Veterans Day, 2024: "some of them sleeping forever."

We’re commemorating Veterans Day on November 11. It’s a day to honor all veterans who have served in the military, living and deceased, and recognizes their service and sacrifice for the country. The official date recalls the time when a ceasefire  occurred in World War I on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918. The AARP furnishes some interesting facts of those who served in the military. Nearly five million wore the uniform in World War I. Sixteen million served in World War II with only 167,000 still living in 2022. For the Korean War 1.8 million served, in Vietnam 2.7 million, and in the Gulf War 650,000. To honor all these men and women Congress saw fit in 1938 to establish the day as a federal holiday, then known as Armistice Day. The name changed to Veterans Day in 1954.

Twelve years ago we traveled to Hawaii, a trip that provided a rich experience with beautiful weather, lush greenery, and deeply embedded history. The name Pearl Harbor is well recognized in our history and provides visitors a historical destination. To get to the memorial site you must ride a boat skippered by navy personnel for about a mile. Upon arriving passengers step onto a modern bridge-like visitors center which straddles the sunken USS Arizona, a battleship sunk on December 7, 1941. We were immediately reminded this was hallowed ground since the ship below where we stood contains the bodies of 1102 servicemen killed that day and entombed forever in the rusting hulk. After coming away, we couldn’t help but feel humbled. The horrific attack that day destroyed more than the USS Arizona. It sunk a total of 20 ships, damaged 300 aircraft, and killed 2,400 Americans.

We visited another site of note near Honolulu named the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific. A large statue called Lady Columbia stands as a centerpiece. The inscription contains words written in a letter by Abraham Lincoln to a lady who had lost five sons in Civil War battles: “The solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.”  

Upon leaving the cemetery our driver called attention to a flat grave marker situated just outside the window where I sat. He didn’t stop but drove slowly enough so that I could read the name inscribed on it - Ernest Taylor Pyle. The passage of time has dimmed the memory of that man, but during World War II he was a dedicated battlefield correspondent serving as a conduit between servicemen on European battlefields and the folks back home. 

How did he become popular? He followed a simple formula: digging foxholes with the soldiers at the front, eating with them, diving for cover with them when bombs started falling. Reporters were free to come and go from the action, so some lived behind the lines in nice hotels. One biographer wrote of how it rubbed Ernie’s “nerves raw when he saw reporters covering the war between cocktail hours.” Furthermore, he noted that many reporters  hung around the top generals waiting for tidbits of information to come their way. Instead, Ernie lived among the soldiers and wrote from firsthand experience.

People, meaning parents, friends, citizens on the street, wanted news and stories like he was furnishing. His writing became widespread, so much so that his columns appeared in 400 daily and 300 weekly newspapers. Furthermore, he was the only civilian correspondent regularly published in the U.S. armed forces newspaper, “Stars and Stripes.” 

While most reporters wanted to write about the great battles, Ernie concentrated on the little details of the infantryman’s life. He would go to the front lines and talk with the individual troops, listen to their stories, and retell them in his column. Instead of telling the great deeds of generals and large units charging into action, his stories were personal and often about individual service members or  small groups of men.

Most of his columns can still be found, like this one he called “A Pure Miracle.” On the day after the invasion on D-Day, he set foot on the beach. Speaking of all the death and destruction he encountered on the way in, he wrote, “Now that it is over it seems to me a pure miracle that we ever took the beach at all. For some of our units it was easy, but in this special sector where I am now our troops faced such odds that our getting ashore was like my whipping Loe Louis down to a pulp.” As he walked around he found that “men were sleeping on the sand, some of them sleeping forever.”

Ernie died with people he wrote about. On a little island near Okinawa while riding in a jeep, a Japanese machine gunner opened fire on them. Ernie and his companions dived into a ditch. After a time when thinking it was clear, Ernie raised up to take a look and a bullet hit him in his forehead. His death saddened many people. For three years his writings which were almost like personal letters from the front had entered some 14,000,000 homes. President Truman issued a statement of condolence: "No man in this war has so well told the story of the American fighting man as American fighting men wanted it told. He deserves the gratitude of all his countrymen.”

