Janet

 Janet Lewis

Janet Lewis, 80, of Sheldon, ND passed away December 18, 2022 at Maryhill, Enderlin, ND.

Janet Diane, an only child, lived her entire life in Sheldon, ND. She was a lifetime member of the United Methodist Church in Sheldon until it closed.

She married Ken Lewis July 8, 1960, in Sheldon. They had three children.

Growing up, Janet worked at her family’s feed store, Newton’s in Sheldon. Later she ran a daycare from her home for many years. She then worked as a custodian at the Sheldon School until retiring in 2003.

Janet had a unique sense of humor and loved to talk and tell stories but was also a good listener. She loved reading, doing puzzles and was great at trivia.

Ken and Janet enjoyed taking their family to Fish Lake in Minnesota for many summers; stopping only after Ken’s health failed.

Janet is survived by her daughter Terry Hartl, Lisbon, ND; son K.C. (Kathy) Lewis, Sheldon, ND; five grandchildren Bran- don Hartl, Dillon Hartl, Sara (Eric) Vangsness, Lori (Ryan) Huber and Carmen Bartholomay; and six great-grandchildren.

Janet was preceded in death by her husband Ken and daugh- ter, Laurie Lewis.

Burial and Celebration of Life will be held in the spring. Memories may be shared and viewed on the Dahlstrom Funeral Home Website www.dahlstromfuneralhome.com.

Truman in The Fifties

   In David Halberstam’s THE FIFTIES he writes of how Harry Truman came to the presidency unprepared in foreign affairs. For some reason FDR never bothered to give him orientation regarding the world situation, especially regarding Stalin and his actions. A well read and alert Truman saw parallels to Hitler ten years earlier. He wrote in a letter to his daughter, “We are faced with exactly the same situation with which Britain and France were faced in 1938-39 with Hitler. Things look black. A decision will have to be made. I am going to make it.”

     This was from Truman who famously kept the small plaque on his desk proclaiming, “The Buck Stops Here.” The way he assumed his responsibilities as president always fascinate me.

A String of Limericks

 

The darn snow keeps falling down

Mounds of it piled all over town

It’s only December

But we’ll remember

At the least we didn’t drown.

…   …   …

For sure the grass has stopped growing

Some snowbirds have ways of knowing

They should get out of here

When the coast is still clear

To head south where the whiskey’s flowing.

…   …   …

Most of us remain behind

And find something to distract our mind

We’ll just find a warm coat

Or fondle buttons on our remote

And admire those snowbanks so streamlined.

Gail Evans

 Saturday, December 17, was a cold, blustery day. We attended the funeral of a Sheldon "girl" who I went to school with, she being one grade behind. RIP. Gail.

A Man Had to Make HIs Choice

 - A Man Had to Make His Choice -

By Lynn Bueling

A man had to make his choice:

roll your own or tailor-made.

There was certain craftsmanship

in a man’s ability

to take a Zig-Zag paper,

furrow it just right, shake flakes

of Bull Durham from the bag

(which featured the well-known tag

that fluttered from a pocket)

curl one edge of the paper

under and roll the other

over; then with a quick lick

seal that tube for good measure.

To take the craft another

step, he’d reach into his pants

to extract a kitchen match,

and with a flint-thick thumb nail

scratch it to a plume of fire.

Then with double-cupped hands

he’d ignite his creation

— even in mean gusts of wind —

for a few puffs of pleasure.

Of course it wasn’t always men. One lady character I’ve found who went by the name Mustache Maude displayed her Bull Durham tag from her shirt pocket. She’s a strong character, and I plan to do more writing about her.

Sometimes too Much

 “Kicked Out of the Bar” By Lynn Bueling

I’m not one of the Greensboro Four

who sat at the Woolworth lunch counter

and caused the big civil rights ruckus.

I was just a five-year old kid who

sat on a high stool beside his dad

while he ordered a beer and Harry

Salzwedel said Arnold, he can’t be

in here anymore. I suppose Chet

Noice, the sheriff, warned him the state passed

a law saying minors can’t enter bars

where booze is sold and he full well meant

to enforce it. This happened a good

long while ago, and there I was, kicked

out of a bar. It was the first time,

the only time, if memory serves

me right. I couldn’t see over the top

of that bar anyway, but those years

after the war that place teemed with life;

veterans who hadn’t lost theirs came here.

