Spelling and Grammar, How Boring!

Spelling was always a favorite subject of mine in grade school, probably because I performed best at it compared to math and science. In today’s world I can spot misspellings easily when they appear in a newspaper or on the tv screen. 

An old history manuscript on my shelf is titled  “Early Ransom County History: 1835-1885.” It includes a section showing how many spellings this county’s Sheyenne River has gone through.  A reader can see it took quite awhile before we finally settled on the present spelling. Here is a list of some of the ways it has appeared on maps throughout recorded history:

Shyan - Alex. Henry, 1800

Shienne - Prof. Wm. H. Keating, 1823

Shayenn Oju - Nicollet's Map, 1842

Shayenne - Capt. Pope, 1849

Chienne - Smith's school geography, 1849

Shayennoja - a map printed in 1850

Cheyenne - Alex. Ramsey, 1851

Shayenne - McNally's Geography, 1862

Shyenne - Mitchell's Geography, 1866

In the present day we recognize it as Sheyenne, but people in different parts of the country still think it should be spelled Cheyenne, as did this computer's spell checker. In fact the spell checker can lead to errors in its own right because it often thinks the spelling should be a different word similarly spelled than the intended one. If a person isn’t diligent in editing his finished product, it remains in print to misinform readers.

A search for words where the writers either didn’t know better or they didn’t check their spell checkers results turns up plenty of examples. Here’s one seen frequently: “Congradulations to this year’s graduates.” This one speaks to the concerns some have about immigrants: “English is our language. No excetions.” A tattooist really messed up with this one he wrote in bold letters on a man’s arm “No regerts.” Here’s a real groaner seen in a department store: “Shoplifters will be prostituted.”

I doubt this sign in a private parking lot was intended: “Illegally parked cars will be fine,” or this one: “Please pay your parking fee before existing.” In a fortune cookie, someone found, “You will gain admiration from your pears.” This thank you card might’ve embarrassed the teacher for whom it was intended, “Your the best teacher ever.”

Even pharmacists make mistakes on prescription bottles, “Take 1 capsule by mouth every 12 hours with wood.” A self-service bagel counter proclaimed, “Please use Tongue or Tissue Paper when making your selection.” Tongs? This one might cause you to drive to the next restaurant, “Anus beef, Lettuce, Tomato Special.” And noisy smokers were once admonished, “No Smoking Aloud.”

I rather like the subject of grammar, which means writing accurately and properly within the rules set for our language. There are lots of rules governing our speech and writing, but one of the rules we all disregard has to do with never ending a sentence with a preposition. When criticized for occasionally ending a sentence on a preposition, Winston Churchill replied, "This is the type of errant pedantry up with which I will not put.” Of course it’s standard to say it’s something we will not put up with. Churchill knew as much about the English language as anyone.

Sheldon Livery Stable & the Little Big Horn

A humble livery stable owner in Sheldon once played an interesting role at the infamous Battle of the Little Bighorn. After searching through old Sheldon newspapers in the Heritage Center in Bismarck, I became acquainted with J. T. Hickey in his obituary dated 1923. Further research put me in contact with his family who graciously shared a brief biography written by a grandson. Hickey was a teamster for the 7th Cavalry driving one of the supply wagons for Captain Benteen’s column serving under Major Reno’s command. As Custer rode to meet his fate, the supply wagons were ordered to the rear because they slowed Custer’s fast paced cavalry. After Custer’s 7th had been wiped out, personnel such as these teamsters were roaming about the battlefield. A piece of paper fluttering on the ground attracted Hickey’s eye. Here the family biographer said, “Custer’s last note (a request for help) was dropped by the officer who received it, and my Grandfather picked it up and later sent it to Custer’s widow.” [Lynn’s note: I’ve never been able to verify this. Hickey’s name is never mentioned in historical literature, but who am I to question the family account.]