Pyle wasn’t the only reporter who made a difference for men and women in uniform. Walter Cronkite can be remembered for his call to end the war in Vietnam. Shortly after that President Johnson spoke to the country on March 31, 1968 that he would not run for another term as president. But not until January of 1973 did Nixon end the war. One North Dakotan worked closely with Edward R. Murrow to report wartime news and opinions. A lady correspondent named Lee Miller has recently surfaced as a historically relevant reporter and now a movie about her life will play in theaters.  

Hundreds more reporters will go unnamed here for obvious reasons of space, but their stories of life on the front gives Americans an idea of what the men and women in the service go through. I’ve never worn a uniform, but I’ve gained a sense of history from war correspondents. Some gave their lives in pursuit of facts to inform their readers waiting back home. So for this Veterans Day I remember them, too.

Lantern to Light Switch

 Memories stirred in my head as I read THIS IS HAPPINESS by the Irish novelist Niall Williams. He wrote of  the Irish community of Faha before and after electricity arrived. I am old enough to remember that same event when it occurred at our rural farm home. Gas and kerosene lamps lit our nights. Battery radios furnished our entertainment.  As I read I felt like I was walking on familiar ground that I hated to leave when my wife called at suppertime. To add to the story, the village sported only one recently installed telephone, a fact that brought memories of a party line with our ring of three shorts after someone dialed 5542. I can’t argue with the author when he said, “the truth turns into a story when it grows old. We all become stories in  the end.”

Williams narrates the story from the viewpoint of a 78-year old man who remembers that older time. Many quotable passages appear, “Faha then had more to it than it does now. The shops were small but there were more of them…” What was true for him certainly is true for me as I recall many small businesses along main street where most local needs were met but no longer exist. The list is long: grocery stores, barbershops, tv and radio sales, clothing, blacksmiths, drugstores, doctors, car sales and repair, hatcheries, and cream stations.  Earlier even more served the public such as sales and service for steam engines, threshing machines, livery stables, buggies and wagons, draymen, and more. The little towns themselves have disappeared, and the highway leads to Fargo.

He wrote that in his little community “eccentric was the norm.” People were more free to be themselves with all their quirks and oddities. They didn’t need to kowtow to corporate policies that squelched individual thought. With humor he wrote this line, “the 100-watt bulb was too bright for Faha.” He explained the bright light revealed unseen dust and cobwebs on every surface. For some of the older residents the shock of change brought discomfort and steadfast resistance to the new way.

While THIS IS HAPPINESS could have been about most small towns in our country, it was set in Ireland. By shifting the scene we can find one linked to this particular area. PASSING THROUGH: THREE FAMILIES IN NORTH DAKOTA, 1880-1950, by Fredric C. Bohm III paints a picture of three interrelated families with the surnames of Bohm, Opheim, and Hill.

First, something about the author. Bohm spent the early years of his life growing up south of Sheldon in the Sand Hills. Wanting an education he earned a Ph.D. in history from Washington State University. While there he worked as editor in chief for Washington State University Press, eventually moving eastward to become Director of Michigan State University Press. By exercising his professional acumen he has produced an excellent product. Printed on high quality paper with excellent binding, it has easy to read print with sharp, well-captioned pictures and illustrations. 

The old maxim that warns we shouldn’t judge a book by its cover does not apply here. True that PASSING THROUGH sports an attractive, inviting cover, but its pages reveal a wealth of information, too. He liberally footnotes his narrative to tell readers where he found his material. Many of them are worth reading as separate asides since they add to the story. In addition, the lengthy bibliography of work he consulted and published could be of use to someone who wants to zero in on their own reading. 