Fly strips hung from the ceiling, fans turned

slowly, pool balls rolled and clicked, and church

keys opened the large doors to liquid

sanctuaries of hallelujah

or quiet cloisters of dark solitude.

On Saturday summer nights we played

on the street outside that bar and heard

the din coming through its open door.

A magnet, it tugged hard at my core

and I spent a youth’s lifetime yearning

to come of age so I could enter

and share the wonders in that sanctum.

The Sandhills

      I wanted to find information about the sand hill region south east of Sheldon where I grew up and remembered a book on my shelf NORTH DAKOTA’S GEOLOGIC LEGACY by John Bluemle, the one-time state geologist. He’d gathered a wealth of information about the state’s landforms and how they originated.

     In order to gather that information he traveled about the state with family in tow and stayed for a period of time in each area. While in Ransom County they stayed in Lisbon where his wife Mary gave birth to their daughter Irene. Moving over to Enderlin, he writes where their landlady’s son kept them supplied with pheasants and geese.

     The dedicated state geologist, now retired, said, “I have spent a lifetime trying to understand how the land that is North Dakota came to be the way it is.”

     Chapter Five deals with wind-shaped landforms, in other words - sand dunes. He even tackles the “gold rush” near Lisbon where he determined the specks of gold flowed through the area via a river sometime over 3 million years ago.

     There is plenty of material in the book to educate me for my purposes.

Gored with his Horns

 When I regularly visited the bar scene, I usually found one of the following types.

Gored with his Horns

Every small town bar has one,

an unprincipled expert

of political issues, 

a verbal bull who can gore

and skewer his opponents

with his horns in a quarrel.

The speed of his conclusions,

untouched by intelligent

thought, exposes gaping voids

of knowledge which he obscures

with imaginative blurts

of clever wit and proverbs.

Unwitting patrons seeking

relaxation and friendly

discourse stumble under honed

hooves of half-truths and jargon,

victims of the practiced style

with which he finds great delight.

But even though he angers

some to the point where they’d pull

a quick trigger if they held

one, the men who line the bar

express wonder and concern

on those days he doesn’t show.

An Old Poem

 Reeds on a Muddy Shore

Parting thick reeds

on the muddy shore

of memory, I spot

the M. V. Wickersham

with her narrow bow

and swept-back funnel

floating dockside in Haines.

Dreams of high life

in the storied north

had grown frail

with fear of nearing winter.

I fled Anchorage astride

my Impala, determined

to hurdle the span

of miles and mountains

to meet the southbound ferry

at its terminus. We ran

hard a long while and arrived

at Port Chilkoot

sweating slush and mud

with little time to spare.

I bought the fare to ride,

then turned to watch

the floating creature open

her mouth and swallow

my steed into her belly.

The ship, like a bobber,

floated up and down on Pacific

swells, my boarding ticket

the lure, and me,

the catch of the day.

How The Irish Saved Civilization

 I subscribe to two of the major papers: The Washington Post and the New York Times. Online subscriptions are reasonably priced, so why not take both. This posting is all about a large obituary they both carried a couple days ago concerning a writer/historian named Thomas Cahill. Since they gave this much space to a man’s death, I wanted to know more and read on.

          He has written a series of books dealing with the general topic he called “Hinges of History.” The first is pictured here - HOW THE IRISH SAVED CIVILIZATION. I found a copy of it to purchase at the local Barnes and Noble.

         The title of the book is enough to generate curiosity. How could the Irish save civilization? He asserts a simple answer. Fifth century monks copied down classical texts onto sheepskin, thereby rescuing works of literature and philosophy that were being destroyed by Germanic invaders after the collapse of the Roman empire. He gives much credit to the man we’ve come to recognize as Saint Patrick for the hand he plays in the picture.

          Cahill’s Jesuit-educated mind soars above my humble blackland farmer’s understanding in many places, but he clearly makes his point about the Irish and their preservation efforts. Ireland had become isolated and the European battles for supremacy and destruction left them mostly alone for the monks to copy texts of literature that survived.

          He finishes one chapter with his simple analysis. “Wherever they went the Irish brought with them their books, many unseen in Europe for centuries… Wherever they went they brought their love of learning and their skills in bookmaking. In the bays and valley of their exile, they reestablished literacy and breathed new life into the exhausted literary culture of Europe. And that is how the Irish saved civilization.”

