
. . .
We recently visited New Orleans, the Gulf Coast area, and Nashville. Now both are suffering through disasters. I hope they don’t think that the dark cloud follows me around and that I had something to do with it. I might want to go back sometime.
. . .
We just finished re-watching my John Adams boxed DVD set as well as a Thomas Jefferson DVD found at the library. Without the leadership and wisdom these two men demonstrated in the early days of this country a much different government probably would have developed. I've been watching the new Tom Hanks production of "The Pacific" on HBO. The battle scenes are very graphic, but it doesn't match up to the earlier "Band of Brothers" or "Saving Private Ryan."
The 91st, identified as the Wild West Division, included a lot of cowboy types from Wyoming and Montana. One of my uncles told the story he knew of the time when Grandpa’s troop train carried the raw recruits to their training camp in Washington. At a station stop some sergeant started bawling orders at them and one of them promptly decked the sergeant. He didn’t take kindly to being ordered around. At the remaining station stops armed guards stood on the platform to keep order.
. . .
We recently visited New Orleans, the Gulf Coast area, and Nashville. Now both are suffering through disasters. I hope they don’t think that the dark cloud follows me around and that I had something to do with it. I might want to go back sometime.
. . .
We just finished re-watching my John Adams boxed DVD set as well as a Thomas Jefferson DVD found at the library. Without the leadership and wisdom these two men demonstrated in the early days of this country a much different government probably would have developed. I've been watching the new Tom Hanks production of "The Pacific" on HBO. The battle scenes are very graphic, but it doesn't match up to the earlier "Band of Brothers" or "Saving Private Ryan."
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Gettin' Back in the Groove
I’ve been watching the weather half a world away in Mumbai (Bombay), India - the temperatures have been consistently in the mid-90’s. Reason: our first born flew there last week for business reasons. He emailed that it took him 27 ½ hours to reach his destination, and apparently the volcano ash we’ve been hearing so much about was not much of a problem. He’ll be there for a two week stretch meeting with them plus some Australian colleagues. A quick Google check names several sites that, with differing definitions of a city, show Mumbai as either first, second, or third most populous city in the world. This world economy thing blows my mind. To think how the different countries of the world interact to make their economies work is hard for this old farm boy to comprehend, but it sure looks like a heady experience for those who can function in the modern world.
* * *
I’m always interested in hearing veterans tell war stories, but it’s hard to get them to talk about their combat experiences. A long-time acquaintance and Viet Nam veteran is no different. Stories he tells are very superficial, and he outright told me one day that he doesn’t like to talk about them. Recently, though, he volunteered to let me read a book of his that dealt with the Marine unit he fought with at the Battle of Dong Ha in 1968. The book, Magnificent Bastards, doesn’t paint any glorious pictures but depicts the down and dirty aspects of the fighting. This Marine unit got ripped up badly, and according to one source, lost 81 killed and 297 seriously wounded. Prior to my reading the book, he had said, “A lot of the guys never came back.”
* * *
A few days ago a beautifully restored ‘49 Chevy pickup pulled into our driveway driven by an acquaintance who loves to work on cars and who stopped by to show it off. Proud he was, “There isn’t a bolt in it that isn’t chromed.” The stock six-cylinder engine purred nicely and the blue paint job reflected my face. What caught my eye though was the add-on turn signal gizmo bolted to the steering column. He, being younger than I, seemed interested when I told him that I remember when those gadgets had to be added to a vehicle if not factory equipped because of a newly enacted state law which I’ll guess occurred sometime in the early 1950’s. After awhile, he backed out and coolly cruised away, then Mary pointed to the big puddle of oil the engine leaked on our driveway.
* * *
It would be good advice for anyone:
If at first you don’t succeed, stay away from sky-diving!