Celebrate the Rich Imagination

If it weren’t for bad television, we’d have no television at all. Maybe it’s something about growing old, but the only enjoyable programming plays on Public TV, or so it seems. We were fortunate about a year ago when one of our kids said we could piggyback on their subscription to Netflix. It offers an enjoyable selection of movies plus other fare, and one of them prompts some thought.

“Anne of Green Gables” might well have been the last story I’d choose to spend time with, but since my better half vetoed my protests, we began watching. My inclinations to find something more in the rough and tumble style of a John LeCarre spy movie or a gold-mining western in Deadwood were soon forgotten as I found myself drawn into the life of Anne, an innocent young lady who had never experienced happiness in a family situation.

She was an orphan placed in the care of various families that never considered her part of the family but instead made her work as an unpaid laborer. To find love and comfort she developed worlds of happiness in her imaginative daydreams. Seemingly in answer to her dreams an elderly bachelor farmer arrived one day with horse and buggy to pick up her up. Living with his unmarried sister on a farm, they wanted a boy who could possibly become their heir. Instead, this ragged girl Anne appeared in the doorway. The old farmer argued they were promised a boy but reluctantly took Anne home. As they rode along she wouldn’t stop talking which started wrapping the kindly man into her imaginative world. By the the look on his face we saw he found it refreshing.

The sister was aghast at this mistake and wanted to send her back. Imagine Anne’s emotional pain of being unwanted. With some handwringing, the farmers agreed to let her stay one week, but Anne’s constant dreams for a better world started to win the sister over, too. Roadblocks in the community rose up to prevent her acceptance as they chattered on about this ill-mannered skinny freckled redhead. Fears of being sent back to the orphanage always threatened this temporary happiness she’d found. It’s not the intention here to tell the complete story of “Anne of Green Gables,” but instead to relate how a rich active imagination gave Anne some relief from her upbringing and the cruelty directed at her. 

It makes me wonder if my imagination is intact and healthy or have I slipped into some level of sluggish groupthink brought on by the necessity of adapting to the customs of the organizations I worked in or the news media I follow. All of our electronic media devices have the potential to squelch individual thought and dim imaginations because it is so easy to just “copy” and “paste” other people’s thoughts and sayings onto our facebook posts. While I have a lot of “friends” on my facebook page, I only spend time reading about a half dozen of them, those who have exercised their imaginations to construct a coherent theme with original thoughts and arguments.

The name Steve Jobs comes to mind as one of the founders of Apple computers. He and his partners exercised their imaginations to come up with a great product. From something he said I take an important lesson: “Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma, which is living with the result of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.” 

Ransom County's Namesake

I was born and raised in Ransom County, ND and since our Ransom County is named after a historical character, I always like to discover something about the man. Apparently he was a fighting general always in the fray since he was wounded four times: in a skirmish near Charleston, MIssouri on August 20, 1861; at Fort Donelson in February 1862; severely (in the head) during the Battle of Shiloh on April 6, 1862; and at the Battle of Sabine Cross Roads, Louisiana, on April 4, 1864.
Ransom's memory was cherished by many prominent Union Generals including Grant and Sherman. The historian Edward G. Longacre notes that the stoic Grant wept upon hearing of young Ransom's death. Ransom's close friend, Grenville Dodge, recalled how, even years later, President Grant would frequently talk about young Ransom with great affection and respect. Sherman kept a photograph of General Ransom on the wall of his office 20 years after the war.General Ransom is buried in Rosehill Cemetery in Chicago

Chap. 5 - Stevenson Reaches His Wagons

A Story of a Stranded Wagon Train

Stevenson Reaches His Wagons

Chapter Five

While Stevenson’s stalled wagon train sat languishing in the riotous blizzard wind and snow, he knew something had happened when they didn’t arrive as expected at the Pigeon Point way station. He was having his own troubles traveling in the face of the storm, but being a determined man who hadn’t ever let adversity deter him, kept fighting through the deep snow. Many of the details of his journey will go unspoken, but what better than Stevenson’s own words to conclude our story:

“None of the men were lost, but most of the oxen were buried in the snow. The men had nothing to eat. I had provisions with me and relieved the men but the train was a sorry sight to see. Twenty-two oxen were buried under the snow, most of them dead. We shoveled out those still living and got them to the hay. One ox had tramped the snow under him as it fell until he had walked over a wagon box and was eating the boys’ bedding under the wagon covers.