          His past experience in the book world had brought criticism from the Catholic church hierarchy, especially Cardinal John O’Connor, Archbishop of New York. The Times obituary stated Cahill was a practicing Catholic but cared very little about the archbishop’s criticism since he’d long been a skeptic of the church hierarchy. He was quoted as saying in one of the obituaries this humorous statement: “A religious spokesman can make a pronouncement, but then someone else will think, ‘That’s what you say, Buster, so where can I buy the book?”

          I was slow coming to the topic since the book had been a past best-seller for a few years and was already quite old with its copyright of 1995. Nevertheless it made a solid case to me for the way such classics as those written by Homer, Socrates, and Plato were protected in the Dark Ages by the monks’ efforts.

Venlo Trip Concludes

 A nice sized group gathered today, Saturday, Oct 29 at Sheldon to share stories about our once-neighboring town of Venlo. The visitors from Venlo, Netherlands have been here collecting stories and remembrances of the place which is now only a memory. Their serious research at first led them to the Soo Line museum in Wisconsin and now here to Bismarck, Sheldon, Lisbon, Enderlin, and McLeod to view any archives and talk to individuals with memories of the town. Visits like this enrich everyone who they come in contact with. Personally, I’m always impressed with visitors from foreign countries who speak and write our English so fluently. Teaching languages is something missing from our school curriculum.

Visitors from Venlo

 I met the visitors from Venlo, the Netherlands today at the NDSU archive building and found them very friendly and easy to talk to. Toine (pronounced Twan) and his tv cameraman are making a swing through the area and gathering information about Venlo, ND. 

     Tomorrow, Oct. 28, their schedule shows them in Lisbon at the Gazette office from 10:00 a.m. to ? and Saturday, Oct. 29 in Sheldon about 11:00 a.m. until ?

As I said they are easy to visit with, so if you have any knowledge of Venlo, bring it around: pictures, clippings, stories told by parents or grandparents, etc. He will use it all to compile a town history that has never existed before. I only wish I had more information to share with him.

Mary asked from where did the name of Venlo come. The booklet that we happen to have “Origins of North Dakota Place Names” tells us this: “Venlo - A grain elevator built in 1890 was the beginning of this village on Sec. 23, Shenford Twp. supposedly named by a Soo Line Ry. official for Venlo in the Netherlands. In 1914 A. Wisner erected and operated the first store. The post office was established Jan. 18, 1922 with Albert E. Carter, postmaster.”

Duke's Mixture

 BLY, MCGRATH, WRIGHT, and MANFRED

Some years ago I ran onto a book by Frederick Manfred called DUKE’S MIXTURE. It contains a couple passages I’ve gone back to a few times because they depicted rare humorous occasions that could have happened only once. The people involved were Robert Bly, Tom McGrath, James Wright, and Frederick Manfred. When the book came up again, I did a quick internet search to get reacquainted.

Here’s the scene, they’d all gathered at Robert Bly’s farm in Minnesota for some discussion and fun . One place has the four together swimming in the nude at Lac Qui Parle Lake. Three of the men were of average height and found the water deep enough to hide their privates, but Frederick Manfred at 6’9” splashed around with genitals exposed.

A surprise at the mostly deserted lake materialized when a man and woman in a trolling fishing boat appeared around the edge of an island. Three did not need to experience embarrassment, but Manfred had to sink to his knees to wade around until the boat left the scene. Bly’s wife brought lunch to the foursome and averting her eyes discreetly left it on a big boulder, then rowed herself out of there.

Still in DUKE’S MIXTURE, a gathering of writers in panels discussed their work on another occasion. I quote Manfred, “One day Robert Bly was holding forth, and after a half hour got aboard a wild horse and began riding roughshod over us all with his provocative theories and strong opinions. Great stuff, though some of it got a bit thick. Tom (McGrath) and I were sitting together, wondering where Robert would fly next and where he would finally land.

Finally, Tom had enough. Robert happened to touch on one of Tom’s territories with his sharp hooves and Tom stood up , and said in his quiet voice, ‘Oh, come on now, Robert, that’s not true. And you know it.’ Robert hesitated; smiled; and said, ‘Well, maybe I’m wrong. But how would you put it.’ Tom waved a hand at Robert, smiled, sat down, as if to say, ‘It’s your show. But be careful what you say around me.’ Everyone in the audience laughed. They liked Robert’s fire, and they liked the way Tom tried to cool him down. Both were loved for what they were.”