* * *
I’m always interested in hearing veterans tell war stories, but it’s hard to get them to talk about their combat experiences. A long-time acquaintance and Viet Nam veteran is no different. Stories he tells are very superficial, and he outright told me one day that he doesn’t like to talk about them. Recently, though, he volunteered to let me read a book of his that dealt with the Marine unit he fought with at the Battle of Dong Ha in 1968. The book, Magnificent Bastards, doesn’t paint any glorious pictures but depicts the down and dirty aspects of the fighting. This Marine unit got ripped up badly, and according to one source, lost 81 killed and 297 seriously wounded. Prior to my reading the book, he had said, “A lot of the guys never came back.”
* * *
A few days ago a beautifully restored ‘49 Chevy pickup pulled into our driveway driven by an acquaintance who loves to work on cars and who stopped by to show it off. Proud he was, “There isn’t a bolt in it that isn’t chromed.” The stock six-cylinder engine purred nicely and the blue paint job reflected my face. What caught my eye though was the add-on turn signal gizmo bolted to the steering column. He, being younger than I, seemed interested when I told him that I remember when those gadgets had to be added to a vehicle if not factory equipped because of a newly enacted state law which I’ll guess occurred sometime in the early 1950’s. After awhile, he backed out and coolly cruised away, then Mary pointed to the big puddle of oil the engine leaked on our driveway.
* * *
It would be good advice for anyone:
If at first you don’t succeed, stay away from sky-diving!
Monday, April 19, 2010
Final Remarks on a Road Trip
The Precious Moments museum and chapel gave us plenty to look at in Carthage, Mo, and supper at Lambert’s in Springfield had us ducking their trademark activity of dinner rolls being thrown at us from twenty feet away. Next morning the large Bass Pro Shop offered its wares before departing to Branson and the huge show called “Noah, the Musical.” I’ve never seen such a production with all the animals that Noah gathered to ride his ark.
Elvis Presley’s Graceland bored me another time. That stop is so overly commercialized and glitzy that it rubs this prairie dweller to raw skin. The Vicksburg Military Park with its large battlefield presents itself as a destination in itself. A person could study the facets of that battle for a long time. New Orleans brought some reality to Katrina’s damage that we’d only experienced through television or printed media reports.
A Farmer’s Union trip always takes in some type of agricultural visit and this one included the Harvest States Barge Loading Facility outside of New Orleans. Over the course of a year they unload four thousand grain filled barges floated down the Mississippi River onto 200 ships. That makes for a lot of commerce.
On to Nashville and Andrew Jackson’s home called The Hermitage and a performance of the Grand Ole Opry. When Josh Turner came on stage his performance which was almost overshadowed by a bunch of 80 year old women who sat beside us and screamed and carried on like teen-agers. Little Jimmy Dickens still brings the audience to its feet for a standing ovation.
I took my third and final trip to the top of the Arch in St. Louis. Each time I’ve ridden the tramway to the top to prove to myself that I’m not a coward, but having proven that and since I always get very uncomfortable up there, I’ve decided that enough is enough. Springfield, IL’s site was the beautifully constructed Lincoln Tomb where he has been lain to rest plus his home while he lived there and practiced law. Hannibal, MO featured Mark Twain’s boyhood home, something I found very interesting.
A final attraction drew us to Jesse James House and Museum in St. Joseph, MO. We were surprised. It was a great museum that also included the Pony Express museum.
Well, I can put my journey to rest. Today we power raked the lawn, Mary started digging in her flower beds, and I’ve started thinking about other things to do.
Elvis Presley’s Graceland bored me another time. That stop is so overly commercialized and glitzy that it rubs this prairie dweller to raw skin. The Vicksburg Military Park with its large battlefield presents itself as a destination in itself. A person could study the facets of that battle for a long time. New Orleans brought some reality to Katrina’s damage that we’d only experienced through television or printed media reports.
A Farmer’s Union trip always takes in some type of agricultural visit and this one included the Harvest States Barge Loading Facility outside of New Orleans. Over the course of a year they unload four thousand grain filled barges floated down the Mississippi River onto 200 ships. That makes for a lot of commerce.
