Thursday, November 28, 2024

Seeds for the Future


“A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.” Attributed to some ancient Greek philosopher, this is a good example of forward thinking. Wanting to associate the line with some real life scenarios, I remembered a presentation made at a past Germans from Russia convention. 


Mr. Daniel Flyger’s topic that day dealt with “Heirloom Seeds.” I read the Greek quotation to him during a recent phone conversation, and he reacted by explaining what it meant to him. He told me that he and his wife were raising a young grandson who decided they should plant an apple orchard. The boy persisted until he got his wish and helped his grandpa plant them. Now Mr. Flyger wonders if he’ll be able to sit in their shade.


Mr. Flyger reminisced that as a young boy he loved being with a grandfather who raised a vegetable garden. In that garden the grandfather grew an “oxheart” carrot that young Flyger liked, but as an adult he could not find those seeds to plant in his own garden. This awakened in him the potential dangers of losing our genetic diversity and caused him to start doing what he could to collect and preserve seeds that immigrant ancestors in the Germans from Russia community had brought with them. He began talking to older people and asking them if they had seeds they’d share with him. Yes, some did and kindly offered them to Flyger. He stated, “I was so glad that I began this project when I did because nearly everyone who provided me with seed has since passed away.” He eventually joined Seed Savers Exchange in Decorah, Iowa, whose stated goal is to educate and connect people through collecting, regenerating, and sharing heirloom seeds, plants, and stories.


The subject of seeds is largely taken for granted with children often alienated and distant from nature. Fortunately some people work at collecting, conserving, and sharing heirloom seeds. A haunting example occurred in Leningrad, Russia at the beginning of World War II. Hitler’s army had set their sights on capturing the Russian Baltic Fleet as well as Leningrad’s 600 factories. The  Germans encircled the city and kept it under siege for 900 days during which 800,000 citizens of the city died, mostly of starvation. People ate anything and burned everything that gave off heat. At least 2,000 cases of cannibalism were reported.  


Leningrad was home to various scientific enterprises and one called the “Plant Institute” claims the spotlight in this narrative. The institute had earned worldwide renown as a great seed bank and housed up to 150 tons of edible seeds, said to be the world’s largest collection of seeds.   One botanist, Nikolei Vavolov, collected them over two decades from around the world.   Unfortunately, Stalin eyed him suspiciously, took him into custody, and tortured him to death.


The scientists did everything they could to guard this store from the starving people who wanted to eat it. One of the botanists escaped from the city, but starvation had taken such a great toll on his  body that he died in a hospital. The attending nurse was astounded to discover four pounds of seeds strapped to his body and hidden under his clothes. He could have saved himself by consuming the seeds, but his dedication to the project and sense of responsibility wouldn’t let him. The Institute survived and is still in operation.  A recent book called The Forbidden Garden is one source for the story, but it is readily available elsewhere in WWII history.


Norway hosts a huge seed bank called the Svalbard Seed Vault, sometimes called the “doomsday vault,” or the “Noah’s ark of seeds.”  Near the north pole, the permafrost is believed to ensure the seed samples inside remain frozen. They claim it can store 4.5 million varieties of seed representing about 6,000 different plant species. It is a relatively new facility that opened for collecting and storing seeds in 2008. More that 100 countries participate in its support. Why is it important? Some people possess an unshakeable belief that genetic resources must be preserved to prevent a worldwide food crisis. But the best laid plans can go astray. CNN reported in 2017 that due to global warming melted water did flow into the entrance of Svalbard. Fortunately, no seeds were harmed this time.


According to the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization  there are more than 1,750  seed banks across the world, both international and local that preserve over 7 million samples of seeds, cuttings, or genetic material. On the local front, Jon DeVries saw wildlife habitat disappearing and decided to do something. Twenty years ago he founded the United Prairie Foundation with its office in Sheldon. Its goal is restoring prairie habitats that wildlife need for survival. In 1907 a local farmer named Charles Hitchcock received the title “The Father of Macaroni Wheat” for bringing to life a small bag of wheat left at his place by a Canadian farmhand, wheat thought to have come with immigrants from Russia. A familiar North Dakota name concerning seeds is Oscar Will who received a gift of beans in1886 from a Hidatsa man. He began propagating them and about ten years later made the Great Northern Bean available. It is still available in stores, and every time my wife makes a pot of cowboy beans I enjoy eating them.


