Beyond, Darkness

An old Lakota saying rings true and gives pause to think: “Memory is like riding a trail at night with a lighted torch.  The torch casts its light only so far, and beyond that is the darkness.”  At times I’ve tried reaching back to my earliest memories, but the light weakens the farther back I look, and then becomes total darkness.  There was that time when my Grandpa bought me a bottle of pop at the Venlo store which I spilled (he wouldn’t buy a second), the time a rooster harassed me to the point where I swung a stick and ended his aggressive behavior, the time I found an egg and put it in my pocket.  It promptly broke.  Those rural farm scenes were the setting for my first memories.  

The older I grow the more sharply defined they become.  The folks built a new farmstead about a half mile down the road.  On the house Dad installed a heavy front door scavenged from some place in town.  The image etched in its window stays with me yet, an elk trumpeting his presence in a mountain meadow.  Looking into and through to those mountain peaks let me dream about going there.  Many years later when I did hunt elk in the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming I realized its folly, because at the end of the day I discovered the front sight on my rifle missing.

The recent death of an old neighbor brought back the memory of the first time someone paid me for working.  Her husband drove in the yard late one afternoon and asked my parents if I could come help him rake alfalfa hay.  I was probably 12 or 13, had driven tractor for several years already, so off we went.  None of the facts are important, except for the payoff.  When I finished,  he drove me back home, dug in his pocket, pulled three shiny silver dollars out, and dropped them jingling in my hand.

We’ve heard of cases where people suffering amnesia cannot remember their past.  There are cases, too, where some people remember everything.  Politicians sworn to tell the truth in hearings often suffer convenient memory lapses where they just can’t recall.  And finally there are those who never let facts get in the way of a good story, what they can’t remember they just make up.  Mark Twain said he never let truth get in the way of a good story.  He might not have, but a problem arises when people of stature start fibbing, thereby altering reality.  Gullible people start believing it, and the misinformation goes into their memories and spreads outward.  

Many good stories told from the viewpoint of a narrator who reaches into his memory bank make for reading pleasure.  Open the pages to Norman Maclean’s short novel  A River Runs Through It to find a good example.  He was over 70 years old when he wrote about family incidents occurring 50 or more years before.  Autobiographical, it is the story of a stern Presbyterian minister and his two sons.  One, Maclean himself, went on to become a college professor, the other died from a violent beating he received over a gambling argument.  

As for the movie of the same title, they didn’t let facts get in the way of a good story.  In the beautiful mountain setting, Robert Redford’s narrative voice carries us along with a script that only loosely follows the book.  Redford did spend time with Maclean developing a rapport and trying to get a feel for his intentions when he wrote it.  It went on to become a great movie in its own right.  Unfortunately, when Maclean died at the age of 87, he had not had a chance to see it.  He wrote from memory, and  Redford took the memories and made them a Hollywood story.  Both are entertaining.

Humble Shover of the Lead Pencil

Another 4th of July passed leaving a variety of memories.  A good many celebrations were held in communities, with family groups, and, surprisingly, road construction crews worked in Fargo at several sites. Me, I could’ve been found helping out at the The Hunter Times.  

Bonanzaville in West Fargo hosts special days to draw folks in, the 4th being one of them.  Volunteers staff various shops in their old-time village and demonstrate the workings of each store.  The Hunter Times building moved from that town to a new home on a Bonanzaville’s streets and contains working examples of the old print trade.  It printed a weekly paper until 1970 after which it combined with the The Cass County Reporter in Casselton.  As an aside, the walls of the Times hold several bullet holes from the shots of bank robbers as they sped out of town.

How I found myself in that print shop on the 4th can be blamed on Allan Burke, publisher of the weekly Emmons County Record in Linton.  Allan knows me, publishes some of my articles, and not being bashful, asked if I’d volunteer.  I only know something of writing and nothing about the mechanics of the print trade.  Needless to say, I learned from watching the old printers who came in to run the presses.  I relegated myself to greeting visitors and handing out an information pamphlet.