While not familiar with the Hill family, I can relate to the other two. If we remember how storks worked, one of them delivered me at ten pounds, six ounces into my mother’s arms at the Nick Opheim home in Enderlin on a cold February morning in 1942. My mother said Mrs. Opheim welcomed expectant mothers and cared for them until they gained their strength. I think she said Dr. Hendrickson came on the scene to assist in the delivery, as well. I learn later in the book Mrs. Opheim was the mother to Tex Bohm’s wife.

When the author spoke of his parents and his upbringing around Sheldon I naturally took closest notice. His father, a man well known in these parts as Tex, said he received the nickname from his friend Richard Johanneson. At a local rodeo on the Walter Golz farm, he had climbed aboard a bull that did its best to throw him. Tex stayed on his back until the bell sounded but since he  ended up contorted and sideways on the bull’s back, he didn’t earn any winning points. After that,  Johanneson started calling him Tex which everyone started using.

The Bohnsack Ranch employed Tex as a cowhand in 1940 to help Frieda drive a herd of 600 cattle to the stockyards in West Fargo. That event gained a bit of attention when the Fargo Forum sent a reporter to gather the facts and add some color. The pictures that Bohm published are sharp, much better than what I found in the Fargo Forum archives.

In a section called “Living the Dream - The Sand Hills Years,” we learned Tex and his family rented a small farm and kindly neighbors gave the family a hand up, one hired Tex to shock an oats field and paid his wife with a matching check when she helped, another forgave Tex a sizable loan made for cattle feed. He jogged my memory of  Frank Sallen who sold and serviced Gleaner combines in Enderlin where I’d go along to buy parts. Governor Langer brought relief by saving Fred and Gladys Bohm from the foreclosure of their farm.

There is no way a short piece like this can begin to recap two books. The intent has been to look at them, relish the pleasure brought, linger over memories awakened, and say to fellow book lovers that here are two good ones.

RANDOM THOUGHTS - Monday, Oct 21, 2024

NDSU pulled off a narrow victory … Vikings, not … We’ve voted … Dr. Isern, NDSU history prof, found Dad’s carvings in Enderlin museum … Reading a good book: THIS IS HAPPINESS about the before and after arrival of electricity in an Irish village, an event which stokes my own memories … Marker Stone that the two State Universities fought so hard over was one of an original 720 markers, placed every half mile along the 360-mile border of the two states … Big crowd came to celebrate Norma and Gary’s 50th … adios.

Our Rough Rider

The portraits of forty-nine people hang in the Roughrider Hall of Fame in the state capitol building at Bismarck.  They honor North Dakotans who have achieved national recognition in their fields of endeavor. It is probably no surprise that the renowned band leader Lawrence Welk became the first inductee on August 28, 1961. The list extends through July 30, 2024 when the portrait of James Buchli, a NASA astronaut, found its place on the wall. We presume more will be added.

In these parts the hall’s “Rough Rider” namesake can mean only one person, Teddy Roosevelt. He has become an advertising icon for the state. Many tales praising this rugged individualist have been told and retold to maintain, even inflate his memory as a tourist attraction. One author has written, “Medora supports itself by feeding off the carcass of Teddy.”

Next time you visit town just look around and find many references to the man. Of course, there is the Theodore Roosevelt National Park, Rough Rider Hotel, Bully Pulpit Golf Course, Medora Musical where he’s featured, articles of clothing for sale, an impersonator who pops up around town, hamburgers named for him,  Maltese Cross Cabin, and who knows what else I’ve missed. The Theodore Roosevelt Presidential Library will open on July 4, 2026. The town with its attractions keeps growing, as will the use of his persona. 