Tom McGrath

 A few lines from a Tom McGrath poem fit the picture very well. He is writing about the Maple River, I’ll guess about 1925 to 1930, northwest of Sheldon; the threshing outfit is crossing the Sheyenne River in 1902, not far south of Sheldon. As our proverbial crow flies, there are not many miles or years between.

“Sometimes, at night, after a long move to another farm,

Hours after the bundle teams were gone and sleeping,

After we’d set the rig for the next day,

I rode the off-horse home.

Midnight, maybe, the dogs of the strange farms

Barking behind me, the river short-cut rustling

With its dark and secret life and the deep pools warm.

(I swam there once in the dead of night while the team

Nuzzled the black water.)

Home then. Dead beat.”

Talking about Lefse

 There is nothing profound here…

Fresh lefse brings me on the run

Some like it with sugar and cinnamon

I like thick butter smear

Just watch it disappear

Then I’m ready to grab another one.

…

At first you roll out the dough

At least that’s what I’ve been told

Make it thin

with a rolling pin

Fry it on the stove and... magnifico!

…

Lutefisk and lefse - ya, ya, ya

It all follows an ancient formula

Find a church supper

Find words to utter

This is good - ooh, la, la.

Before the Winter

    A couple errands needed to be taken care of before winter sets in. The cold wind only serves to make me feel alive and I enjoyed being out in it. On a recent visit to see Norm Vangsness I had forgotten a jacket in his pickup and while there Mary wanted a head shot of him for the family history book she is completing. We next drove to the Pioneer Cemetery in the hills to check on a name inscribed there. It’s still a lonely place, but very peaceful there. 

Dinner time approached and Sheldon was only 10 miles or so away so we headed that way to grab a bite at Norm’s Bar and Grill and ended up visiting with a lot of people. Marilyn Froemke walked in with us; she was meeting others for a little birthday party. Dan Spiekermeier sat with his son and son’s girlfriend and I had been wanting to visit with Dan about a picture.

Mary and I each ordered up a hamburger, fries, and coke and while we waited in walked a three generation trio of my cousins - Lance, Kirk, and Jared - who’d been working cattle that morning. Lots of visiting took place then.

On the way out of town I wanted to check on the new fire hall and community center that is now fully enclosed and insulated. Both units are very spacious. I stood in the southwest corner of the community center for the picture where the kitchen space and rest room doors show up. A stairway leads to a nice storeroom at the top level. 

Oh, by the way, on the way out of the bar Norma Anderson had uncovered a nice looking chocolate cake and I must have made big eyes because she offered us each a piece. It was tasty!

Regarding the Venlo visit, Marilyn said the gentleman from the Netherlands has posted his schedule in the Ransom County Gazette which unfortunately I don’t subscribe to. That is going to change. I did get an email today from the gentleman who didn’t say anything in it about Ransom County, but did say he’d be at NDSU on Oct. 27. As more information develops I’ll post it. We know there is lots of Venlo history out there.

To Chase the Chill

It happens every fall when it turns chilly -

On goes that furnace

My wife said in earnest

You drag your feet

I need some heat

Enough of this austereness

Wild Mustangs

 An article in today’s (10-10-22) Washington Post caught my eye: “A Horse Ran Away with Wild Mustangs.”

While on a camping trip 8 years previously, the horse’s owner awoke to a horse herd galloping by and when he looked out the tent flap, he saw his horse running along with them. He searched many times through the years in his efforts to reclaim him, but it was to no avail. Eight years later a Bureau of Land Management officer returned him.

This story was of interest to me because I can still add some facts of it into a story I’m finishing for the Western Writers “Roundup” magazine. It stated 71,000 wild mustangs roam the West, but with drought conditions, they are surviving in poor condition. The BLM culled large numbers from the one herd the run-away horse ran with and resulted in this particular horse being returned.

When World War One ended the demand for horses ended. Ranchers who’d rounded up herds for sale to European buyers suddenly found they were worth nothing and released them to fend for themselves on the vast grasslands of the West. Farmers wanted heavier draft type and didn’t want them. My Grandpa Bueling referred to them as “bronchos” and was known to have tamed and trained some. My dad enjoyed the history, and I remember his going to Fargo to look at some that arrived in cattle cars.