On to Nashville and Andrew Jackson’s home called The Hermitage and a performance of the Grand Ole Opry. When Josh Turner came on stage his performance which was almost overshadowed by a bunch of 80 year old women who sat beside us and screamed and carried on like teen-agers. Little Jimmy Dickens still brings the audience to its feet for a standing ovation.
I took my third and final trip to the top of the Arch in St. Louis. Each time I’ve ridden the tramway to the top to prove to myself that I’m not a coward, but having proven that and since I always get very uncomfortable up there, I’ve decided that enough is enough. Springfield, IL’s site was the beautifully constructed Lincoln Tomb where he has been lain to rest plus his home while he lived there and practiced law. Hannibal, MO featured Mark Twain’s boyhood home, something I found very interesting.
A final attraction drew us to Jesse James House and Museum in St. Joseph, MO. We were surprised. It was a great museum that also included the Pony Express museum.
Well, I can put my journey to rest. Today we power raked the lawn, Mary started digging in her flower beds, and I’ve started thinking about other things to do.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
On the Road, # 4
Collecting My Thoughts …
Before the Memories Fade
Having just returned from a two week tour I need to sit down and transcribe the impressions formed after looking through the window of a bus. Of course, we did a bit of walking, too, through various sites. I don’t want to call the journey one of looking at dead people’s graves, although we did a bit of that: Abraham Lincoln, Andrew Jackson, Elvis Presley, and the concrete tombs of New Orleans. Even though the tour was named Music Medley, I can’t recall that we heard much music, although the performance of the Grand Ole Opry counts heavily in its favor. We didn’t even eat much ethnic food, although in New Orleans I did eat a Po’ Boy sandwich filled with fried oysters, shrimp, and catfish.
With that negative-seeming introduction, one would think we did not have a good time, but such was not the case; we did have a worthwhile trip and a good time. I’ve discovered, after several bus tours, that people who spend the money to join the tour put contentious issues aside and find common ground to enjoy each other’s humor and fellowship. Whenever I step off the bus for the last time, I always feel a bit of emptiness since I have to return to my everyday life and will not see some of my fellow passengers again for awhile, or maybe not ever.
I don’t think any of us came away from our drive through the Ninth Ward of New Orleans without feeling some sadness for what we saw there. The place, for the most part, is still a shambles. The Mississippi Gulf Coast, with its once beautiful mansions, needs much work yet to restore it, although one can’t help but admire the initiative some re-builders are showing as they build their houses on the tall stilts holding them high in the air.
The Vicksburg Civil War Battlefield illustrated the impossibility of some conflicts, this one with its high ground and deep ravines which Northern forces never did take by assault, but instead forced Southern surrender after a siege that starved them out.
We visited Hannibal, MO and the Mark Twain Museum and Home where I bought Twain’s Autobiography. I mention that here because I’m not done with the Civil War impressions. I’d known for some time that General, later President, U. S. Grant did not have any money towards the end of his life. He proceeded to write his autobiography and was ready to sell the rights for about $25,000 to an unscrupulous publisher. He asked Mark Twain to look at the contract before signing it and Twain promptly told him in no uncertain terms it was rubbish. Twain had by now experienced the ins and outs of the publishing industry and found him a new publisher, and the proceeds of his book came to about one-half million dollars, the sum of which Grant would not enjoy since he died soon after but which left his widow very financially comfortable. Witty sayings and quotations made by Twain were in abundance in Hannibal, something that many in our group enjoyed.
Little Rock, AR showed us President Clinton’s new library and museum where a special collection of Madeleine Albright’s “pins” caught our attention.
