We Celebrated!

 We celebrated this Christmas season with all the immediate family able to come at the same time.

Newspapers

When I went to the barbershop the other day I had to wait a few minutes while the barber finished with a customer. On the counter sat a daily newspaper, The Minneapolis Star Tribune.  It seemed to be waiting for me to pick up and page through since it had been quite awhile since I had held a real daily paper in my hands. I enjoyed turning the pages. This is not to say I don’t read a daily paper since I subscribe to four of them, two in-state and two national. But here’s the rub, they are digital. Holding a paper in hand like the one in the barbershop encourages a slower, deeper concentration of reading experience for me. Digital versions just aren’t quite as comfortable.

Since we have available so much reading material in our home, it’s been very tempting to make some choices and drop one or two. One of the subscriptions considered for dropping was the Bismarck Tribune, but something occurred recently that changed my mind. The Tribune was the subject of a takeover by a company named Alden Global Capital that made a bid to buy Lee Enterprises, which owns them along with about 100 other U.S. newspapers. 

The management of the Lee company did some maneuvering I don’t quite understand, but it succeeded in making themselves undesirable for the outside company to own. This was important because Alden has the reputation of firing staffs down to bare minimum and sucking out profits and assets. As it stands, the Tribune is a good paper and because of their action to keep the wolves away, I decided they are worthy of my support.

Newspapers and other news media hold a strong place in a democracy. They’ve been called the Fourth Estate, the first three being Legislature, Executive, and the Judiciary. Citizens of this country have a right to know what’s going on with the other three which makes it essential for the media to tell us.

 

A book by Doris Kearns Goodwin - The Bully Pulpit - clears the way for me as a citizen to understand the importance of journalism in relation to governmental affairs. It outlines a transformative period in our history, especially so with the parts covering “The Golden Age of Journalism.”  

The foremost politicians of the period were Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft, but a journalist named S. S. McClure and his staff caused significant change at high levels. McClure employed investigative reporters, namely Ida Tarbell, Ray Baker, and Lincoln Steffens who successfully uncovered the crimes of robber barons, corrupt politicians, and corporate exploiters of our natural resources. Their reporting gave rise to the term “Muckraker Journalism.”

What was Ida Tarbell’s involvement? Her father had been a small independent oil producer who found the rates suddenly and arbitrarily double on shipping his crude oil by rail. John D. Rockefeller was behind it, a move designed to choke competition and set him on his monopolistic ways. The Smithsonian Magazine states it clearly, “Tarbell would redefine investigative journalism with a 19-part series in McClure’s magazine, a masterpiece of journalism and an unrelenting indictment that brought down one of history’s greatest tycoons and effectively broke up Standard Oil’s monopoly.”

Her father’s bankruptcy rankled her and caused Tarbell to say of Standard Oil, “They had never played fair and that ruined their greatness for me.” She got on Rockefeller’s case and her investigative reporting made Americans realize Rockefeller was a man who drove honest men from business. As a result Standard Oil was broken into baby Standards; he was stung by it all, calling Tarbell “that poisonous woman.”

Ray Baker began to notice a growing tension between labor and capitalists, and his work along that line caused McClure to hire him. Baker developed strong empathy with the working man and reported on the strike brought by workers of the Pullman rail car company whose wages had declined while stockholders dividends increased. In another instance he traveled to Colorado and reported on what he said was “corruption & bribery on the part of the corporations & violence on the part of the strikers.” Where other reporters glossed over details, Baker reported accurately.

Lincoln Steffens was one of these original “muckrakers,” and wrote newspaper and magazine exposés that gave journalism a new purpose, a voice in American democracy. He is especially noted for his reports on the workings of corrupt political machines in several major U.S. cities. They inspired reformers in other cities to address the corruption that plagued their city halls.

Other journalists earned their place in what is called the Progressive Movement. Jacob Riis wanted urban reform, Ida B. Wells sought Civil Rights, Florence Kelley fought for rights of working women and children, John Spargo wrote of the horrific working conditions of child laborers. Upton Sinclair has to be mentioned as the author of The Jungle which told of the unsanitary conditions in the meat packing industry.  

The importance of journalism reveals itself when reading the works of the previously mentioned writers who worked during this period. Both presidents that Doris Kearns Goodwin writes of in the book became supporters of the Progressive Movement and much legislation improving working conditions occurred during their terms in office. Changes occurred with domestic policies, promising the average citizen fairness, breaking of trusts, regulation of railroads, and pure food and drugs. As I mentioned earlier, this was a transformative period in the United States brought about because of exposing through the pens of journalists. That’s what I was reminded of when I held the barber’s newspaper in my hands.