The history of newspapers spreading westward fascinates me.  One website - The Bill Lane Center for the American West at Stanford University - features a three minute film showing an animated map that clicks through the years from 1690-2011 with little dots lighting up to mark  the location of each paper. It is quite remarkable to watch the dots appear to mark newspapers  marching westward.  The Center identified 10,242 weeklies by 2011 with “Publick Occurrences,” being the first, printed in 1690 in Boston.

A large heavy Linotype machine sits in the Hunter Times building.  Donated by the Fargo Forum, it was one of twenty-seven used where Linotype operators sat typing out daily issues.  Digital equipment came into being and made such contraptions obsolete.  What enabled newspaper publishers to move westward in large numbers was the invention of the small, simple Washington press that could be dismantled and hauled about.  The story of Clement Lounsberry and his Bismarck Tribune is a good illustration.  When the first train of the Northern Pacific arrived there in May, 1873, his portable hand press was in the freight car.  He didn’t waste a lot of time putting it to use since the first issue of that paper came out July 11.

Lounsberry sent his reporter Mark Kellogg along with Custer on the ill-fated trip to the Little Big Horn.  Apparently, Kellogg’s body was not mutilated like the others which prompted Lounsberry to write that the Indians “learned to respect this humble shover of the lead pencil.”  Though one observer stated it was probably due to the fact he fell early and away from the others and had not been noticed.  Lounsberry, a Civil War veteran with combat experience, and one of the typical publishers of the day, exhibited toughness to survive the negative kickback encountered in his use of free speech.  Another razor-edged editor claimed he needed to be a “pistol-packin’ pencil pusher” in his community.  

Today we recognize many historical names who’ve earned recognition in journalism: Horace Greeley, Bret Harte, Mark Twain, Bat Masterson…  Bat Masterson?  The gunfighter and sheriff in Dodge City, Kansas who was involved in several notable shootouts?  Yes, that one. His popular column “Masterson’s Views on Timely Topics” appeared from 1903 until 1921 in the New York Daily Telegraph and concerned sports in general and boxing in particular.  

We’ve heard so much use of the term “fake news” over the last few years; however, I believe responsible journalism prevails.  When the profession recognized the need to establish standards and training, they established the first school of journalism in 1908 at the University of Missouri, and in 1912 Joseph Pulitzer made a gift of $2 million to establish the Columbia Journalism School.  

To conclude, if the question arises, with all the internet and television news available, do we still need newspapers.  This answer comes quickly: yes, at the present time you are reading this one.

Trying to Spell Hjemkomst...

After I moved my chair for Gerda, I wanted to lean my head on her shoulder when she said “You’re a good boy.”  To clarify, I don’t know Gerda, only read it on her volunteer’s name tag.  A crowded dining room was the place at Moorhead’s Hjemkomst Center, and we’d  come to attend their 41st annual Scandinavian Hjemkomst Festival.  After moving to Fargo, we’ve decided to weave our way into a bit of the F-M fabric to attend some activities like this.  

It must have been twenty years since last we visited the center, so this day seemed like entering for the first time.  The centerpiece of the place is the ship Robert Asp built and completed in 1980 and then captained on a maiden voyage on Lake Superior.  Unfortunately an untimely death precluded his presence with the trip when it successfully sailed from Duluth to Bergen, Norway in 1982.

They’ve placed the ship on permanent display in the main hall, but since the festival drew so many vendors and attendees, we walked right by without paying a lot of attention.  With a good deal of Scandinavian blood in my veins, it was a no-brainer to first search out the food specialties I craved, primarily rommegrot and lefse. Mary and I shared a big bowl of that Norwegian porridge covered with melted butter and mixed cinnamon-sugar.  The lefse tasted pretty good, too. 

Reading the schedule, we saw a church service scheduled in the nearby stave church, a beautiful wooden structure standing 72 feet tall.  About a thousand years ago, the Norwegian king Olaf ordered Norway to give up pagan ways and convert to Christianity.  Consequently, they started erecting stave churches in the 12th and 13th centuries, as many as 1,000 of them.  Today, at last count, only twenty-eight remain.  Reaching up to heaven with soaring height, not much room was planned in the nave of the church, builders maybe thinking discomfort of crowded congregants made for personal sacrifice.