We’ve tried to hang some flesh on the bones of the proverb in the first paragraph. Forward thinking is the buzz phrase. Dedicated people working as botanists or layman with preservation of seeds in mind are helping to insure a food supply will exist even under catastrophic conditions. They might not be able to sit under “trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in,” but future generations would be glad they worked at saving quality seeds for them.


 

Wednesday, November 20, 2024

Poem on Nov 20, 2024

 On this first cold wintery day I will share my latest attempt at poetry.

He Didn’t Want to Leave His Farm
He didn’t want to leave his farm.
He found beauty in his barbed wire
fences stretched and stapled to posts
set so straight and true. In his herd
of cattle grazing on belly-
deep grass and nursing healthy calves.
In rows of corn that reached knee-high
by the Fourth of July and grew
to towering heights. In new crops
of golden wheat he scooped and weighed
with double-cupped hands. In the shade
of trees he’d planted and now could
sit under. In gentle breezes
while watching his wife brush her hair
from her face while kneeling to clip
flowers to place on their table.
Most of all he wanted to stay
for his kids who still called this home
and came with their kids to form their
own thoughts of why this life held great
bounty for Grandpa and Grandma.

Monday, November 18, 2024

Tom Isern's Post on Facebook

 Sitting and reading with Tuch early this morning, I find once again it's good to have a friend like Lynn Bueling. Otherwise, I would think it impossible that anyone else in North Dakota had read Walter Benjamin at the Dairy Queen. (Isern is a history professor at NDSU.)

Lynn Bueling
Hey, this is a surprise! Yes, I pull it off the shelf every once in a while and select passages that appeal to me. I especially like "... almost at the outset cowboys began to try to cultivate an image that the media told them was theirs." Now I'm caught up in the story of the German army's surrounding Leningrad early in WWII and the starvation of the population in spite of the presence of the world's largest seed bank in their midst, seeds which could have prevented some of the starvation. The botanists were truly dedicated in protecting them for the future. It's the topic of my next article.

A Poem - City Hall Fell

 I'm planning another chapbook of my poems and will definitely reuse this one published in an earlier chapbook. Our old city hall was the site of almost all activities in our little town of Sheldon - BB games, class plays, Legion breakfasts, wedding dances, anything.

City Hall Fell
October 10, 2005
Bewildered ghosts rose
amid bird-flurry
the day city hall
fell. Heavy steel hands
punched and clawed the bricks
until they succumbed.
Standing there, watching,
one could hear ancient
amalgams of echoes
choking in the clouds
as the roof and walls
fell. With their sanctum
destroyed they whispered
their final good-byes.

Tuesday, November 12, 2024

The Ringing Anvil


Whenever I call to mind the old blacksmith shop in our town, the clear ringing sound of a heavy hammer striking an anvil carries on the air. Memories formed at that time linger. Tagging along with my dad to leave plow lays for sharpening meant new experiences. On entering this sanctuary the blacksmith would shout out a hearty, “Hello, Spike. I see you got little Shinglenails with, too!” Why he hung those monikers on us, I never knew, but he saw me as a small nail standing alongside a big one.


The town blacksmith played an important role because people didn’t throw away an item just because it stopped working. Broken, bent, or dull, it could often be restored to a product almost as good as new. If an item didn’t exist, one could be fashioned or even invented. And, creations could be made to look artistic with a few clever twists, welds, and bends.


The dark interior of the shop with its unwashed windows permitted the blacksmith to watch the color of metal change as it heated in his forge. Color was important because it told him when the broken piece was ready to work with.  That dusky atmosphere also let me watch spectacular showers of sparks whenever he worked at his grinding wheel or when I watched the coals in his forge come to life when he forced air on them. 


In the mythology of ancient people certain gods possessed the skills of blacksmithing. The Greek god Haphaestus worked metal and crafted weapons used by the gods. Norse mythology recognized the dwarf Brokkr as their blacksmith god. Why they identified him as a dwarf stretches the imagination. Blacksmiths I’ve seen stood at least of average height and possessed burly strength. Wielding heavy hammers to pound and shape metal on their anvils created strong forearms.