Learning at the Nome School

We made our first visit this recent Saturday to the Nome Schoolhouse to check out their Makers Mart featuring vendors of handmade items. I’ve been wanting to enter and see the school where my dad and many of his siblings attended for a few years. Upon entering I made the wooden stairs squeak and groan like any of the buildings of this type but must say the owners have done a great job in making the over-one hundred year place presentable and usable. While much space was given to exhibitor stands in the building, one room housed a collection of interesting artifacts related to the city and the school. 

I wanted to verify the age of the building to settle my mind that this building was indeed the school building which Dad’s family members attended. A couple of men were standing in there who might know. I asked, “Either of you guys know when this building was built?” The one spoke right up “1916,” and when he found out my name said, “You’re Lynn Bueling, I read your article in the paper all the time.”  We were off to a good start. 

He had been looking at an old 1928 Barnes county atlas opened to Raritan Township. “Right there is where the Buelings used to live on Carl Lindemann’s place.” Turned out he knew quite a few stories about my family, and I will contact both gentlemen in the future for more.

Upon opening a 1984 Barnes County history book I stumbled upon something I’d not seen before. Dad had submitted a family history for the book. Among other things he wrote,
“Charles Bueling first came to North Dakota in 1900 to work on a threshing crew in the Alice, N.D. area. After coming back several seasons, he liked the area so well that he stayed on. His younger brother, who had traveled with him, returned to Wisconsin to take over the blacksmith business they had established earlier. Charles married Ottilia (Tillie) Menge in 1907, and they started farming in the Alice area. Then they moved one half mile north of Nome where they lived from 1922 to 1927…” So that information established the dates of my family connection to Nome.

 

There was more to see and do so we started roaming around the building and found it filled with vendors and then lingered by a pen of two alpacas in the gym area. About that time a family with three small kids came along and were lined up against the pen for a group picture. Those kids were all three smiling ear to ear and I wish now I’d have taken their picture standing there in front of the alpacas, too. But it was time to eat a lunch which we found in a nice sunlit room. We’ll probably return next year.

***

Perhaps a mention of the death of Bob Dole is in order. When I heard of his passing, I took a bit of time to find something memorable about his time as a U.S. Senator. I learned  of the stalemate in Congress that blocked passage of any bill regarding Social Security during the remaining months of 1982. It was at this point that Senators Bob Dole (R-KS) and Patrick Moynihan (D-NY) stepped up and led a bipartisan compromise that ultimately allowed passage of support.

Dole said, ”…and I have learned in my own life, from my own experience, that not every man, woman or child can make it on their own. And that in time of need, the bridge between failure and success can be the government itself. And given all that I have experienced, I shall always remember those in need. That is why I helped to save Social Security in 1983 and that is why I will be the president who preserves and strengthens and protects Medicare for America's senior citizens.” That quote stands on its own.

His death brought back a memory. I had just finished my first year of teaching and was approached by a farmer at Bowdon who invited me to travel south with his crew to Kansas for the wheat harvest. I agreed and drove one of the trucks with a combine loaded on my back.  As we traveled down U.S. 281, we came into Kansas where stone fenceposts started appearing north of Bob Dole’s hometown of Russell, Kansas. I remember the location because a large billboard proudly proclaimed him as a hometown boy.

I had never seen or heard of such a thing as stone fenceposts in my young years and marveled at the sight. Here is what the Kansas Historical Society says about them.  “In 1862 the Homestead Act opened the way for the settlement of the plains. People with varied backgrounds were drawn to the dream of relatively free land. The fact that much of central Kansas was treeless created numerous problems for early settlers. A significant problem was finding a means by which to enclose portions of the free range.”

Fields of sandstone lay close to the surface and resourceful people realized it could be cut quite easily and planted in the ground to hold wire like wooden posts. I saw them 56 years ago, and while I’ve not seen them still in use, someone told me they are. 

Speaking of combine crews, that wasn’t the only time I went with one into Kansas and Nebraska. The next two summers found me on another one, this time with the Larson Brothers from Enderlin. This is worthy of mention because a hale and hearty and ready-to-go combining again Chet Larson just celebrated his 90th birthday at a party we were able to attend. Happy birthday, Chet!