A horse sale a few years back took place at the Wishek sale barn where National Park athorities sold culled horses from the ND Badlands. They were wild; the only way they could run them in the sales ring was to have them led slowly by a saddled horse and rider. That kept them settled. By the way, the attendance of interested onlookers like myself filled the seats at the sales ring necessitating a closed circuit TV being set up in the nearby community center. 

Cemetery Searching

 The things we do and the places we go. To fill in blanks on Mary’s latest genealogy project we went to a little cemetery with just four headstones that mark six burials of my relatives. The guide is Norm Vangsness with whom I share some common ancestors. He knew the location of this cemetery as he had found it a year ago and took us to it this day. Obviously, it is unkempt and neglected but satisfying to visit and commune with those laid to rest.

Wm Wade Book

 It’s hard to believe ten years have passed since I found a neglected, uncirculated booklet titled Paha Sapa Tawoyake: Wades’s Stories and brought it back to life by re-publishing it. It met with good sales and popularity on both the east and west sides of the Missouri River since William Wade had made his mark on both sides. Each printing would sell out and I’d re-order more. He’d led quite an adventurous life until settling down on his Anchor Ranch near Raleigh, ND. His early life stint on seagoing vessels prompted the “Anchor” handle, since it is where he moored for the remainder of his life. The picture looks over part of the ranch.

He encountered many experiences on and near the Missouri River and set them down in an episodic fashion for us to enjoy today. Here is an interesting one:

Shoot the Hat - At Bismarck, Dakota Territory

    If my memory still serves me well, it was in 1876 that I witnessed the following episode. This man from New York City was a very good looking fellow about 30 years old, six feet tall and broad shouldered. Very classily dressed in the height of male fashions which was seldom seen here in those days; very expensive looking suit of clothing, black shiny shoes and a stove-pipe hat made of silk that shone in the sun. His chin sported a very fine Vandyke beard with a well trimmed mustache to match. All this made for a very outstanding figure among the average run of board walk occupants.

    There were many men on the main street as the stranger came walking by and nearly every one had one revolver or two hanging from their gun-belt. They were mostly fresh out of the saloons or the Merchants Hotel to witness a dog fight which had just ended when the stranger passed and said, “Good morning, boys.”

One of the group of by-standers, Shang, who had shot and killed a man in Moorhead about two years before, spied the glossy black hat and hollered, “Shoot the hat, boys.” The stranger turned around, took off the hat and set it down in the middle of the street. He stepped a few feet away and with a smile said, “Try your luck, my friends.”

Gleefully the boys opened up on the hat; some of the shots missed but they kicked up plenty of dust in the immediate vicinity of the shiny object. When the stranger retrieved his hat there were seven hits through it. He walked over to the boys who had done the shooting, “Now boys,” he said, “I came out here to look the country over and to indulge in a little safe excitement. I had about come to the conclusion that I would have to go back without proof of something different but you fellows have donated greatly to my trip. Come, boys, I want to treat you all. Where is the best place to go?”

    They were soon lined up in a saloon on the west side of 4th Street. Said the tall New Yorker to the barkeep, “These men are all my friends, give them whatever they desire.” When each had been served and the bill paid the stranger removed his plugged hat and said, “Boys, I want to shake hands with you all and thank you. I will wear my hat back to my home on West 14th Street in New York City. I will hang it on our hat rack in the front hall where every one who visits can see it. When I get old and my grandchildren come to see their old grandpa, I can show them the hat and tell them of the good time I had in Bismarck, Dakota Territory. I must say Good-bye now. Our special car will soon be on its way east.”

    He never told us his name or did I ever hear who he was, but a large number of those men that “shot the hat that day” could have directed him out of town to lots more excitement than just shooting a hat.

Records Are Broken

As I write, the record of Roger Maris’s record of 61 home runs has been tied, and in the few remaining games might be surpassed. I never wanted it to happen. After all, Roger is one of our own. Indications, however, point to the fact that Roger’s family is okay with it, so I will be, too. Maybe a record that stood proudly for 51 years can be broken.

We watched a Netflix documentary titled “Facing Nolan” about the great right-handed pitcher Nolan Ryan. He has set many baseball records which will give future players something to aim for. For instance, he struck out more batters than anyone and ended his career having pitched seven no-hitters.