You can’t blame Teddy for the hype about him in Medora, or can you? We learned from history how he led the charge on San Juan Hill in Cuba. Apparently his troops did fight well, but the whole affair gained a little puffery along the way. The country had to rely on the reporting of correspondents that were present. He made sure to name the reporters who would accompany him. Richard Harding Davis, the writer, and Fredric Remington, the artist, portrayed TR and the Roughriders in the most glowing terms. TR treated Davis very well, Davis reciprocated, thereby helping to create the popular legend. His stories carried bold, eye-catching headlines coupled with Remington’s artwork which caught the readers’ attention and sold newspapers. Thus a hero was born.  

None of the foregoing is meant as a criticism of the man. In fact he was popular then as now. He’s the president who one of my grandfathers said was the only one he ever liked. In fact, I kind of like the man, too. He never lived to see his Medal of Honor for his gallantry in action of San Juan Hill because it wasn’t presented until 2001. Neither did he see his face carved on Mt. Rushmore in South Dakota, but it’s a pretty sure thing he would have liked both.

As for accomplishments, several can be attributed to him. He broke up monopolies, pushed to establish the Pure Food and Drug Act, asserted the U.S. leadership position in the Western Hemisphere, and promoted the construction of the Panama Canal. He was a conservationist and created 150 national forests, 51 federal bird preserves, 4 national game preserves, 5 national parks, and 18 national monuments. All told he placed 230 million acres under federal protection, portions of which greedy developers today would love to get their hands on.

He read widely and authored many books. A speech he called The Man in the Arena is still frequently quoted: “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.” 

 

To condense his quote in a few words, we might use a reference from the baseball world that tells us you can’t get a hit if you’re not swinging. A past leader of India, Mahatma Gandhi, put it this way, “You may never know what results come of your action, but if you do nothing, there will be no result.” We can go to the world of country music and find one more reference from Lee Ann Womack, “And when you get the chance to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance.”

RANDOM THOUGHTS - Wed, Oct 16, 2024

A trip to Sheldon yesterday where we picked a couple bushels of apples for apple sauce this winter … Hands are still cold … We received a piece of apple pie besides … Corn harvest is underway, some with good yields … Took a look at the new grain handling facility in town where one unit train has been loaded out already … Bar in town has a new owner … adieu …

McGrath Material

 I have a book of Tom McGrath’s poems titled “Death Song.” Published the year after the Sheldon poet had died, it contains a large number of shorter poems, some written with a lot of impact. The following selection appears here only in part. What is unique about it is the fact that he wrote it from the viewpoint of the cattle that have been hauled to slaughter. Did the stock pens standing onetime in Sheldon alongside the railroad tracks influence his thoughts? 

SLAUGHTERINGHOUSE MUSIC

First, we feel the train

Slowing.

Then we see the pens as the train stops.

The doors open.

We leave the excrement-covered floors

Of the cattle cars and the stench of our journey.

A joy to stand in the ankle-deep dust and dried dung of the yards!

Sun?

And a high blue sky!

We blink in the glare of light and our cries go up:

Bellowings, snorts, grunts, whines, farts and whinnys -

A bedlam of many languages lifts toward heaven.

Then we stampede to the watering troughs and the sparse food.

As evening grows out of the earth,

Uneasy in the failing light

We push at the fences …

Moaning and bleating,

Sending our separate cries

Into the open range beyond the wire…

A kind of singing in all our languages

Out…

Into the desolation-

The emptiness that we once thought was home.

…

The last section of this piece talks of letting a few cattle at a time enter the killing floor where those waiting outside hear, “a dull thudding as of wood mauls on wood stumps.” One strike of the heavy hammer against their head was all it took.

…

The picture shows part of my collection of McGrath’s poetry. Other materials such as newspaper clippings are not pictured. Given my advancing age, what will I ever do with them?

Keepsakes and Souvenirs

  

Many of us form attachments to objects that remind us of significant events, places, or people in our lives and go on to collect a few of them. I do. In this room where I write there are a dozen or more such things hanging on the walls or setting on shelves. For the most part I give them no mind, they are taken for granted, but occasionally I do stop to ponder.