 

Nome Schoolhouse

 We made our first visit yesterday (Saturday) to the Nome Schoolhouse to check out their Makers Mart featuring vendors of handmade items. I’ve been wanting to enter and see the school where my dad and many of his siblings attended for a few years. Upon entering I made the wooden stairs squeak and groan like any of the buildings of this type but must say the owners have done a great job in making the over-one hundred year place presentable and usable. One room housed a collection of interesting artifacts. I wanted to verify the age of the building and a couple of men were standing in there. One was looking at an old 1928 Barnes county atlas opened to Raritan Township. He asked my name and said “Right there is where Buelings used to live on Carl Lindemann’s place.” Turned out he knew quite a few stories about my family. The building was filled with vendors and the dining room served light lunch. A couple of live alpacas stood in their pen, too. Included are a few pictures.

Stone Posts

 The recent death of Senator Robert Dole brought back a memory. I had just finished my first year of teaching and was approached by a farmer who invited me to travel south with his crew to Kansas for the wheat harvest. I agreed and drove one of the trucks with a combine loaded on my back.  As we traveled down U.S. 281, we came into Kansas where stone fenceposts started appearing north of Bob Dole’s hometown of Russell, Kansas. I remember because a large billboard proudly proclaimed him as a hometown boy.

     I had never seen or heard of such a thing as stone fenceposts in my young years and marveled at the sight. Here is what the Kansas Historical Society says about them.  “In 1862 the Homestead Act opened the way for the settlement of the plains. People with varied backgrounds were drawn to the dream of relatively free land. The fact that much of central Kansas was treeless created numerous problems for early settlers. A significant problem was finding a means by which to enclose portions of the free range.”

     Fields of sandstone lay close to the surface and resourceful people realized it could be cut quite easily and planted in the ground to hold wire like wooden posts. I saw them 56 years ago, and while I’ve not seen or heard if they are still in use, I presume some of them are. 

 

It Might Be Called a Hobby

It might be called a hobby. Whenever I run across someone’s original thinking, I copy some of it for future consideration onto any notebook or scrap of paper I can find. The best way to describe what I mean will be to enter a few here and state why they deserve some extra attention.

A favorite was written by Larry McMurtry of Lonesome Dove fame. He said cowboys, after reading the stories, attending Roy Rogers movies, and watching tv westerns, became influenced  by their own imitations. Media told them this was the way they’re supposed to look and act and so they fell in step.

This influence is alive today. A recent magazine ad begs, “Get the Yellowstone Look,” and enjoy the classic Western wear in the style of Kayce Dutton. I’ve never watched the Yellowstone tv program, but Dutton must be the man. We can even buy a copy of his black distressed hat for a bargain price of $539. They’ve even thrown in the dust and grime. I still laugh at the story told by the manager of the bookstore in Medora who told of one fellow who walked in fully garbed with hat, long duster, and boots with spurs. When he turned to leave one of his spurs got caught up in a bookshelf.

Unfortunately, the copycat culture extends into other significant areas. Gunplay almost always found its way into these stories. It has carried into contemporary crime stories, and now we have more guns than people. I won’t say any more about that.

A line from a Springsteen song called “Glory Days” rings true to me.  In the lyrics he visits with an old friend who in his younger days must have been a good fastball pitcher. He sings, “all he kept talking about was Glory Days, well they’ll pass you by…” 

I hear it as the song of a once-successful athlete who never got beyond the glory, never made it past the cheers of the crowd, hadn’t made much of himself and craved those days. Yes, they are out there plodding along in their dead-end jobs and craving the positive attention of the old days.

In a magazine called “Texas Monthly” a reporter had gone to Willie Nelson’s place where he sat visiting. In a nearby field he spotted a car “cutting cookies” and driving wildly in weird patterns. What in the world? Willie said it’s just Stevie Wonder driving. Even though he had a passenger with him to keep him from running into fences or tipping over in some steep ditch, he was otherwise free to steer with wild abandon. We can imagine the thrill a blind man felt to temporarily leave his restricted lifestyle and feel the speed. If in doubt just imagine it could be true.

“Don’t be trapped by dogma which is living with the results of other people’s thinking,” said Steve Jobs. Maybe this has become a pet peeve, but when on Facebook, we cannot find much in the way of originality. To copy and paste someone else’s thinking is the common format and pronouncing it as true makes them happy. Political hazing comes too easily. If someone  digs or slams a politician they don’t like, they copy and paste it on their site and it continues to be passed along. The well-known writer Edward Abbey might’ve called this “…the ideology of the cancer cell.”