Our blacksmith sometimes appeared taller than he was whenever he’d stand upright with his welding helmet cocked in the upright position. He’d remind me of a European soldier of the 1800s wearing a tall bearskin hat to look bigger and more menacing on the battlefield. The helmet he wore amused me at times because he was profanity prone, and after lowering it to shield his eyes, I could hear his muffled cursing coming from inside it. 


Wheelwrights are closely related to blacksmiths, sometimes being one and the same person. Watching a demonstration in Fort Ransom where one fitted an iron rim to a wooden wagon wheel exhibited a whole new skill set. He laid the circle of iron flat on the ground and banked it with hardwood chunks. These he set on fire, carefully tending them as they did their work of heating and expanding the iron. In the bright sunlight he couldn’t judge the metal’s readiness by color, but instead tapped it with a hammer and listened for a particular sound known to him. At the right time, he and a helper using tongs picked the rim out of the coals, and carried it to the wagon wheel. Placing it on the rim’s edge they began pounding the hot expanded iron tire down to fit. When satisfied it was in place, they dunked the wheel into a pan of water to shrink the iron tight on the wheel. It made for an interesting show.


A book in my personal library, Iron Spirits, discusses the blacksmith’s role in fashioning grave markers known commonly as iron crosses. In Germans from Russia communities that formed in North Dakota, the immigrants brought with them the concept of bending and welding iron into ornate memorials to commemorate their deceased loved ones. Many examples of crosses, some simple, some embellished, can be found in cemeteries in the central part of the state. One sad story occurring in 1898 tells of a family’s losing seven children in the diphtheria epidemic near Strasburg, North Dakota. For their burial spots, the parents ordered from a blacksmith seven identical crosses to mark each of their graves.


Our blacksmith reached the end of his days, so the sounds of  hammer pounding iron on an anvil no longer rings. The community rebuilt his shop after fire burned it to the ground, and he continued for a few more years. After his death no one came forward to take his place at the forge. The modern age of farming and farm shops mostly eliminated the need for this type of business. The anvil no longer rings.


One could end here with  lines from Longfellow’s “The Village Blacksmith,” such as “at the flaming forge of life our fortunes must be sought.” But rather, consider Thor, the Norse god, who wielded a heavy hammer and caused thunder and lightning in the sky. Possessing tremendous strength, he met unexpected defeat one day. In The Land of Giants he was challenged to a wrestling match by a wrinkled old crone. To Thor’s frustration she won easily because she was none other than Old Age against whom no one could win.


Monday, November 11, 2024

RANDOM THOUGHTS - Veterans Day, 2024

 Trip to Sheldon today, Veterans Day breakfast with good will offering for Luke Wall after his football injury. Nice turnout, that’s what Sheldon does. … There’s a big pile of corn near the new elevator which indicates a nice crop … Granddaughter Ari was along so we showed her the sites … One site was the house where we brought her dad Brandon to when he was just a baby … I always find lots of good conversations with interesting people when I visit … At the West Prairie church cemetery along Hiway 46 we stopped to take a picture of Ari at the grave of her great-great-great-great grandparents … Heading to Bismarck tomorrow to attend a luncheon for a well-respected acquaintance … Working on an article about heirloom seeds … more later.




Sunday, November 10, 2024

RANDOM THOUGHTS - November 10, 2024


Veterans Day tomorrow … The official spelling of Veterans Day does not use an apostrophe … Much less email since election is over … We’re blessed with beautiful weather … Breakfast tomorrow in Sheldon with proceeds going to Wall family … Borrow money from pessimists - they don’t expect it back … Much less ahead than there is behind … More to come about this book I’ve pictured, wait for it …  And now I bid you a fond adieu!



Saturday, November 9, 2024

Uranium Glass

 George Bunn showed me a vase made of something that I never knew about - "uranium glass." He shined a light on it and it glowed. We have a small cream pitcher of the same material. Apparently they are radioactive since they have uranium mixed in. The amounts of uranium used in each piece are typically very low, it is safe to have in your home so long as it is used and handled correctly.



Thursday, November 7, 2024

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

From the Tip of My Pen

I never know what words will flow from the tip of this pen. It’s a very mysterious gadget to hold. Mine of choice is a ballpoint pen, somet...