For instance there is a framed picture called “Found” hanging near my desk that is a lifelong part of my life. My parents received one as a wedding gift in 1941 and when I was born in 1942, it hung there for me to study and wonder about. The scene depicts a collie dog standing over a small lamb lying on the snowy ground in a storm. In the background a few crows have gathered in anticipation of a meal of lamb, but the collie’s find has deprived them of it. Through the years I have owned a print of the picture and I plan to keep hanging it on my wall.

I purchased a colorful little Viking figurine in Stockholm, Sweden when several family members traveled there to touch base with relatives. Many memories swirl about the figure, such as the grand welcome we received. The older generation could not speak English but needed an interpreter for each conversation. Those my age and younger all spoke English, some quite well. We packed a lot into touring rural areas, spending time in the city of Stockholm, a daylong cruise through the archipelago, eating great food, and visiting the church where my great-grandpa was baptized. Life in this country included liberal vacation time, health care, and low crime in this highly-taxed country which seemed to agree with them. We never heard much grumbling about taxes because they realized what it provided for them.

When my wife and her sister traveled to Rome with a church tour, I made one request of her: bring me a cross of San Damiano. She did find one and it hangs on my wall. There was a time   of deep soul-searching when I had found reference to it and began appreciating the message of this crucifix. For one thing, the Christ figure is alive and looks at us with outstretched arms. Symbolism surrounds him. The Ascension is portrayed with a host of angels welcoming him into Heaven, and depicted around him are the Holy Virgin and Saint John the Evangelist, a small rooster, several saints, Mary Magdalene, a small boy who’s been healed, and even more. It all represents to me in high art the Christian story.

A model of the railroad engine that carried the country westward sets on a shelf in front of some history books. About 25,000 of these little engines were built and used in the 1800s. It didn’t have the power to carry it into the 20th century and soon became obsolete. Being a student of that period of history, I purchased the model found thrown in a box of miscellaneous items at a sale. We’ve seen pictures of the  golden spike ceremony on the transcontinental railroad where two of these engines, one from the east, one from the west, have met and parked head to head.  To test the strength of the Northern Pacific bridge between Bismarck and Mandan, eight of them parked on it. One develops respect for its place in history.

A small framed picture of the M.V. Wickersham floating in calm waters rated a spot on my shelf. I rode it one time when the waters weren’t calm on the Alaskan Marine Highway. The ship was a mainline ferry vessel that passengers and freight rode from point to point in the north. A ship worker drove my car into the hold, and I rode topside for thirty hours. The picture holds the memory of a time when this young man wanted to get out of North Dakota and see some different sights and experience new things. The long drive to Anchorage, some of it on an unimproved highway, some sightseeing, and the southward cruise comprise a strong memory. The ship’s namesake, James Wickersham, became a district judge in Alaska and brought the excesses of Alexander Mackenzie under control. The affair became a favorite history story of mine for the reason that I ended up in Greeley, Colorado and enrolled at the University of Northern Colorado and earned a master’s degree.

Dad told the story of  a time he experienced a runaway team of horses. He was loading hay but paused briefly to look up at the camera. Something startled that team, maybe the click of the camera,  and they took off. An artist in Bismarck named Gary Miller had painted a scene that looked so much like it that I had to own it. More items set here and there:  a picture of a Gleaner combine loaded on a truck that I drove to southern Kansas for wheat harvest; a picture of bale haulers hangs above me; a model of a famous rodeo bull Little Yellow Jacket from Mandan will forever buck off riders on my shelf; a Model A Ford pickup that looks just like the one in Sheldon that I used to see and yearn to own, but I’ve settled for its toy model; and carvings. During a ten year period I carved ducks, geese, cows, people, clocks, shelves, and love spoons.

Yes, I’ve formed attachments to these and a few others that I didn’t bother to name. Someday I suppose they will be thrown out with the other brick and brack of my life, but for they hold a place in full view because they represent my life.