To conclude, we’ll look at an unlikely pair of gentlemen who raised the art of reasonableness to heights we seldom see of late. John Wayne, a Republican, and Jimmy Carter, a Democrat, did not see eye-to-eye with their politics. But after the 1976 election which Jimmy Carter won, Wayne promptly sent him a mailgram “congratulating the loyal opposition.” 

The night of January 19, 1977, he spoke briefly but with great elegance at the preinaugural reception: “Good evening. My name is John Wayne. I’m here tonight to pay my respects to our thirty-ninth president, our new commander-in-chief—to wish you Godspeed, sir, in the uncharted waters ahead. Tomorrow at high noon, all our hopes and dreams go into that great house with you. For you have become our transition into the unknown tomorrows, and everyone is with you. I’m pleased to be present and accounted for in this capital of freedom to witness history as it happens—to watch a common man accept the uncommon responsibility he won ‘fair and square’ by stating his case to the American people—not by bloodshed, beheadings, and riots at the palace gates. I know I’m considered a member of the loyal opposition—accent on the loyal. I’d have it no other way.”

Carter was asked to write the foreword in the biography John Wayne: The Genuine Article. He stated, "During my time in office, his correspondence, notes, suggestions, and criticisms sent my way were always respectful and heartfelt.” He went on that he was pleased to sign into law the bill ordering that a specially designed gold medal be struck in John Wayne’s honor out of gratitude for his innumerable contributions to the nation.

He further stated he was pleased and honored to visit Duke during his final stay in the hospital. Writing that foreword in 2012, his concluding words still ring true: “John Wayne frequently disagreed with me - in fact, he didn’t even vote for me. And yet, I considered him a supporter, and I was certainly an unabashed fan of his.”

R.I.P. Bob Dole

 Senator Bob Dole was an effective U. S. Senator. I learned this morning of the stalemate in Congress that blocked passage of any bill regarding Social Security during the remaining months of 1982. It was at this point that Senators Bob Dole (R-KS) and Patrick Moynihan (D-NY) stepped up and led a bipartisan compromise that ultimately allowed passage of support.

Dole said, ”…and I have learned in my own life, from my own experience, that not every man, woman or child can make it on their own. And that in time of need, the bridge between failure and success can be the government itself. And given all that I have experienced, I shall always remember those in need. That is why I helped to save Social Security in 1983 and that is why I will be the president who preserves and strengthens and protects Medicare for America's senior citizens.”

R.I.P. Senator Dole.

Dodge Power Wagons

 Dodge Power Wagons - This morning at a local restaurant I saw a new model Dodge Power Ram truck and it caused me to think back to the first time my attention was called to one. I was with a harvest crew in the summer of 1965 in Lake City, Kansas at the time and the farmer had an older model. The old farmer had had a hard time finding combiners for his wheat which had been flattened by a nearby flooding river. Tree branches came with the flood and his field was a mess. We got the job done for him, but it was difficult. 

     The first Power Wagons were first built in 1946 as a civilian version of the similar military truck. The one old Russell Lake had must have been almost that old, but it was still doing the job. The pictures show models from 1949 and 2020.

The Power of Scenery

Those who read Louis L’Amour books know how clearly and accurately he described the terrain where action takes place in his books. Oftentimes he included a topographical map of the subject area. He collected a good many maps of this type and studied them to paint word-pictures of the area in his stories.

Living in this northern plains state as we do, a topographical map would be uncluttered with all the squiggly lines that define a mountain state’s topography. In those states they’ve given names to mountain ranges and individual peaks that rise thousands of feet. Here in eastern North Dakota not much in the way of landforms has earned a name. In fact, the extreme flatness has been named instead, you know Red River Valley or Lake Agassiz. We need to look at the western part of our state to find buttes with names.

One landform is present though that grows and grows and is becoming quite massive: the Fargo landfill. You only need to drive north on Fargo’s 45th Street, go across Main Avenue for another seven blocks or so and you’ll come upon it. Even if I am accused of stretching the truth or a fact occasionally, I am here to attest to its large size. When Caterpillars and large trucks climb to its top to scatter and pack the garbage, they look mighty small up there.  