Vendors at shows like this usually engage with passersby to explain their work, but then they have something to sell.  The chip carved Scandinavian ornamentals caught my eye.  I hung up my carving tools some years back but sometimes feel a twinge of regret when I see some of the beautiful work turned out by these carvers who showcase pride of their ancestral roots. 

At noon the dining area filled with folks wanting a taste of food the way Grandma used to make it.  We’d already tasted Norwegian style, and with the Swedish food stand crowded, we headed to the Finnish group and ordered their open-faced ham and cheese sandwich.  The cheese was so excellent that I had to find out it was called “havarti.”  Icelanders sold their wares right beside where I chose a desert bar called “hjonabandsaeia,” and Mary a fruit-layered cake called “vinarterta.”  We cut them in half, shared, and agreed both were good choices.

We spent an easy four hours at the festival and will probably go back another year.  On the way out we stopped at the center’s giftshop, thinking it a waste of time with all these vendors gathered in the hallways.  But I bought a book totally unrelated to the Hjemkomst affair - Through Chutes and Alleys: A Half Century of the West Fargo Union Stockyards.  More about that another time. 

From the Early Annals of Ransom County

Readers of history, especially those with good imaginations, can explore and experience the early days of this county we call home. I’ve never forgotten the words of the author Dee Brown, “Sometimes there isn’t enough material. There’s a story there and you can’t fill it in with facts, so you let your imagination run wild.” Fortunately, some information about one grand spectacle has surfaced to add facts that help me more accurately understand the story. 

We’ll be speaking here about the march of General H. H. Sibley’s army into the territory. To put it simply, this was a big deal. Why? Because of its magnitude. Here’s what I’ve found and further imagine it to be. 

Called a punitive expedition, Sibley set out to punish the Indians for their rebellion, called by some the Minnesota Uprising of 1863. Note the year. The Civil War was raging, but even so, the government felt it necessary to expend the money and the manpower to quell the Indians’ unrest and protect white settlers moving into the area. A typical escalation that might’ve been settled much earlier, it involved Indian attacks, revenge taken by white settlers, 38 captured Indians being hung, treaty violations, unfair or unpaid annuity payments, etc. 

The expedition consisted of much more than a large column of soldiers riding their horses into the unknown territory of Dakota to pursue Indians. A huge support system needed to be procured to accompany them for purposes of food, forage, muleskinners, wheelwrights, carpenters, blacksmiths, herdsmen, butchers, and probably more. 

From the army’s experience in Minnesota, they realized this campaign needed a large number of horses and mules to guarantee success. In 1862 Sibley purchased over 5,000 of them from farmers who of course appreciated receiving the unexpected bonanza. A desperate need for wagons created jobs for wagon builders in St. Louis who shipped them north on the Mississippi River when the ice melted. Harnesses? Yep, leather workers got plenty of work, too. The government coughed up money to buy a herd of cattle to butcher on the trail as well. 

Manpower demands in the Civil War years created labor shortages, but an untapped labor pool presented itself: freed slaves and Irishmen. They came north on steamboats with consigned materials after the river ice thawed. Another commodity, Missouri mules to pull wagons, accompanied them and became a source of endless entertainment for onlookers because the new and inexperienced men coming north were tasked with training the mules to work in harness. 

After collecting all the necessities for living up to three months on the trail, Sibley’s command departed on June 16, 1863. Such a sight it must have been! Two thousand soldiers were accompanied by all the auxiliary personnel to total a number that one account put at 4,075. The column stretched for five miles and here I’m imagining the cloud of dust it raised. At first, the wagons ran single file, but to shorten it and better utilize the outriding military escort, it was shortened by running two wagons abreast, then further, four wagons abreast. 

The number of wagons totaled 225 pulled by that many six-mule teams. Imagine hearing the swearing muleskinners popping their whips over the animals’ ears, the creak of the loaded wagons, and the bawling cattle and spare horses being herded along. 