“The loss probably would not have happened with an old trainman, but the foreman had taken sick and a man without much experience took his place. An experienced man would have cut the oxen loose and they would have found shelter.

“We took two wagon loads of hay and the mess tent and went on leaving four of the forty-five wagons and twenty-two dead oxen to thaw out in the spring. Some of the wagons could not be seen at all and others we could just see the top of the bows. We reached the bend at midnight. Some of the boys had not had a square meal for fifty hours. I have always blamed myself for not staying with them.

“I remained with the boys till they reached Abercrombie, turned over my pony team to McCauley and took the stage home, thus ending one of the worst trips experienced in my long life as a frontiersman. I have, however, remained on the frontier and will take pleasure in giving you further old-time experience on the plains.”

With that we conclude the story of the wagon train stalled near Lisbon in 1867. When reading microfilms of old newspapers, I’d often find serialized books where a chapter or two of the story appeared in each weekly edition of the paper. Those papers were an important source of education and entertainment for the pioneers, and those who loved reading without access to a library those stories were welcomed. These last five weeks have been my attempt to echo that format.

As for Stevenson he went on to live a full life of adventure and success. As a freighter, he owned many wagons and teams with which he provided the materials to build and support the new forts and settlements. The Black Hills gold strike gave him further fame since his wagons brought the first gold nuggets to Bismarck.He ended his years with ranching interests along the Cannonball River in Morton County and became a state legislator. I found it interesting many of the other historic names of the Dakota frontier came west while working as drovers for Stevenson. When his name came up as a nominee for the North Dakota Cowboy Hall of Fame, I played a small part in supporting his successful nomination for induction in 2007.

How to spell "Sheyenne."

I  was asked about the spelling of the Sheyenne River used by YellowstoneKelly as Cheyenne. It took quite awhile before we finally settled on Sheyenne. Here is the list of spellings used in recorded history:

Shyan - Alex. Henry, 1800

Shienne - Prof. Wm. H. Keating, 1823

Shayenn Oju - Nicollet's Map, 1842

Shayenne - Capt. Pope, 1849

Chienne - Smith's school geography, 1849

Shayennoja - a map printed in 1850

Cheyenne - Alex. Ramsey, 1851

Shayenne - McNally's Geography, 1862

Shyenne - Mitchell's Geography, 1866

Until the present day we recognize it as Sheyenne, but people in different parts of the country still think it should be Cheyenne, as did this computer's spell checker.

Ch. 4 -The Owner Begins His Search

The Owner Begins His Search

We found ourselves held captive by the winter storm that made us wonder if we’d ever see the sun rise again. Time seemed to stand still. All we had were our thoughts and memories of a past life. Dreams of the future wouldn’t form in the wall of snow that blocked our view. And while we sat unable to move, what about the man who owned all these wagons and oxen? Where was he?

The fact that I write these words is proof enough that I survived. After meeting up with Stevenson, I could listen to his story. He wasn’t dallying anywhere but had encountered his own nightmare. I know that a story loses part of its truth when it’s repeated by listeners, so when we finally arrived in Fort Abercrombie we heard him tell it firsthand. 

Here is the story as he told it:

  I want to tell you, boys, my thoughts were with you all the while. I had business in Osakis I had to tend to and then set out by stagecoach, making it to Pomme de Terre to stay overnight. Leaving there, we thought we could reach Abercrombie next morning, but a fine mist coming from the northwest started creeping over the prairie. The storm came upon us so fast that we had all we could do to button down the flaps on the coach. The wind hit our rig head on and the exposed driver became blinded by the snow and since he had to hold the reins in both hands we took turns keeping his face and eyes wiped off.