The wife and I recently had a dinner table discussion about the amounts of garbage each household generates. Nearly everything except maybe a few potatoes or some nuts and bolts comes packaged and is utterly useless for anything else. Into the trash can the wrapping goes. While we were growing up, very little garbage accumulated. A burn barrel took care of combustibles, an outhouse received the Sears catalog, and broken machinery parts went into a pile for use in welding repairs. Furthermore, broken appliances could be repaired and put back into duty.

Many shows on Youtube can be found with archaeology the topic. On many of them, they need to dig and dig to find remains of the past which often times are few and far between. If they find the remains of a broken buckle from a Roman soldier or the ankle bone of a baby from prehistory, they are beside themselves. Plastics being used today will last long enough for future archaeologists to find by the truckload.

I don’t think it’s too far afield to mention that town dumps used to be interesting places to visit. We had one in Sheldon that was an irresistible draw for us young fellows. One noon hour a few of us decided we should take a little walk out to it and explore. At the time, the town was only 75 years old or thereabouts, and the pile still wasn’t very big. We had fun! I picked something up that looked good to me even though I don’t remember what it was. Somehow it even got transported home as treasure. 

A problem developed though - no one had a watch. As we enjoyed ourselves, time travelled fast until someone thought we should be getting back. Uh, oh, as we neared the once filled playground no one remained. Classes had started without us. We had a tough lady for a teacher who we’d all seen administer some pretty severe physical punishment at one time or another, and we had started expecting the worst would befall us. As we marched in silently, not a word was spoken, and our fellow students sat staring at us, anticipating some good entertainment. The teacher was in good spirits that day and said simply, “Have you boys been out sampling treasures in the dump ground?”

Funny how this started with Louis L’Amour topography, then city dumps, and now finally gets to the subject that generated this article. On my desk I have a book sent to me for review by the Western Writers of America titled “The Power of Scenery: Frederick Law Olmsted and the Origin of National Parks.” His work predates the work of Theodore Roosevelt and Edwin Muir, but because of the work of people like these, we still have beautiful scenery to view and walk through.

We started this discussion with Louis L’Amour and we might as well end with him and his wisdom. In his book “The Iron Marshal,” one of his characters states there are more than two hundred thousand horses in New York City. “Two hundred thousand! Did you think of that? Each horse will drop twenty-five or -six pounds of manure per day, and there’s a stable in near every corner block on Manhattan! Think of that! The day will come when they will not tolerate a stable or a kept horse in the city! You’ll see!”

It would build up in huge piles, attract flies, and stink terribly in hot weather. But at least it was biodegradable.

 The Fountain of Youth restores the youth of anyone who drinks or bathes in its waters, or so we would wish. On a trip to Florida we came upon it and entered to taste of its water. I still haven’t felt anything, but I’m waiting, even though it must be going on ten years. I’m reminded of it because the younger son and his family are now down in Florida, and in visiting with the neighbors, they, too, will soon head down there. I just can’t restrain myself from writing this hokey limerick:

I drank from the Fountain of Youth,

But it’s claims hold no truth. 

I’m still growing old, 

and if truth be told, 

I’ve gotten a bit “long in the tooth.”

A Grandson's Performance

 We headed to the Grandson Lucas's performance in "Elf: The Musical" this weekend. He's a grownup now who towers over Grandma Mary. What will become of him we don't know, but chances are it will be something good!

Veterans Day, 2021

Veterans Day occurs on November 11 every year in the United States in honor of the “eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month" of 1918 that signaled the end of World War I. It is a commemoration of all who have served and makes me pause just a bit to remember. The average person usually goes about his business without giving it much thought; some even complain there is no mail delivery. I always try to give attention to the day in appreciation.

I’ve never worn a uniform but instead walk vicariously with veterans through reading and listening to their stories. A large body of literature attests to the sacrifices and efforts made by them. All the men and women who have served deserve recognition, but it is a rather small percentage who do the actual fighting. The rest serve behind the lines in support roles. 

One book I’ve read, “The Long Way Home” by David Laskin, deserves mention because it revealed a little known fact: the men drafted to serve in the U.S. army spoke 43 languages. It was a time of heavy immigration and foreign born people who had flooded through our borders found themselves draft eligible. It didn’t matter if aliens hadn’t yet become citizens; any able-bodied men, with varying degrees of skill in using the English language were fair game. One of my grandfathers found himself in this position. He, a Norwegian born immigrant, was drafted and served.