Hot, dry weather met the caravan as they marched deeper into the region. Fresh water ran out. Men sickened after drinking slough water they had strained through their handkerchiefs. Many 

times they dug for water, meeting only partial success after great exertion in the hot sun. Animals suffered for lack of water along with the men. Keen eyes were kept out for prairie fires that could sweep through their ranks with little notice. 

With great relief, they stopped at a place on the Sheyenne River they named Camp Hayes, near present day Lisbon. Here they stayed for six days waiting for a resupply train of wagons from Fort Abercrombie. Finally, carpenters and wheelwrights made repairs to the wagons built with green lumber that had now shrunken in the heat, blacksmiths shoed animals and fixed broken metal, and men and animals rested. 

It’s a long story, but Sibley succeeded in disrupting the lives of the Indians by chasing them from the area and burning their stores of winter meat and clothing. The whole affair stands as one of the elements that comprise our history. 

Hog Stories

Lovers of western stories might remember the opening scene in Lonesome Dove where Gus steps onto the porch and spots his two pet pigs waging a tug-of-war with a rattlesnake.  When Gus and Captain Call start the herd moving north to Montana, the hogs fall right in step at the rear.  They must have been agreeable to the journey because they stayed with Gus and followed the herd the whole distance.  He liked them for their great perseverance and thought they were more intelligent than some of the men he’d known.  

Speaking with pride about his pets, he said, “Why, they’re the first pigs to walk all the way from Texas to Montana.  That’s quite a feat for a pig.”  If you’re into such things as analyzing a story and finding themes, it can be said they represent the circle of life.  How so?  Gus died from the infection caused by the arrows shot into his leg.  Then with him no longer alive to be their champion, the cowboys saw them as a delicious change of menu and butchered them for a big pork Christmas meal.  In the end, they were simply food.

Naysayers might say that’s a good story, but that it could never happen in real life, that a pair of hogs couldn’t walk that far.  Readers can be assured: it could have happened because it did in this area.  Here’s the story told and recorded in the WPA files by an old timer named Gilbert Nordhagen.

“I was born in Iowa, in Worth County, and in the early spring of 1878 my father and two neighbors, Mr. G. Nistul and a Mr. Thor Mostul, both family men, started out from Worth County, Iowa in farm wagons (covered) and pulled by big oxen.

“They had a few farm implements, like plows and drags, some household goods, and they drove all their cattle behind the wagons, about 40 head, and a 600 pound hog (sow) walked all the way.  This old sow pig gave them more trouble than all the cattle did.  It would not follow, and then it got sore feet from the walking, but Mr. Nystul would not part with it.

“Then they came to the Minnesota River which was very big on account of the spring raise and the ferry men wanted too much money to take all across, so they drove all the stock into the flooded river, even the great hog.

“They were lucky though, and did not lose anything, even the hog swam over all right.  They came to Fargo in the last part of April, 1879.  Fargo was just a small town then, about 500 inhabitants, the N.P.R.R. was just built in there.  Dad and the two men with him filed on a quarter of land (preemption) about 35 miles S. W. of Fargo.  There was not a house between our house and Fargo, and there was no road of any kind.  The low places, sloughs, were all full of water and there were many lakes all full of water and which are all dry now.

“Dad and the two neighbors helped each other and built small log houses and log barns.  There were millions of mosquitoes.  This pest was so terrible it drove stock and people crazy.  It was almost impossible to do any work with the oxen.  They got five acres broken on each quarter, put in wheat, sowed by hand.  This was hand cradled, and they got over fifty bushels to the acre.  In the fall of 1879 Dad disposed of his pre-emption and took a homestead two miles east of where Enderlin is now.”

We find no further mention about the sow that walked along from Iowa, but it can’t be doubted that at some point it died and completed its circle of life.

Some Thoughts After a Garage Sale

We recently held a garage sale to shed ourselves of accumulated “stuff” because we are moving to a smaller home.  As strangers bought and carried items out the door, it made me think about what they had meant at one time.  