Ryan stated how he admired the great left-handed pitcher Sandy Koufax who totaled four no-hitters. His wife said Nolan took her on their second date to a ballgame behind homeplate where he watched Koufax pitch. She added he studied his every pitch so hard that he hardly spoke to her. Koufax could throw close to 100 mph pitches which Nolan Ryan could do, too. One of his catchers took issue with that, “Hell, he was throwing 107-108 mph.” Whatever, it is a great documentary. If you have access to Netflix you can see for yourself. My wife sat with me enjoying every bit of it, too.

Threshing and Venlo

I remember my uncle Tommy saying they wanted a straw stack in the barnyard for the cattle, which is what this picture is about. In the year of 1953 an occasional threshing machine could still be seen working. Throughout the winter months the cattle would eat into it so that by spring the pile looked like a mushroom with its round top still intact. As inscribed at the bottom it was at Grandpa Sandvig’s place and I believe it is he in the picture. Of special note is a familiar cab-over truck backed in place for the grain to run into. It and the machine belonged to the Mougey Brothers of Sheldon. 1953-2022, 69 years, how the time has flown by.

A man from the town of Venlo in the Netherlands stated he will be coming to the U. S. to research the existence of our local town named Venlo, a few miles south of Sheldon. Apparently, anything Venlo-related will be of interest to him. Maybe grandparents of this told stories you remember, pictures, advertising calendars from the Venlo store, newspaper articles, etc., etc. It would be fun to see the narrative he constructs based on what he finds, and I’m sure that when finished he would share it with us. Most of us have good cameras on our phones and can take pictures of pertinent objects. I doubt if Administrator Leon will object to considering Venlo on this website. 

Our Boys

 We're proud to recognize our sons on National Sons Day.

FROZEN OBSESSION

      These words from Wendell Berry take on more meaning all the time: “The thought of what was here once and is gone forever will not leave me as long as I live. It is as though I walk knee-deep in its absence.”

     I’m prompted to think of this after watching a PBS program titled “Frozen Obsession” that followed Oden, a Swedish icebreaker, on an 18-day cruise into the Canadian Arctic Archipelago to study the effects of climate change. The crew was made up of a couple dozen oceanography students who focused on climate change as critical scientific and social issue confronting today’s world.

    As I observe it, mitigating the negative effects of climate change is happening too slowly. One particularly upsetting episode showed an ice sample containing plastic particles suspended in the arctic waters. Science tells us the glaciers are melting, oceans are rising, unusual monsoons occur, unproductive droughts choke agriculture, and so much more. 

   Our descendants will live in a different world.

Ralph's 80th Birthday

 ‘Everyone’s friend Ralph’ celebrated his 80th birthday with a few dozen friends and relatives gathered at the community center in Sheldon today. I snapped a few pictures. The one group was set up by a lady not many seemed to know, but it turned out she was in the Lions Club serving as some kind of ambassador and asked me to take a picture of the local Lions who were present. Today’s party should suffice until his 90th birthday.

William Kent Krueger

 We attended an event at the Fargo Public Library today that featured William Kent Krueger as speaker. People kept on a’comin’ into that room and probably numbering close to 200. Krueger is an author of mysteries, mostly set on a Minnesota reservation, and we’ve just started reading his work, now owning the last two of them. Many of them center around his recurring character Cork O’Connor, a mixed-blood Irish and Ojibwe retired sheriff.  

     Krueger has written about 20 novels. We laughed when he talked about one of them and the wrangling it took to get it published that finally earned him, in his words, “a shitload” of money. Several of them have been on a New York Times bestseller and won prestigious awards from them. Check out his website for pictures and information. The Zandbroz store in Fargo sponsored his appearance and sold lots of his books at the rear of the room prior to Krueger talking.

Pitchfork Fondue

 PITCHFORK FONDUE - We drove to Medora for our almost-annual visit to the musical and the pitchfork fondue. The open air terrace where the steaks are prepared and eaten with gusto provides a great experience. I watched two men spear several steaks onto each pitchfork and asked one how many will you do. He answered “470 tonight” which didn’t seem to be enough to cover this crowd. However the option of choosing a hot dog at half the price instead of a steak answered the question the discrepancy. Mary and I optioned for one steak and one hot dog we cut each in half to share. Just right!    

Note the pitchforks in the picture where about half hold steaks and another group leans waiting for theirs. By the way, the steaks were very good. They’ve raised steak preparation to an art.

     Mary thought we needed a selfie at the overlook east of town, so here is my first attempt ever at that art form.