Many draftees were from countries we were fighting such as Germany, Poland, and Italy and some concern was voiced as to their willingness to be drafted. On the whole, though, draft registration went rather smoothly. The only resistance of note came from the Irish copper miners in Butte, Montana, who harbored strong anti-English sentiment. It intensified when a terrible fire in the mines killed 168 of them as they were mining copper demanded by the war effort.

One can’t be well read in terms of wars without having read “All Quiet on the Western Front.” Written by a veteran of the German army, it gives a stunning picture of what German soldiers were experiencing. Then with the rise of the Nazi party in Germany, the book was banned because they deemed it anti-war and supportive of the Jews. A rather popular movie was made of it where one night a Nazi mob entered the theater. They demanded the film be stopped and released mice and tossed stink bombs to clear everyone out.

Three years ago we were in Fredericksburg, Texas where in the National Museum of the Pacific War I bought the biography “Ernie Pyle’s War: America’s Eyewitness to World War II.” A reporter, his style of writing made lots of friends among the servicemen and women as well as the people back home in the USA.  Even while he worried he wasn’t giving a clear enough picture of the fighting, soldiers knew he came closer than any other journalist. He was killed on the battlefield by a machine gunner and a monument was erected on the spot inscribed with “At this spot the 77th Infantry Division lost a buddy, Ernie Pyle, 18 April 1945. 

He is buried at the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific in Honolulu. When we traveled to Hawaii on a tour I remember riding a tour bus through the cemetery when the guide with a microphone said it was where Ernie Pyle was buried. When I looked down from the bus window, there was his gravestone beside the roadway.

His columns read much like Hemingway’s writing, simple yet expressive. His most famous piece was “The Death of Captain Waskow.” After watching a string of mules with each carrying a body come down the hilly trail, Pyle wrote, “‘This one is Captain Waskow,’ one of them said quickly. Two men unleashed his body from the mule and lifted it off and laid it in the shadow beside the stone wall.”

Stephen Ambrose’s book “The Wild Blue: The Men and Boys Who Flew the B-24s Over Germany” gives a readable account of what war in the sky was like. Special attention is given to George McGovern who piloted one for 35 missions. He received the Distinguished Flying Cross for landing his crippled bomber on a short runway used only by small fighters, thereby saving his crew and aircraft.

 

I once had the opportunity to visit briefly with George McGovern and asked what he probably thought was a stupid question.  “What was it like flying up there in midst of the flak and fighters coming at you?” He answered humbly, “I was scared all the time.”

David Halberstam’s “The Coldest Winter” deals with the Korean War. His writing in the book as chilling as the title. Korea was the downfall of the arrogant Douglas MacArthur when he kept acting on his own impulses instead of following policy from Washington, DC and pushed President Truman to the point where he fired him. MacArthur had strong supporters, but given time he faded away. Korea saw loss of American lives who were not well-enough equipped nor ready to fight again so soon after WWII ended. 

How many thousands of books have been written about warfare cannot even be guessed at. Too often, they are about the generals at the expense of putting the soldiers into a nameless mass to do their bidding. I prefer the literature written by those who fought in the trenches: “The Things They Carried” and the Vietnam War, “The Band of Brothers” and the invasion of Normandy, “With the Old Breed” in the Korean War. 

All the books I’ve mentioned are on my shelves, and reading them has put me as close as I’ll ever get to the veteran experience, but it’s what I can do. Praise be to the veterans!

History Rhymes

 I came across an interesting piece in a history book I have. I'm developing it into my next news article:

The pyramids appear to have transformed Egypt from a country of scattered villages into a strong civilized nation. How spectacular a first demonstration of what an organized state could accomplish! What unprecedented supplies of food, what mass transport, shelter, and sanitation! The power of the state was now revealed. While the primeval state created the pyramids, the pyramids themselves helped create the state in a focus of communal effort, of common faith in the living sun god. The enormous task over many years must have brought into being a numerous democracy, which could be enlisted for other purposes.

...

I think this has implications in regards to our infrastructure problems, to name just one idea.

Saddle Up!

 We drove to McLeod to eat at the Silver Prairie Saloon. They had baby-back ribs for a special and I chose a larger portion than I needed. I talked Mary into getting into a saddle-stool and snapped a picture. When we left Fargo to do down to McLeod, she stated, "You're not getting me into one of those saddles." Here's the result.

Wow Factor!

 I hardly ever share a post someone else has put on Facebook, but I couldn't help it with this picture. I've seen pictures where the old steam engines had the power to power huge plows. It looks as if it could pull this many grain wagons, too.