(More to be added to this…)
Before the Memories Fade
Having just returned from a two week tour I need to sit down and transcribe the impressions formed after looking through the window of a bus. Of course, we did a bit of walking, too, through various sites. I don’t want to call the journey one of looking at dead people’s graves, although we did a bit of that: Abraham Lincoln, Andrew Jackson, Elvis Presley, and the concrete tombs of New Orleans. Even though the tour was named Music Medley, I can’t recall that we heard much music, although the performance of the Grand Ole Opry counts heavily in its favor. We didn’t even eat much ethnic food, although in New Orleans I did eat a Po’ Boy sandwich filled with fried oysters, shrimp, and catfish.
With that negative-seeming introduction, one would think we did not have a good time, but such was not the case; we did have a worthwhile trip and a good time. I’ve discovered, after several bus tours, that people who spend the money to join the tour put contentious issues aside and find common ground to enjoy each other’s humor and fellowship. Whenever I step off the bus for the last time, I always feel a bit of emptiness since I have to return to my everyday life and will not see some of my fellow passengers again for awhile, or maybe not ever.
I don’t think any of us came away from our drive through the Ninth Ward of New Orleans without feeling some sadness for what we saw there. The place, for the most part, is still a shambles. The Mississippi Gulf Coast, with its once beautiful mansions, needs much work yet to restore it, although one can’t help but admire the initiative some re-builders are showing as they build their houses on the tall stilts holding them high in the air.
The Vicksburg Civil War Battlefield illustrated the impossibility of some conflicts, this one with its high ground and deep ravines which Northern forces never did take by assault, but instead forced Southern surrender after a siege that starved them out.
We visited Hannibal, MO and the Mark Twain Museum and Home where I bought Twain’s Autobiography. I mention that here because I’m not done with the Civil War impressions. I’d known for some time that General, later President, U. S. Grant did not have any money towards the end of his life. He proceeded to write his autobiography and was ready to sell the rights for about $25,000 to an unscrupulous publisher. He asked Mark Twain to look at the contract before signing it and Twain promptly told him in no uncertain terms it was rubbish. Twain had by now experienced the ins and outs of the publishing industry and found him a new publisher, and the proceeds of his book came to about one-half million dollars, the sum of which Grant would not enjoy since he died soon after but which left his widow very financially comfortable. Witty sayings and quotations made by Twain were in abundance in Hannibal, something that many in our group enjoyed.
Little Rock, AR showed us President Clinton’s new library and museum where a special collection of Madeleine Albright’s “pins” caught our attention.
(More to be added to this…)
Monday, April 12, 2010
On the Road, # 3
We passed through the area of Selma and Montgomery, Alabama which gave me pause to think of how unsettled this area was one time regarding civil rights. We also passed through the devastated areas of Hurricane Katrina which still show signs of the storm's fury. New Orleans' Ninth Ward is still a shambles, but there are signs of recovery. We're headed toward Nashville.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
On the Road, # 2
Staying in a little Mississippi town just a few minutes south of Memphis. We visited Elvis's Graceland today after arriving in town from Little Rock, Arkansas and the Clinton Presidential Library. One of the traveling exhibits on display was Madeliene Albright's pin collection that we have been hearing about lately. A glass sculpture by Gilhooly caught my attention. We passed on the road a Remington ammunition factory and the employee parking lot was full. I guess the militiamen are keeping it busy making more bullets.
Yesterday in Branson we watched one show: Noah, the Musical. I've never seen a production of that magnitude before. There were live animals, men inside animal costumes, motor-driven animals, and stuffed animals, two by two. It took a huge stage setting to field the whole thing; I was impressed. In some spare time we attended an Imax movie: The Hubble, meaning the orbiting telescope. In part it dealt with astronauts repairing the telescope, and, in part, showing the skies as photographed. Impressive.
Tomorrow - Vicksburg, the site of a Civil War battle.
Yesterday in Branson we watched one show: Noah, the Musical. I've never seen a production of that magnitude before. There were live animals, men inside animal costumes, motor-driven animals, and stuffed animals, two by two. It took a huge stage setting to field the whole thing; I was impressed. In some spare time we attended an Imax movie: The Hubble, meaning the orbiting telescope. In part it dealt with astronauts repairing the telescope, and, in part, showing the skies as photographed. Impressive.