Selling a white leather show halter took me to the time as a young 4H-er when I showed a Holstein heifer at the Achievement Days event in Lisbon.  The dairy judge paraded our class in a circle around him and placed my heifer in the top blue ribbon position.  She had fought the plain tie-up halter a bit, which caused the judge to remark that I should use a show halter with a draw chain.  Fourteen-years old, I considered that an order to be obeyed.  Merlyn Skramstad had a beautiful white one hanging in his leather store for which I paid about three dollars.  Over sixty years had passed, but I’d always kept it.  Not seeing it sell this day, I asked my wife who bought it, and she said someone wanted it to give as a joke to a neighbor for the plastic cow standing in his backyard.  

Memories of the smack and sting of a baseball hitting my glove at the time I answered to “Lefty” walked out the door in the hands of another stranger.  The dry leather still retained a memory, too, the shape my sweaty hand had formed in them so many years ago.  Would they  resist their new owner’s attempts at reshaping?

Dad had given me a kerosene lantern when he downsized saying his dad gifted it to them at the time of their marriage in 1941.  It found use when it lit the way to the barn at calving and lambing time.  And before electricity lit the house, my folks used it along with a gas lantern to light the living room.  The owner of an antique store in St. Paul bought it.

Two pieces of rusty barbed wire caught a buyer’s attention.  He thought I’d marked it too cheap, but we had to dispose of everything.  Dozens of barbed wire styles have been manufactured through the years; these were each a flat ribbon style.  Dad remembered them from his youth, saying they were impractical because they stretched and contracted too easily with temperature changes.  Historically, wire figured prominently in the development of the frontier and resulted in redefining the landscape, both for the good and the bad.

I enjoy watching a good rodeo, especially the bull riding events.  A few years back, a local Mandan bull, Little Yellow Jacket, achieved fame as a consistent winner.  I found a model of him on the Breyer PBR Collectibull series.  Not being content with ordering just one, I bought some other bull models also.  Except for him, I placed them on the sale table and an excited little boy talked his mother into buying the four of them at $7.50 each.  I remarked to her that I’d like to buy a model of the new local winning bull, Pearl Harbor, a recent contender for the top spot.  She informed me that he had just died with a broken neck.   I imagine the SPCA will investigate that one.

Some years back, we visited a woodcarver named John Kittelson in Wyoming whose work I’d admired.  His carved scenes horses, cow, and wagons brought thousands of dollars, and I wanted to carve like him.  Alas, that never happened.  As a souvenir of our visit, I ran into a Wyoming Wildlife magazine that featured an example of his work on the cover.  It fit nicely into a frame that I hung in my shop.  It sold quickly.  

Of course, not everything sold.  Without realizing it, we’d blundered into perfect dates for our sale because the leftovers fit nicely into a few boxes and were hauled to a large church rummage sale scheduled a few days later.  Even more good fortune came our way with the annual city-wide cleanup following our sale where all of the junk was hauled away.

The old George Carlin comedy routine about “stuff” and the efforts we put into owning it and storing it comes to mind.  His words ring true because as much as ours seemed valuable before the sale, we’ve already started forgetting about it.

…

It will be good to settle into our new home so a quiet routine can be established again.  The pioneer and frontier stories of Ransom County have interested me for some time and I’ve set about finding them.  A worthy book could result and I hope to write it.

A Fresh Face

It has been awhile since I've utilized blogging as an outlet for my writing.  To give a fresh look to the effort, I've chosen a new site - "Notions and Narratives" - that can be accessed at LynnBueling.blogspot.com.  The old one - "Miscellaneous Musings" - can still be opened and read at LynnWrite.blogspot.com.  Newspaper columns I've written and published since moving to Fargo will appear here to serve as a depository of them.   In addition, if I take a notion to add topics such as those concerning the early days of Ransom County, I will.  In a world that pulls and pushes us around, it's gratifying to be in control of at least this one thing. Comments that add to the discussion or those that correct inaccuracies will be welcomed.