Fire!

 In the March 29, 1923 issue of The Sheldon Progress a front page article reported that the “Public School Building and All Contents Totally Destroyed When Blaze Started at Six P.M. Friday.”  

The explosion of an alcohol lamp in a fumigator placed in the domestic science room started a blaze at six o’clock last Friday evening that totally destroyed the Sheldon Public School building together with all its contents, entailing a loss of over $50,000.

The school building was being fumigated over the weekend holiday. C. H. Bickford, the janitor, was on the second floor lighting the last of the fumigators, when there was a sudden and terrific explosion in the basement.

Fighting his way through the fumes and dense smoke, he reached the domestic room in the basement to find it enveloped in flames and the fire shooting from the door into the furnace room. He rushed to the first floor and turned in a fire alarm by ringing the school bell, and then tried again to enter the basement thru the outside celler way on the southside of the building. Breaking open this door, he was met by a cloud of dense smoke, but managed to stay in the furnace room to unwind a short piece of hose and direct a stream of water on the fire for a few seconds when he was driven out by clouds of dense smoke that surged out of the passageway.

The wooden partitions in the basement caught fire almost immediately and the flames were sucked up thru the ventilating system firing the building from bottom to top. The fire broke thru the first floor within a few minutes after the explosion.

The firemen soon had a line of hose laid and when they attempted to connect with the hydrant near the Louis Howell corner found this to be frozen, and they had to run a line over three blocks from the butchershop corner. When they got a stream of water this entire basement was in a blaze and their best efforts were futile to check it….

The building was a nine-room structure entirely of brick. The main part of the building was erected more than twenty years ago and an addition built on twelve years ago….

There was no loss of school time…The school building will be rebuilt during the coming summer. The board have been in session almost continuously since the fire, meeting with architects … Estimates so far call for an expenditure for another building in excess of $40,000…The insurance money will not replace the building and before anything definite can be done, a special election must be held to vote bonds….

Those were the days, my friend...

I thought of the lines in a song: Those were the days my friend, we thought they'd never end.

This morning when I opened FaceBook several pictures showed up as a memory from five years ago. Several Sheldon schoolmates gathered in McLeod that day for eats, drinks, and visiting. Sadly, I look at these pictures and realize three of them are no longer with us. I wish more pictures would have been available, but, unfortunately, only these five were revealed.

Accumulated Knowledge

     The library at Alexandria, Egypt burned in 48 BC. Caesar’s army set Egyptian ships afire which spread into the city and destroyed the large collection of knowledge stored there, as many as 40,000 scrolls. Legend has it that all the accumulated knowledge of the world went up in flames, but that is probably not true since other libraries did exist. Nevertheless, much was lost, maybe some that hadn’t been collected in other places.

     When a person dies, it is as if a large library has burned to the ground. They always take knowledge of their personal lives with them that no one else can recall or knows about. Many people leave little record of their existence, often times only a stone in the cemetery that marks their grave. Pictures are forgotten, many times not identified, so that future generations don’t know who they are.

     Preserving family history holds a respected place in our household, and my wife works diligently to see that it is done. A trip to the NDSU archives library was recently required in her search for a couple of community history books where she could pursue some connection to a relative. It yielded a good harvest of material from Ransom County’s neighboring county on the east side, Richland County, where some of my early settler relatives lived.

     In a compiled Richland County history book the township of Barrie was featured with informative history. My great-great-grandfather Rev. Ole K. Vangsness is buried in the West Prairie Church cemetery located on the north side of Highway 46 at the junction of Highway 18. In that book a bit of information about him was revealed: In 1876, “Ole K. Vangsness settled on a claim on the edge of the hills. He was a Lutheran minister, an honest God-fearing man and during those early years preached many a sermon, traveling often on foot, and seemed tireless in his efforts for the pioneers. He made caskets for the dead, then conducted services. He was also the first assessor in Barrie Township.”

     Though the description of the reverend is limited, it is more than I knew. Other people and incidents in Barrie Township caught my eye. For instance, the treasurer of the school kept his records on the back of a granary door. When the minutes were called for, the meeting had to adjourn long enough for him to get the door so he could read the report.

    There was a government bridge across the river near the site of the present one on Highway 18. It was guarded by a man who sold liquor, something which the citizens of the community thought was immoral. The history says the bridge was burned which leaves one with the questions, why did it burn, and who burned it? We don’t know, but people had to ford across the river for some time before another bridge was constructed.