Soon we were driving blindly. Only the sure-footedness of the horses kept us on the trail. I got into the driver’s seat and drove the team for awhile, but after making our way, the team suddenly stopped. The passengers shouted out wondering what was the matter when just then a man stuck his head out of a cabin door to welcome us. We had arrived at a stage station and didn’t know it. After spending the evening, we reached Abercrombie where I was able to rent a team of Canadian ponies with a sleigh and continue on my way. 

I made it to Faribault’s station at Pigeon Point for another stopover and took off next morning in a snowstorm. A few miles out, I ran into a dog team and sleigh carrying mail and a discharged soldier from Fort Ransom. They were drunk but with the wind at their backs should’ve been all right. As I went on the storm intensified and I had to turn back but my horses shied at a black spot in the snow. I stopped to check and found one of the drunken men who’d been on the dog sled. He was frozen stiff but still alive, and I managed to get him into my sleigh. Not long after I came upon the dog sled with the dogs still hitched to it. I don’t know where the musher was, but I wanted to release the dogs. The team’s leader leaped at me and almost got me by the throat so I decided to leave them as they were.

A welcome sight of smoke rising from a campsite of traders on the river appeared where I could stop and spend the night. They helped unload the frozen man and took him by the fire to start rubbing him down. By morning they had him awake and talking and I was able to start looking for my outfit again. I had an Indian companion now and whenever we reached a ravine we had to unhitch the horses and draw the sled across and let the ponies wallow through as best they could.

Stevenson finally makes it through to his stalled wagons and what does he find? Next week’s installment will provide the answers.

They went with Sibley

Here are two gravestones marking the final resting places of members of Sibley’s Expedition in 1863 that passed through North Dakota. Andrew Moore was wounded on July 24, 1863 at the Battle of Big Mound, northeast of Tappen, and lingered until death overtook him at Camp Arnold, north of present day Oriska, ND on August 15.

James M. Kinney returned to live a full life with death coming on November 22nd, 1915. His grave is located at the far west edge the old Owego Church Cemetery in Ransom County. While visiting the gravesites of my relatives buried there, I noticed Kinney’s stone standing apart from the others. It interested me enough to do some research. Mr. Henry Ylvisaker filled out the necessary paperwork to request the stone from the War Department. It was shipped via the Northern Pacific Railroad on August 9, 1939 and placed here on arrival.

Since Kinney was a wagoner, might it not be possible that Andrew Moore rode in his wagon on the way to Camp Arnold? It’s one of those historical mysteries that can never be known.

More About Yellowstone Kelly

There seemed to be quite a bit of interest with Yellowstone Kelly and his arrival at the site that he helped build into Fort Ransom. Unfortunately the passage about Fort Ransom is small. He does tell about living conditions at the fort.

Writing in 1926, he says, “Judged by the standards of the present day our situation was cheerless enough. We constructed rude quarters of logs, floored with boards and lighted by candles. Our daily ration consisted of salt pork, bacon, beans, rice, dried apples, and peaches, together with coffee and tea. We always had sweet fresh bread, however, and were supplied beef by contract. Notwithstanding our rude quarters and simple fare, we were as happy and cheerful as soldiers could be.

“For the evening meal we marched through a dark corridor, cold as ice, to the kitchen where the cook and his assistant dished out a pint of tea and a good-sized chunk of bread, while as a side there was usually a plate of cold boiled pork from which each soldier might help himself. Having procured our share of pork, we returned with it to our quarters, where we ate our meal.” He concludes the passage with, “It was early spring when I left Fort Ransom.”

Kelly went on to a life of adventure and become friends with some of the well-known names of the West. With Teddy Roosevelt ending his term as president, he invited some of them for a farewell luncheon at the White House. Included in the group were Deadwood sheriff Seth Bullock, chief of the Forest Service Gifford Pinchot, and Luther S. Kelly. TR had first met Yellowstone Kelly on the Little Missouri when he ranched in the Badlands.

Yours truly enjoys stories about the early frontier days of Dakota Territory, especially those where Ransom County was the setting. AND there are lots of them that should be preserved in a modern format.