Tomorrow - Vicksburg, the site of a Civil War battle.
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
On the Road
Springfield, Missouri - April 7, 2010 - 5:50 am - On a bus tour. Not much of excitement has occurred yet. Yesterday we toured the Precious Moments chapel which was the brainchild of the man who created that line of ceramics. Quite nice. Last evening we ate at a place that tossed hot buns at you from about 20 feet away. A few hit the floor. This morning we're headed to the large Bass Pro Shop here in Springfield for a bit of shopping, then off to Branson.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Slang
Simple solutions exist for politicians who get in trouble for the things they say and then have to explain themselves at another time for what they really meant. Good old Sarah Palin set up a target list of politicians who she says need to be defeated in the next election and to pinpoint who they are put the crosshairs of a rifle scope over their congressional district. The prudent person probably would not be influenced to rise to acts of assassination, but some fear that kooks - and there are some - would read that as a message to start shooting, “you betcha.”Of course, she follows up and says the Democrats are construing the message for their benefit. Then there’s good old Joe Biden who gets caught making verbal blunders occasionally, the latest of which was telling the President the health care bill was a “big f_____g deal.” He could have said, “Mr. President, this is a momentous occasion.” These two examples illustrate a myriad of examples of slang expressions used in communicating their message. In fact, the whole country participates in something that could be termed “slanguage.”
The simple solution I referred to is this: speak formal English, eliminate any use of “slanguage.” Easy? Just try it. I, with the college major in English, can’t do it. Those darned overworn expressions, Americanisms, continually pop up. Did I just say “pop up?” I could have said “enter into my speech.” One of the best speakers of the English language I have come into contact with was a distant cousin from Sweden. He learned formal English in school, and his speech was free from the slang we use freely. I once told him he speaks the Queen’s English, and he immediately affected a British accent and spoke with it to emphasize that point.
I’ve never forgotten the young lady clerk in a gas station who, after I asked about some product her establishment offered for sale, told me that “you can’t beat it with a stick.” I can add a whole list of words: babelicious, back-asswards, bent out of shape, going bonkers, takes a lot of guts, good vibes, knuckle sandwich, lame excuse, psyched up, rinky-dink, mickey mouse, etc. Back to Sweden, the boyfriend of another cousin rode a sleek looking motorcycle we commonly refer to as a “crotch-rocket.” He looked very quizzically at me as I used that term. To him it was a motorcycle. Well, I’d better quit before my wife “reams me out” for sitting here. She’s been “going bonkers” for doing this “mickey mouse” writing-thing. Personally, I think it’s “a piece of cake.”
The simple solution I referred to is this: speak formal English, eliminate any use of “slanguage.” Easy? Just try it. I, with the college major in English, can’t do it. Those darned overworn expressions, Americanisms, continually pop up. Did I just say “pop up?” I could have said “enter into my speech.” One of the best speakers of the English language I have come into contact with was a distant cousin from Sweden. He learned formal English in school, and his speech was free from the slang we use freely. I once told him he speaks the Queen’s English, and he immediately affected a British accent and spoke with it to emphasize that point.
I’ve never forgotten the young lady clerk in a gas station who, after I asked about some product her establishment offered for sale, told me that “you can’t beat it with a stick.” I can add a whole list of words: babelicious, back-asswards, bent out of shape, going bonkers, takes a lot of guts, good vibes, knuckle sandwich, lame excuse, psyched up, rinky-dink, mickey mouse, etc. Back to Sweden, the boyfriend of another cousin rode a sleek looking motorcycle we commonly refer to as a “crotch-rocket.” He looked very quizzically at me as I used that term. To him it was a motorcycle. Well, I’d better quit before my wife “reams me out” for sitting here. She’s been “going bonkers” for doing this “mickey mouse” writing-thing. Personally, I think it’s “a piece of cake.”
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