     One man volunteered to take a teacher to Walcott so that she could board the train. They were caught and stranded in the open in a fast moving blizzard. He made the lady help him cut and stack snowblocks as a shelter for them and the horses. As the story went, “Again and again she begged to lie down and rest, but he told her she would be whipped if she did.” As cruel as it sounded, his insistence to keep her moving and working saved her life in the frigid weather.

     In 1883 as the Sheyenne River flooded, a lady in her house kept hearing cries for help. She ran to the river and found a man hanging onto a branch over the water. In order to help, she had to pull an empty wagon to the river’s edge and push it into the water to where he could safely jump. Another incident told how three Indians were struck and killed by lightning. Their companions believed the Great Spirit was angry and had punished them with a bolt from the blue. They quickly buried their dead and fled.

   Little snippets of history are fun and interesting to read, but for someone trying to fill in holes of  unknown history they help form a more complete picture.  Because someone thought to include these old stories, we know just a bit more about my great-great-grandpa. Putting this in perspective for my grandchildren, he was their four-greats grandpa. Now try to imagine his forebears that many generations previous to his life. They have disappeared into the dark past.  

All Is So Long Ago

     “Evening Land,” a first-rate Swedish book of poetry contains a refrain that causes me to travel to other times in my memory with these lines, “With old eyes I look back. All is so long ago.” He talks about his life being spent far away, “In another world or as if in another world.” His imagination had taken him elsewhere in his earlier life, but now “all is soon over.”

     I have a large collection of images that I've boxed and stored on an upper shelf in my memory. Every once in awhile I bring them down to look at again. Some are small and light, others weigh heavy. They have accumulated over the years. I'm lucky because the box is large and continues to fill. Let me reach in and grab hold of a few.

     I'm standing in a hayfield reaching under a windrow to hook my finger in the handle of a crock jug. Hot and thirsty, I hoist the jug high in the crook of my arm and drink long, cool swallows from it.

     I'm a small boy and my grandpa has taken me fishing at Lake Teawaukon. He baits my hook and throws in the line telling me, "Don't take your eyes off that bobber!" I obey, for several long hours. Small perch pull it under making it bob and bob. He takes me home at twilight just as a full moon rises. I look at it and see that float bobbing, bobbing, bobbing in the moon, in my supper plate, in my dreams.

     Goose bumps chill me when I lie in bed with a raging winter storm howling in the eaves. I'd wonder why, it seems, a woman screams inside a blizzard wind.

     I'm in the barnyard. A bull eyes me from the pasture. His hooves kick up a dust cloud filled with a hate for the man-child he spots. He charges. My fingers dig and claw into the wall of the barn, and I gain the rooftop just as he arrives.

     We’re in the hayfield again. I always want to be where the men work. I'm given the job of cleaning spilled hay from underneath the stationary stacker. As it raises to dump its load atop the growing stack, the wooden main beam breaks and hundreds of pounds crash to the ground just as I've stepped away.

     Spring arrives and I shed the long underwear and the heavy boots to finally glory in the light feeling. And in the spring wind I watch clothes on the line sail with the wind.

 

     Saturday night as we drive along the gravel road to Enderlin where by the Center Farm we must stop for a long train pulled hard by a steam engine blowing smoke up the grade out of town. Given a boost in the rear by another steam engine, the chuffing sounds and clouds of coal smoke roll from them. 

     A long burlap bag hangs from a tall temporary scaffold ready for someone to throw in a twine-tied fleece and crawl in to pack it down as bundles of wool accumulate. The wool glistens rich with lanolin that soaks the pant legs and softens the leather of my shoes.

     What are my earliest memories from so long ago. There was a rooster that kept attacking me. With a long stick and one swing I removed that threat forevermore. Finding eggs to gather and bring to my mother ended poorly when one carried in my pocket broke. Leaving the farmyard and wandering down the gravel road, I entered a slough with tall reeds where luckily my dog accompanied me and his wagging tail flagged down an uncle driving by.

     Unfortunately some memories become stone and I must return them to the box. Maybe they will be dug from the box again in the future, but they are personal history that I can’t give away.  and don’t want anyone else to experience either.

     The singer songwriter John Prine recently succumbed to Covid, but left us with one song called “I Remember Everything.” He writes “I remember every tree, Every single blade of grass Holds a special place for me.” Although we can’t take the words literally, they do hold meaning. With a little effort, we can remember much.