Yellowstone Kelly Helps Build the Fort

An interesting character named Yellowstone Kelly emerges from the shadows of Ransom County’s earliest history. At 15 and too young to join the army during the Civil War, he skirted the rules by scribbling the number “18” and placing it in his shoe so that he could swear that he was “over 18.” While he went on to live an adventurous life in the West, what’s important here is an episode concerning the construction of Fort Ransom while he was still in the army.

Here are his words: “Early in the spring of 1867 the company was ordered to establish a station at the forks of the Cheyenne River near Bear’s Den Hill … Our course led over a rolling prairie. Nothing of interest occurred until the second or third day, when we crossed a high and level plain which extended for many miles. This plain was covered with a thin coating of ice, and on all sides as far as the eye could reach was dotted with the bodies of dead buffaloes. These animals were in good condition and bore no mark of bullet or arrow wounds. The cause of their death was a mystery to us. As we marched over the plain toward the valley of the Cheyenne the appearance of so many carcasses scattered around made a strong impression on my mind, perhaps because they were the first buffaloes I had ever seen.”

Another Generation...

All four of them arrived for Christmas, 2019. The Santa is familiar in real life, Smoky Sletmoe. We've known him for years. He loves being Santa!

Chapter three - Stalled

The Story of a Stranded Wagon Train

Stalled

Chapter Three

I dread calling to mind the experience that I’m about to relate since it tested my resolve to live. Swift moving storm clouds overtook and swathed us under a white sheet that settled and obscured anything with shape or color. We were swallowed into a storm that ebbed, then intensified, growing ever stronger. If an order to stop came from the front of the train, we never knew. Wagons just stopped, not well-ordered, but helter-skelter. I couldn’t see the one ahead, and when I realized he’d stopped, I veered my team off to the right and stopped sideward. It would be three days before we’d see the disarrayed order of the wagons.

The first winds had set upon us from our right rear, sweeping through our ranks, and driving heavy snow into and around each man and beast. We generally walked alongside the wagons to avoid the jolting ride. While walking, we could also goad the oxen and crack the bullwhip like a gunshot over their ears to keep them moving. But now that driving wind found its way into our wrists and ankles and neck causing me to climb into the wagon box and find some shelter from the wind.

The oxen worked hard to pull their weight while plodding through the ever-deepening snow. As soon as the wagon in front made tracks, the wind filled them in with snow so that the next in line had no readymade trail. Their short legs kept stumbling into holes or on rocks and moved us forward only because we forced them to.

I remember thinking maybe this ordeal will be over soon, and we can get rolling again. The oxen still stood in their yokes from which they should’ve been released and let to drift with the wind at their backs. They couldn’t have gotten so far that we couldn’t have rounded them up after the storm had passed. But danger didn’t seem to register with our leader Un-Able, and we just sat around waiting. 

The howling gales stopped our attempts to build fires to warm ourselves. My Irish mother told          stories of the female banshees who would wail and scream through the night predicting the death of someone. Was it a banshee who screamed our fate and buried us in this raging white? The story came alive in my thoughts and as the hours passed I kept imagining the banshee had come for all of us. The storm stopped everything except my fears and images of doom.

We lost all concept of time; we couldn’t see the sun, only the faint light of day and the consuming darkness of night. The oxen stood yoked to their wagons and snow kept piling around them and our wagons. Soon it became next to impossible to wade through chest high drifts with the wind blowing the way it was. We were all hungry. I had some jerky in my pocket to chew on, but it didn’t do much to kill the growl in my stomach.

We wrapped in our buffalo robes to keep out the cold and lay there shivering. Strange thoughts came and went, maybe that’s the way a freezing man thinks, not making sense, imagining a baby cry or a woman scream in the midst of our pitiable lot. My oxen went down sometime on the third day as the snow drifted over and around them where soon they became mounds that blended into the featureless landscape. How long can we last like this?

Next: The owner sets out looking for his wagons

My New Year's Wish for 2020

My New Year's wish for 2020..."Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma - which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition." Steve Jobs